Must Love Otters (21 page)

I’ve been kissed a few times in my life.

But never like this.

Not where my nerve endings are electric, where the ends of my hair threaten to ignite, where I want nothing more than to see Ryan, all of him, every glorious inch. Every scar, every reminder of his struggles and triumphs and former glories, every line and curve and dip.

He pulls back, one hand on my lower back, edging around my waistline and moving upward on my ribs, the second hand cupped around the back of my head like he’s saving me from drowning in him. Because I might be doing just that.

The air has chilled, the tired sun tiptoeing behind the surrounding mountains, as if she’s giving us privacy, but it’s hot enough between us that there is no attention paid to temperature.

We are our own ecosystem.

He parts his lips, as if to speak, but I cut him off. “I want you.”

That’s all he needs. We’re up and out of that chair, his hands holding me, my weight balanced on his arms like he’s carrying nothing more than a feather, the bulk of his biceps and shoulders and back mine for the taking.

Cognizant of my sore ankle, he lowers me onto the plush duvet of the forward cabin’s triangular bunk, kneeling before me, almost worshipful, on the narrow step at the end of the bed. I don’t let him get far, instead pulling off his T-shirt so I can see him, so I can run my hands over the abdomen that makes every man before him look like a poser, so I can watch as goosebumps form on the surface of his farmer-tanned skin and watch as his breathing shortens while my fingertips explore the perfect amount of chest hair, up toward his collarbones, trace the muscle along the top of his shoulders, brush against the stubble on his neck and bury each digit to the hilt in his loose, dark curls.

In return, he gently removes my boots, so careful to not hurt me but not so careful that he forgets why we’re here or what we’re doing.

He runs his fingers over my wrist, over Oliver Otter. “What does it say?”

“
Enhydra lutris
. Latin name for sea otter.”

“I love it when you talk dirty, Miss Porter.” He kisses my tattoo and proceeds to remove my shirt. He freezes, stops to behold me, his hands gently cupping the sides of my bra. I am instantly grateful that I had the forethought to throw on a nice black-lace number before running away last night.

He buries his face in my chest and kisses the space between, moving up my sternum to my neck, under my chin, and finally to my lips, gently nudging me onto my back. He stops kissing me long enough to pull back and rest a huge hand on my tummy.

The light spill from the main cabin highlights the tips of his eyelashes, the swell in his wine-reddened lips, deepening the shadow along his unshaved face.

“Are you okay? Does your ankle hurt?”

“Now’s the part where I tell you I’ve never been more okay in my entire life, and if you don’t do unholy things to my body on this boat, I will write a tersely worded letter to your managers. Post haste.”

Ryan laughs and leans down to kiss me again, to bury me with his form.

“Wait,” I say, hand on his pec.

“What?” He leans back on an elbow.

“I … I want to look at you.”

“Why?”

“Because … you’re beautiful.”

“Even with my crooked nose?”

I push forward and pull his head into me so I can kiss the bridge. “Especially … with your crooked nose.” He angles back, one long finger tucking itself under the edge of my bra. I suck in and a quiver rockets through me. He smiles.

“And as long as I live, I never, ever want to forget this moment,” I say. An unexpected tear sneaks out of the corner of my right eye. I hope he doesn’t see it.

His thumb brushing it away confirms he does.

His lips leave their mark on the tip of my nose, on each cheekbone, my eyebrows. “Hollie Porter, as your concierge, I’ll do everything I can to make it unforgettable.”

“Hollie … wake up,” says the voice next to me. The dreamy voice attached to the dreamy lips that kiss my cheek, my lips. Like Prince Charming kissing Snow White.

Except I’m pretty sure Snow White’s mouth didn’t taste like this, that she didn’t fall asleep exhausted after a
very
vigorous workout, teeth still coated in red wine and shellfish and … other things.

“Hol, you have to see this.” Mmm, he’s already shortening my name. This is a good sign.

I open my eyes. Ryan is at the end of the bed, already clothed on his lower half—to my disappointment—his outstretched hand signaling for me to get up.

I, on the contrary, am not dressed. “Wrap in a blanket. You have to see this. Hurry!”

I tuck the sheet around me like a bath towel and crawl to the end of the bed. My ankle throbs, reminding me that I wasn’t very careful with my movements in the overnight hours (so worth it), but before I can protest, Ryan scoops me into his arms and moves to the back door.

On the deck, the seabirds have made a righteous mess of the leftover crab. But something brown and furry is moving around the rowboat, still tied to the cruiser’s stern.

“They must’ve smelled the clams from the boat.”

“Were there some left?”

“No, but I’m sure we spilled plenty of guts inside. And they know the boat.”

“You’ve done this before?” He nods. “That’s why they trust you,” I say. My heart sinks a little in my chest. Does he bring all his boat girls out here and show them the otter trick?

“I usually bring my nieces out when my sister is in town. They’re like you. They love the sea critters.” Heart reinflates. Nieces. Not boat girls.

“Can we tiptoe out and see them?”

“Just remember they’re wild animals,” he says, setting me down. “They might scare when they see you. And don’t pet them. Just in case you get close enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ryan pinches my ass as I step through the narrow door and out onto the deck. It’s a mess. Whatever food we left out is a distant memory and paper towels, shredded by beaks and claws, litter the table and the side benches. I move as carefully as I can with the unstable ankle—I didn’t realize until now how supportive that boot was—and freeze when a large, blond-headed otter in the rowboat sees me. We stare at one another for a millisecond before she slithers off the boat’s middle bench and into the water. Her friend follows suit. I perch on the bigger boat’s lounging bench, the chilled morning air tickling my bare shoulders, and watch as three otters dive and reemerge not ten feet from the side of the cruiser.

The second of the threesome dives and disappears. Bubbles break the water’s surface and just as the other two go under, their missing comrade pops up—with an urchin on her belly!

Ryan ducks through the door with two steaming cups in hand. The otters dive when they see him, but they don’t go far. Curious little buggers, they come back around, one even touching the side of the big boat, sniffing toward us like a cat might beg for scraps at the table.

“Look at her! I think she wants more clams!”

Ryan smiles. “We’re out. And I can’t give her any crab because the damn gulls already made short work of whatever we left out here.”

“I guess we didn’t really clean up much, did we?”

“I’d say we had more pressing matters to tend to.”

“And to that, Concierge Ryan, I concur. Your establishment will definitely be getting a five-star rating from this satisfied customer.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Porter. I do aim to please,” he says.

And again, that hint of doubt pops into my head that maybe he aims to please more often than not. Maybe I’m not the first girl to have seen the naughtier side of this pleasure craft.

“Why the frown?” Ryan asks.

“Just thinkin’ … I guess we’re going to have to go back at some point.”

“Sadly, yes. Miss Betty will be needing help today. Weekends are busy.”

“Right …”

“But first, let’s enjoy this coffee and this glorious sunrise, dig into Audrey’s sumptuous cinnamon rolls. And I should make a quick stop at Tanner’s cabin. I was supposed to water the plants while they’re gone and I’ve failed.”

“You’re a bad brother. They’ll come home to dead plants?”

“I just megadose the sad ones with my secret stash of Miracle-Gro. They’ll be perfect by the time Tanner gets the plane parked.”

My stomach seizes. God, the plane. I have to take that back to reality soon. Like, tomorrow. I’ve already stayed a day longer than I was supposed to.

“I don’t want to ever leave this place,” I say.

“This part of the world has that impact on folks. That’s why I’m still here.” Ryan tucks me into him and wraps his free arm around my front, cuddling me tight, so close that it’s as if he never wants to let me go.

But one night spent with someone in the throes of passion is not enough for him—or me—to beg the other one to stay. I have to accept this for what it is … a gift. A sexy, fantastic, toe-curling, mind-numbing, palpitation-inducing gift. And when I get home, I will spend the next few weeks in a terrible depression because he is here and I am there and I am a foolish girl who gives her heart too easily but this time it feels different and I’ve never experienced this fireworks-display of awesomeness in such a short time and he’s so remarkable and unlike anyone I’ve ever met …

I have a serious problem.

I turn my head and kiss the side of his jaw, his divine, scruffy, brilliantly manly jaw. He meets my lips with his own, and the game begins anew. Yet this time, the opening ceremonies are shorter because we’re mostly already naked. A delightful side effect.

Two hours later, we’re in desperate need of hydration and sustenance.

Ryan answers the radio when it crackles to life—Miss Betty wondering if everything’s okay—and I think I hear a hint of embarrassment in his voice when he answers. I giggle as he tries to tell her that we’ve been fishing and exploring all that nature has to offer.

I’ll say …

I help by tidying up the deck, gathering garbage and empty wine bottles. He tries to protest when I fill the small sink with suds, but I insist. I’ve moved beyond a mere guest. Now I’m in that gray area that says washing dishes and making beds is acceptable.

Once the boat has been returned to its regular glory, Ryan moves to pull the anchor. I hop along behind.

“Oh, I got this. You don’t need to help,” he says.

“I know. I just like watching.”

“You like watching me pull the anchor?”

“Have you ever watched you pull the anchor?”

He laughs at me. “Uh, can’t say that I have.”

“Well, the muscles … they ripple in all the right places. It’s hot.” I fan myself and pucker my lips. “Now, pull, boy. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Ryan smirks and starts the hand-over-hand of the heavy anchor’s rope. It’s just as fun to watch the second time around. “I have a winch for this, but it died and I’m not the mechanic in the family. I’m waiting for Tanner to work his magic.”

“Sounds like he’s a handy guy to know.”

“Tan’s great. You’ll love him.”

Does this imply that I’ll meet him someday?

Oh, right. Of course—the floatplane—he’s the regular pilot. The one who will ferry me back to that reality known as Hollie’s Hellish Holocaust of Hellishness.

Ryan moves back into the main cabin and we’re off, heading to Tanner’s place to water the dead plants. I scan the rock faces of the passing islands, drink in every detail, as if I will never see it again.

Because I may not. And I want this etched into my forever memory, like a tattoo on flesh. The verdant colors, the lick of the water against the alternately sandy and rocky beaches, the white froth of our boat’s wake, the gulls flying alongside as if racing, the stately cranes perched on forgotten pilings, the eagles in their massive nests, the colony of raucous sea lions on a long rocky perch in the middle of the inlet.

Every single detail.

“Hey, while we’re there, we can shower and clean up. You know, before going back to the civilized world.”

“Yeah … that would be nice,” I say quietly, not feeling enthused about going back anywhere. These last thirty-six hours have been … maybe the best of my life. When a tear drizzles down my cheek, I spin on the couch and look out the window so Ryan doesn’t see me being a needy wimp.

It is what it is, Hol. Like Dr. Seuss says, from Dad’s lips to your ears:
Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened
.

I am. Smiling. At least I’m trying to.

Ryan is too busy piloting the boat to notice that I’m having a hard time corralling the tears. Which is good. It gives me time to duck into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. But a simple glance into the mirror shows me a face I haven’t seen in a while.

Hey, Relaxed Hollie. How are you, babe?

Yesterday’s sun is evident in my cheeks, along my nose. I look … happy.

Until I remember that my happiness is transient, and then the ugly cry threatens to reclaim my face.

I splash more glacial water, enough to keep the tears frozen in my eyelids. “Suck it up, Princess,” I whisper to the mirror.

I brush my teeth long enough to remove yet another layer of enamel, just to give my eyes time to lose their puffy, yes-I’ve-been-crying-a-little-because-this-has-been-perfect-don’t-mind-me appearance. The waning engine is my signal that we must be getting closer.

“You okay in there?”

“Yeah … just freshening up. I’m a compulsive brusher.” I flash my pearly whites.

“And they are a thing of beauty,” he says, pulling me into him. He kisses the side of my head and I wrap my arms around his waist, tucking under his arm. He drives one-handed and nods ahead. “Tanner’s place. We’re here.”

He kisses my head again and slows the boat way down, until we’re coasting toward the finger-like dock stretching from the beach. “Just keep the wheel straight. The engine’s off. I’m going to jump out and tie off.”

He slips through the back door, jumps out, and in under a minute, the boat is halted, bobbing against the wooden dock, the buoy squeaking under the pressure of fiberglass against wood. Ryan boards the boat again, grabs the keys and his phone, and helps me out.

“After we get cleaned up, I’m going to wrap that again for you.”

“Yeah, the boot was amazing.”

“Let me grab ’em.” He sneaks back inside and grabs the boots, discarded so gently last night before our—
ahem
—dessert tray arrived. “Tanner has a first-aid kit inside, so I’m sure there’s tape. We’ll fix you up, Miss Porter. In the meantime, though,” he kneels in front of me, “climb on.”

“Now this is what I call first-rate concierge service.”

“Anything for the lady.” He kisses my arm looped around his neck.

He piggybacks me all the way up to what is a gorgeous house—this is no mere cabin. Windows stretch across the entire front of the dark-wood structure topped with a cerulean metal roof. I count eight floor-to-ceiling, thick, white-paned windows, each easily three or more feet across. An orca weathervane squeaks in the mild breeze, and hanging planters in an explosion of spring colors line the long, railed porch. Flowerbeds hug the house’s front, flanked by rich green grass that ends at a border of rock and railroad ties.

“So glad to see these aren’t dead,” Ryan says, twirling one of the planters. Inside, the décor and layout looks very similar to that of Revelation Cove. Natural woods, brick, wide stone fireplace, shimmering hardwood floors, stainless appliances. It’s breathtaking.

“Something else, eh?” he says, settling me onto the couch.

“I want to stay here forever,” I say. “Think your brother would mind?”

“He might not, but his wife might be a little worried. Hot young thing like you running around in her bikini?”

“I don’t have a bikini, remember? Just that chaste nunsuit you picked out for me in the gift shop.”

“Hey, it did the job, didn’t it? Kept Roger Dodger out of the deep end of your pool.”

“Ryan!” I feign shock.

“All the more for me, my princess,” he says, leaning over me on the couch. I squish back into the cushions, his weight against me welcome as he eases his body over mine. “How about a shower?” he whispers against my lips. I don’t have time to answer before he throws me over his shoulder, spanking my ass as we move into the bathroom.

We undress each other in feverish strips and pulls, and inside the tile-and-glass enclosure, I’m awestruck at the multitude of showerheads. This is a bathroom you’d see at a home and garden show—real people don’t have bathrooms like this.

Ryan takes his time lathering my shoulders, my back, around to the front, cupping his hands under breasts and tweaking nipples accordingly, kissing the places he rinses first, kneeling before me as he washes my legs, knees, good ankle followed by bum ankle, back up, hands stopping when his fingers bury themselves in the wee jungle.

(So glad the panty tarantula had a good trimming, especially now that we’re in such bright light.)

It doesn’t take long for me to pull him into me, only how will I ever look his brother in the eye knowing what we’ve done in this resplendent shower? “Hi, Tanner, nice to meet you. Thank you for building such a nice shower so I could defile your brother in style.”

Ryan hoists me onto his hips, leaning me against the wall as we sprint for the finish line.

A girl could get used to this. Really. Fucking. Fast.

Given that we’re not on the boat, and no one’s around for miles, neither of us is quiet when we break through the ribbon, when the victory horn is blown. He leans his head back into the water stream, both of us shaking and panting, before leaning down and kissing me hard on the mouth.

“You should stay,” he whispers.

“What?” I have to hear him say it again.

“Stay. Don’t go home. Just for a few more days,” he says, his green eyes boring into mine. I’m so glad the water’s running so he can’t see the water my own eyes are producing.

I so want to say yes.

I never want to leave.

Maybe I can stay another day, another two days, but after that …

He sets me down and folds his body around me, my nakedness pressed against his, my hands unsure of where his body ends and mine begins. I ignore the heartbeat in my ankle because I don’t want to move from this perfect moment.