Page 76 of Shipwrecked

“Can you read me as easily?” I ask.

Jules looks up with an expression of bafflement. “What?”

“The way you”—I gesture towards Charles and Mary’s camp—“need only one or two words, and you know whether to stay or leave. If someone wants company, or if they want space. You’re always right. Can you read me like that?”

“I do that?” Jules seems caught off guard. “Well…everyone wants space right now. Now that the food is running low again, and we’re back to fruit and fish. Patience is fraying.”

“Yours isn’t.”

Guilt shifts across his face, followed by embarrassment. He looks straight ahead and drifts sideways so that his arm bumps mine again. “I wanted that window. I know it was stupid and unreasonable, but I wanted it more than anything. And I’m used to, when I want something, taking steps to get it.”

With great effort, I put aside the anger that rises at the mere mention of the window. It’s rooted in worry, and I don’t want to yell at Jules again. That means moving past it.

“I’ve noticed that about you.”

Jules bumps me again, eyes flashing as they dart to my face. I’m confident at this point that he won’t misread my amusement as anything mocking. He stops walking and turns to me.

Jules presses both hands to my chest and shoves.

Thanks to the slope of the beach, I have to take a step back to keep my balance. Jules put his entire weight into that shove.

“Right,” I say.

Jules shoves me again. One step. Two steps. Three. Four. Five.

“Going all the way to the ocean, are we?” I ask.

I could catch his wrists and stop him. I could also just brace rather than getting pushed back. Our weight difference is big enough that there’s not much he could do about it if I just plant my feet. He gets me halfway down the shore before he’s puffing for air. His head is ducked down, avoiding my gaze.

I plant myself, and Jules’s next shove ends with him plastered against my chest. He makes a frustrated noise.

“Jules.”

He resets his palms against my chest, putting his weight into it. I’m braced, and he doesn’t achieve anything. Sweat beads on the back of his neck, and his muscles bunch with the strain. His stylish haircut is growing out on the sides, turning him into something unkempt, a little wild. It’s longer than when I had it in my fist on the yacht.

“Right,” I say again.

I purposefully step back. Jules falls with a yelp against me. I gather him in my arms and kiss him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jules

Cillian cups the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. My hands flatten against the expanse of his broad, firm chest, no longer pushing. For now, I’m not embarrassed about that. I’m too focused on Cillian as he nips my bottom lip, on how his hand feels trailing down my spine.

He’s kissing me properly. I was afraid to get a feather-light, this-man-is-fragile peck. It’s not quite I’m-going-to-fuck-you-through-the-mattress, but there’s a promise of something. It’s hungry. It’s wanting.

An embarrassing groan hums through my throat when he pulls back. I go on my toes, chasing after his mouth. Forget resting my hand on his chest, I hook it around his neck, plastering myself against him.

Cillian hums his approval. Both hands slip under the hem of my shirt. His calloused fingers tease bare skin, skim ribs, explore the notches of my hip bones and caress obliques.

Every inch of skin is ticklish, hypersensitive. My breath catches.

Cillian trails his mouth down my jaw, exploring until his lips are brushing against the shell of my ear. I’m igniting. Over-hot. So aroused I can’t think.

“You’re very clever, aren’t you?” Cillian murmurs. “Provoking me out here in the open so I can’t put you on your knees.”

“I can—” I try to drop, but Cillian’s firm hold keeps me upright.