Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) (21 page)

Carly clung to him and sniffed, making Shaye’s heart skip a little erratically at Del’s unexpected tenderness buried beneath his outer layer of
I don’t do family
jerktasticness.

After a few moments, Del patted Carly’s shoulder and pulled away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t mean to give you the impression I was permanently moving to Oban. You shouldn’t have quit your job. I’ll be back in the US by mid-November.”

Carly’s brow crinkled. “Mom told me how sick your dad is. I thought you’d change your mind when you got here, you can’t just leave—”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Del flicked a glance in Shaye’s direction.

Could she feel any more like the third wheel? Definitely should’ve stayed with her sister.

“Don’t mind me,” Shaye said brightly. “I can wait over there.”

Del grimaced. “Let’s just go.”

They walked outside into the crisp wind and crossed the parking lot to the car.

“Jeez, it’s freezing.” Carly hunched forward, tucking her handbag over her chest to block the wind. “I thought it was spring?”

“Welcome to the deep south,” Del tossed over his shoulder as he popped the locks and hefted the first suitcase into the trunk.

The chill cut through Shaye’s thin sweater, making her shiver uncontrollably. She should be happy Del was here for only a few more weeks—since it meant he’d be out of her hair for good.

So, why did the outlook for the rest of spring and into the summer seem bleak?

Chapter 10

Frustration, stress, and horniness do not make a good sailor.

The Mollymawk pitched and rolled like a drunk navigating the trip from bed to toilet bowl at 3:00 a.m. Del was familiar enough with that analogy to smirk at his ironic humor.

Piper and West had disappeared into the boat’s biggest stateroom once they’d headed into Foveaux Strait, Piper looking pale and sweaty, even though she wore her seasickness wristband.

West managed not to be too much of a dick, bestowing both a tight smile and a brief hug to Carly after they’d been introduced. Piper had obviously kicked his sorry ass since West didn’t even flinch as his fiancée invited Carly to their wedding.

Kezia joined Ben in the wheelhouse for the return trip, and when Shaye noticed Carly starting to look queasy, she insisted Carly lie down in the other large stateroom.

Which left Del alone with Shaye.

Perfect time to apologize for dragging her to the airport and into his family drama. He should’ve expected Carly would pull this kind of stunt. He’d ignored the warning signs that she wasn’t happy for months. Not just grieving over her dad’s death, but unhappy and restless with life in general. Great big brother he’d been.

“You feeling okay?” Shaye asked him from across the galley.

He’d been staring into the Mollymawk’s fridge for about thirty seconds. Del grabbed a bottle of water and shut the door.

Swallowing a couple of times, he grimaced. “God. It didn’t look this bad when we left Bluff fifteen minutes ago.”

He uncapped the bottle and sipped. The water went down easy, but his stomach still complained.

“It often doesn’t.” She curled into a bench seat, her skirt tucked around her knees. “Hate to tell you, but it won’t get any better for the next hour.”

“Hell.” He drank more water.

“Go lie down in the bunkroom—sometimes it helps.”

“And have West and Ben give me shit about wussing out? No thanks.”

“I won’t tell anyone, so you won’t have to hand in your man card. Promise.” She showed him her teeth. The smile missed her eyes though, and he didn’t think it was because of her insincere promise.

No. His sous chef was scared and trying to hide it.

“Come keep me company?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Please?”

“If you puke on my favorite skirt, I’ll kill you.” She untucked her long legs and stood.

“Zero puking, because like hell will I let you have that story hanging over me.”

“It would screw up your growing reputation as the resident bad-boy chef.”

“Bad boy? Who thinks that?”

A pretty flush spread to her cheeks, and she huffed, dodging around him to the narrow hallway leading to the staterooms. He didn’t know whether to be offended, flattered, or intrigued, since the blush indicated she bought into his rep.
Bad boy?

Del trailed after her, a hand held up ready to brace against the wall in case they hit a sudden trough. He didn’t feel bad at the moment—bad as in the
wouldn’t-bring-him-home-to-mom-but-I’d-bang-him-silly
kind of a man who women seemed to lust over. But yeah—he was currently more the
you-look-green-so-back-away-slowly
kind of bad.

He walked into the small bunkroom after Shaye and flopped onto one of the narrow lower bunks with a groan. Squeezing his eyes shut, Del focused on regulating his breathing and stilling his churning stomach. Puking on the woman he desperately wanted wasn’t an option.

A door squeaked, and moments later came the sound of running water. A short time after that, a damp washcloth draped over his eyes and forehead. Better, but not quite enough to distract him.

Without moving his head, he patted the mattress. “Lie down with me?”

A soft snort from across the room. “Not falling for that old trick, Hollywood.”

“We can just talk.”

“An original line that no man has used, ever. We can just talk with me safely over here.”

With an arm that felt filled with lead, Del raised the washcloth edge and cracked open an eye, rolling his head toward her voice. She sat on the opposite bunk.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Safely? You scared of me, cupcake?”

“Of course not.”

He patted the mattress again, firing off a smile. “I’m incapacitated and helpless. I’ll be at your mercy.”

“Hmmph.” But she smoothed down her skirt and stood.

Del dropped the washcloth over his face and wriggled closer to the wall. After a short pause, the mattress dipped under his spine.

“I guess this is tame, considering you’ve already seen me half naked.” A thread of huskiness through her words betrayed her interest—and woke up his. “Thought I may as well put it out there instead of pretending it didn’t happen.”

Precisely the kind of distraction he needed.

“No taking that back,” he said as warm, curvy woman settled next to him.

With a breathy sigh, she snuggled close—resting her head on his shoulder, the soft fullness of her breasts pressing into his ribcage. He resisted the urge to wrap his free arm around her and maneuver her even closer. Now that he had her near—and damn, it felt better than he’d imagined—he didn’t want to scare her off.

He cleared his throat. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t get seasick.” A frown tinged her voice.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

A touch on his stomach then her hand settled, a light weight splaying over his heart.

“It’s silly, really,” she said. “After all the years I spent on boats as a child.”

“You used to swim like a seal. All the Harlands could.”

“Yeah. But I never liked scuba diving, not like Piper and Ben. And the free-diving…” A tremor rippled through her. “I can’t stand the sensation of not being able to breathe.”

Her father’s death hovered in the spaces between them. Del covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers.

The rhythmic grumble of the Mollymawk’s engine and the slap and whoosh of her plowing through the waves filled the silence. A strangely comfortable silence. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had been in his arms and he’d just held her.

“How’s the stomach?” She slipped her hand from beneath his and ran her fingers lightly over his abs, and then circled his belly button.

Del was tempted to lie and tell her he still felt awful. Only she’d guess it was a big, fat lie since his cock had woken up from the soft strokes of her fingers. Damned body. Seasickness was now the least of his problems.

“Getting better. Talking to you is a great distraction.”

A quiet chuckle, which could mean any number of things. He thought about removing the washcloth from his face but discarded it. One glimpse of her beautiful face, one look at her amazing breasts in the stretchy top clinging to every curve, one glance of her hand, which continued to pet his torso, any would erode the last tenuous strands of self-control…the washcloth stayed.

“Talk to me some more,” he said.

Like about flower arrangements, cookie recipes, Charlotte-fucking-Bronte—anything to stop him going out of his mind and flipping her under him, putting his hands all over her. From finding out what she wore under her flirty little skirt.

“Talk, huh?” Her fingers stilled.

OhthankChrist
. Because now his hard-on threatened to poke a damn hole in his jeans.

“Talk’s not distracting me enough,” she said. “I need something more.”

She shifted away from him, and he was about to complain when her breath ghosted against his lips, followed seconds later by the gentle pressure of her mouth.

Soft, so soft, she kissed him. The tip of her tongue brushed the seam of his lips, and he opened his mouth, his free arm curling around her, landing on the smooth slope of her back. Running his hand up to her nape, Del applied gentle pressure to angle her mouth closer, to deepen the kiss—but she pulled away with a hiss.

“You’re incapacitated and helpless, remember?” She grabbed his hand and removed it from her nape, returning it to rest on the sheet. “At my mercy. So keep your hands to yourself.”

Oh…he liked this more and more—though keeping his hands off her would be a challenge.

“And the washcloth stays on,” she added.

“Yes, Chef.”

Sharp teeth nipped his chin and then she soothed it with another kiss.

This time, when she kissed him, she parted her lips and slid her tongue into his mouth. Deep, drugging kisses cured him of any remaining queasiness, replacing it with burning hot need.

Fingers tangled in his hair, she broke the kiss. He arched his neck, the short strands tugging painfully as he tried to keep their connection.

“Hey!” he rumbled.

She shushed him with a finger on his lips. He could taste her, still—sweet, hot, better than any top-shelf drink he’d been craving. In fact, the craving seemed a distant itch in comparison to how much he wanted Shaye kissing him again.

She shoved up his shirt, exposing his stomach and chest. Cool air danced over his skin.

“Pretty.” A wet tongue circled his right nipple. “A juicy little bud just waiting to be licked.”

Del choked back laughter and the desire to reclaim control of the little witch—then her hand slithered down his body, and a fingertip traced the ridge of his cock from base to head. His hips jerked, the laughter dying in his throat. The finger vanished, replaced with the light weight of her palm. Through the denim, her touch ignited his blood to a fast boil.

Fuck. He was a goner.

***

Not even her cranberry and dark chocolate chip cookies tasted as good as Del’s skin. She could’ve spent hours exploring the muscles spanning his chest, the ridge of his abs, and the narrow sprinkle of hair below his belly button—now he was at her mercy, and all.

She ran her fingers over him again, and his breathing became choppy. Something about the power of watching him while he couldn’t see her removed her remaining inhibitions.

Propping herself up on her elbow, Shaye studied the rest of him. Nicely muscled thighs filled out his long legs; strong corded arms developed from lugging heavy kitchen equipment all day, and tanned skin that disappeared beneath his waistband.

Not to mention the package straining the front of his jeans.

Holy-freaking-guacamole-with-spicy-salsa.

She cupped him through the layer of buttery-soft denim. Thick, hard, he pulsed against her palm. Del made a small rough noise, his jaw bunching.

Perfect. Revenge.

Shaye slid her gaze along his golden skin to where the waistband of his jeans lifted off his flat stomach. She popped the button and eased the zipper half-way down. Another glance upward. Del’s Adam’s apple bobbed frantically.

With a last
ffzzzt
, she finished unzipping him and peeled the denim edges apart. The smiley face boxers didn’t detract from what strained under the fabric. God, nothing was funny about this beautiful man’s body or how much she wanted him, even though she shouldn’t.

She slipped her hand under the tented waistband of his boxers, raking through crisp hair and hot skin—finally wrapping her fingers around his girth. Her fingertips couldn’t quite meet around him.

Wow.

Her happy-place squeezed low and hard, and a fever flush travelled from hairline to tip-toes, threatening imminent combustion.