His breathing deepens, his pupils expanding.
Our pursuers get closer. They slow, their footsteps on the cobbles quietening, but I don’t think they know we’re tucked around the corner, or they’d already be on us. I can feel Gus’s heartbeat hasten against my palm. I want to put him at ease. I want him to know that I’m not the kind of person to throw him to the wolves.
He can trust me.
When one of them checks around the side to get a better look, I whip my sodden hat off and hold it behind his head.
His eyes haven’t left my face. I think he’s waiting. Waiting for me to make a decision or confirm we’re safe? I can’t tell.
I peek around him to see if they’re still there.
The street is clear.
“I think we’ve lost them,” I whisper.
Gus doesn’t reply. But I don’t think he cares about them anymore. And now I’m this close to him again, the feel of his firm, solid body propped against mine, I’m not sure I do either. I can only think about one thing as I watch him run his teeth over his bottom lip.
Kiss me.
Except, I already know he won’t. Because I stupidly told him not to.
Now why did I do that?
Something really sensible about our lives and going separate ways.
Ah, screw it!
I press my lips to his in a hasty, chaste kiss. I pull back, half-expecting him to take it as permission, but instead he stays statue still. Is he ok? Did I read this completelywrong? Maybe he’s worried they’ll return? How deep is his trauma?
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling his solid, tense body beneath my fingers as I run them over his shoulders, hoping to settle him. “I’m sorry, it’s just us.” His heart rate hasn’t slowed, his breathing somehow even deeper. I lean back to check his expression.
His lips are parted. “You call that making a move?”
“I’m sor—” I start to apologise again but before I can finish, Gus’s mouth is on mine, hungry and pressing. I gasp, grabbing him for support as he manages to bring himself even closer, his hips holding me in place.
I taste his breathy groan as I open to him, his tongue sliding with mine.
My heartbeat is now racing as fast as his, hands roaming lower. I’m feverish with need. With the rain still hammering down behind Gus, I’m heartbroken to be interrupted when the door I’m leaning on is ceremoniously opened and an angry old man starts yelling at us. Luckily, Gus was already supporting my body from getting pressed too hard against the door, his hand on the frame, so I don’t fall.
“Pardon,” Gus says, cringing, that glint in his eye telling me he finds this hilarious and then before I know what’s happening, my hand is enveloped in his and we’re running in the direction of the yacht again.
The torrential downpour only adds to the hilarity of our situation.
We hop a raised curb to access the path along the portside but it’s like jumping a brook. I miss, dipping one foot in and slipping.
“Bollocks,” I hiss when it feels like an explosion has gone off in my ankle.
I slow, reaching down to grab it. Before I can get there, Gus swoops me into his arms and carries me the rest of the way.
Twenty-SixCruise Location – MonacoNext Port – CannesTime of Departure – 16:00 (GMT+1)
The attendants are quick to fuss over us as we barrel into in the lobby of the boat, wrapping us in clean white towels. I take a seat on a leather sofa, finding I’m somewhere between ‘ouch this hurts’, ‘why is this so surreal and funny?’ and ‘man, I’m out of breath’. A first aider practically dives on me to treat my ankle, twisting it this way and that.
“Does that hurt?” he asks.
“A great deal,” I respond, straight-faced.
He frowns, trying to read me. “Is it injured?”
