“We don’t have to,” he said. “We can just sit here and make out like teenagers.”
She considered that for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “Seems a shame to waste the scenery,” she said.
He kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding under the hem of her sweater to find warm skin. She shivered, but not from cold.
They moved together in the confined space of the bench; bodies twisting, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers, the boat rocking gently under them. Every brush of skin, every small gasp from her, ratcheted his desire higher, but he forced himself to stay present, to watch her face, to listen.
“You okay?” he asked when he had her stretched out along the seat, her sweater bunched near her ribs, his hand splayed over her stomach.
“More than okay,” she said, breathlessly. “Keep going.”
He did, mapping her with his mouth and hands, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint hint of sunscreen. She arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, as if she needed something solid to hold on to while the rest of her came loose.
By the time he slid into her, both of them were already half undone. He moved slowly at first, letting them find a rhythm that matched the sway of the boat. She met him, every roll of her hips saying yes, this, more. The world narrowed to the heat between them, the sound of their breath, the quiet slap of water against the hull.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips, her body tightening around him in a way that dragged him over the edge with her. He buried his face in her neck and let go, shuddering, the release as much emotional as physical.
They lay there for a long moment afterward, tangled and flushed, the boat rocking them in a slow, absentminded cradle.
“This might ruin all future dates,” she said eventually, voice muffled against his shoulder. “The bar is very high now.”
He laughed, feeling loose and wrecked in the best way. “I’ll try to keep up,” he said.
“You usually do,” she replied.
He kissed her forehead, then reluctantly disentangled enough to help her sit up and straighten her clothes. They made some attempt at tidying themselves, laughing quietly whenever the boat shifted at the wrong moment and threw them against each other again.
Once they were mostly presentable, she leaned back against the rail, closed her eyes, and tilted her face to the sun.
“This feels like cheating,” she said.
“On who?” he asked.
“On our past selves,” she said. “The ones who couldn’t imagine this. Sun, boat, sex, plans that extend beyond next week. Feels a little unfair to them.”
“They got us here,” he said. “They deserve to be retired somewhere nice.”
She opened one eye and smiled. “You going to put them in a home by the sea?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Visit them on holidays.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket, disrupting the lazy contentment. He considered ignoring it, then thought of Diaz and shell companies and sighed.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling it out.
A text from Diaz flashed on the screen.
Got that plate back from the state. Your sedan friend is connected to an active case in three states. You and your girl stay visible when you can; avoid isolated parking lots for a bit. Coffee at Harbor Station tomorrow a.m.? I want to loop you in on what we can share.
He showed it to Bree.
Her mouth tightened, but she didn't flinch. “Well,” she said. “That’s one way to bring us back to reality.”
“You okay?” he asked.
She took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Honestly? Yeah,” she said. “I mean, I’m not thrilled there’s a multi-state case attached to our shadow, but I’d rather know than pretend.”
“Awareness, not paranoia,” he said.
