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A hint of trepidation curled through her stomach, and she squashed it. This time together wasn’t about sex. They’d been in the pool many times without the water play becoming an intimate interlude. They could do so again.

In their dressing room, she swapped her shorts and t-shirt for a bikini while he loaded the dishwasher. Outside, the heat lingered, cut marginally by a light breeze. She set the baby monitor on a table near the pool and shook out a pair of towels for them on the loungers.

The French doors opened and closed behind her, his familiar tread steady on the flagstones.

“What are you waiting for?” His t-shirt hit the lounger next to a towel, and he squeezed her shoulder as he passed her. She turned, in time to catch his dive from the side into the deep end, lean muscles flexing from head to toe.

The man was an absolute work of art when he moved.

He emerged, treading water and brushed his hair from his brow. He grinned, spread his hands. “Are you coming in or not?”

She executed a dive from the steps, swimming underwater to emerge near him. They swam, laps and lazy strokes, even racing a couple of lengths. Finally, a little breathless but completely relaxed, Caitlin folded her arms on the side and rested her cheek on them. Tick gripped the tile edge, half-floating on his back.

On a blissful sigh, she smiled at him over her shoulder. “This is nice.”

“This is great.” He closed his eyes, wet lashes clumped together. “I didn’t realize how crazy the last few months had been until we slowed down.”

She made a noncommittal noise, letting her own lashes fall. A balmy breeze moved through the firs along their back fence. Contentment curled through her. “I’m glad we did.”

“Me, too.” He shifted, rolling to his front, hip brushing hers, his shoulder warm against hers.

Lifting heavy lids, she found his gaze, hot and soft and steady on her face. An impulse urged her toward him, and she brushed her lips over his. He stilled, then moved as if electrified into action, cupping her nape, mouth moving under hers, a hint of hunger in the kiss.

He caught her waist, lifting her to sit on the apron, resting his hands on either side of her hips as he stepped between her thighs. Palms planted on the sun-warmed stones, she leaned on her arms. He fiddled with the side seam of her bottoms, and her abdominal muscles contracted, a flutter of . . . something . . . low in her belly.

“We should get a sitter Saturday.” His thumb made a pass on the skin above the seam. “Take the boat out.”

“Yes.” Her voice emerged breathless and huskier than normal, and he smiled. Muted sensation shimmered out from the easy stroke of his thumb against her.

“Have you had enough?” His own voice was low, a little rough, more whiskey than molasses, a slow burn of desire to match the heat in his eyes.

She moistened her lips. “Yes.”

“I’m going to hit the shower.” He palmed her hip and pushed away from the side, covering the distance to the steps in a few solid strokes. Water dripping, rivulets running over his shoulders, back and thighs, he mounted the steps. Snagging a towel, he rubbed down before striding toward the French doors to their room.

On a shaky exhale, she watched him go, thankful for what they had, wistful for what they’d once been.

This was hard, in more ways than one. Tick stuck his head under the icy flow of water. He could take care of the aching hard-on provoked by being close to her, thighs pressing to his waist, her skin under his thumb — but it felt wrong when they were where they were. He could wait for her.

Another cold shower wouldn’t kill him.

The shower door opened, and tension rolled through his muscles. Playing around in the pool and keeping it light was one thing — naked together in the shower was a whole ‘nother hunting dog.

Her feet whispered against the tiled floor, and he sensed her flinch when the water hit her skin. “Holy Mother, Tick.”

He opened his eyes, shoving his wet hair back while she adjusted the flow, the water warming, soothing rather than punishing.

Her gaze roved over his face, green eyes dark, a little shuttered, and she stepped into him, lifting her hands to frame his nape, pressing her lips to his throat, his pulse below his jaw. Her small sniff there punched him in the gut, and he flattened his palm at the small of her back. Having her close to him . . . holy hell, he ached all over again.

She traced gentle fingers along the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Against him, her touch was water-cooled but still warmer than his chilled skin. Barely banked arousal licked to life in his belly, a heavy drag as he hardened, balls contracting and tingling. She opened her lips over his pulse, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Daddy hadn’t raised a fool, and he knew what this was about.

But he wasn’t going to turn it down either, the chance to have her hands on him, to have her touching him and loving him as only she could.

She trailed a caress down his chest to his abs. “Let me.”

The murmur whispered across his skin, leaving a shiver of pleasure in its wake. He let himself tangle a hand in her hair. “Not like I’m going to tell you no.”

Her lips moved against his throat in a smile, and she slid her hand lower, fanning gentle fingers over his balls. His weakened knees dipped, a rough laugh choking free of his throat. He planted a hand against the wall so he didn’t hit the floor. “Sweet Lord.”