I’m not close enough to catch the whole punch line of the joke he just told—something about tickles and octopi, but from the way Brent laughs and laughs, it must be a good one. Hunter just shakes his head, but he’s grinning as widely as his nephew, and Shawn seems to be having the time of his life.
The fact that he looks so good doing it is just a really big bonus, in my opinion. And he does look good, all tanned and shirtless and ripped. His dark hair is windswept and his damp, low-slung board shorts are doing a hell of a job of showing off his ass. His really magnificent ass.
Of course, he chooses right now to look up and catch me ogling that magnificent ass. My cheeks start to burn and I look away, determined not to meet his eyes. But it’s too late. I may not be looking at him, but I can totally feel him sauntering toward me, beer in hand and eyes laser-focused on me.
My nipples turn hard under the scrutiny, and I reach for my cover-up, pulling it hastily over my head. I may not be able to control the way my body reacts to this man, but I don’t have to advertise it to the whole boat, either.
I’ve barely gotten the cover-up over my hips when Shawn puts his hands on my shoulders and starts to rub. I try to stay strong, but I can’t help it. The se
cond his big, calloused hands begin to massage me, I’m putty in his hands.
“You doing okay?” he whispers, breath hot against my ear.
Shivers work their way down my spine as I nod.
“Can I get you something to drink? Beer, wine, water?”
“I’m good.” I hold up the still-cold bottle of water I’ve been nursing for the last half an hour.
“Baby, from where I’m standing, you’re so much more than good.”
The words—and the low, playful way he says them—startle a laugh out of me. “Seriously?” I ask, turning back around to face him. “You think that ridiculous old pickup line is going to get to me?”
He just grins. “You’re my girlfriend. I don’t need pickup lines—ridiculous or otherwise—to get to you.”
Deliberately ignoring the thrill the word sends shooting through my stomach, I raise a brow at him. “You sure do like using that word a lot.”
“What word?” He leans forward and presses kisses to my cheek, my jaw, my neck. “The G-word? Is that the word you’re talking about?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“I do like saying that word.” He kisses his way over the hollow of my throat and across my collarbone. “Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girl—”
I stop him by putting a hand on his forehead and pushing him gently away. “Okay already. I get it. I’m your—”
“Girlfriend,” he says again, his grin wicked and delighted and oh so hot.
“Yes. That.” He leans in for a kiss, and I raise my lips to his. But it’s obvious Shawn wants to linger, and I’m not about to let that happen on a boat filled with people—especially when two of those people are children.
I pull away the second he slides his tongue along the seam of my lips. He starts to protest, but I shoot a warning look over my shoulder at Lucy and he lets it go.
He doesn’t let me go, though. Instead, he sits down on one of the bench seats and pulls me into his lap, cuddling me into his chest as we ride through the waves.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, pressed together, looking out at the ocean. Long enough for us to lose sight of Point Loma completely. Long enough for the sun to turn bright and hot. More than long enough for me to acknowledge that I’m in real trouble here.
Despite my best intentions. Despite the million talking-tos I’ve given myself since I met him. Despite the years and years of experience I’ve got with protecting myself, courtesy of my mom.
Despite it all, I’ve gone and fallen for this man, this adrenaline junkie who never met a dangerous situation he didn’t love…or one he could walk away from.
It’s a sobering thought, and a terrifying one. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, tell myself that he’s been better since we started dating. Except for that one rock-climbing incident right before he came to the yoga studio, there have been no crazy, impulsive moves. No inexplicable bruises or cuts on his body. No middle-of-the-night trips to God only knows where.
But I see it in his eyes sometimes, the leashed desire to do something wild. Something crazy. Something dangerous. I don’t know why it’s there, but I know it is.
Too bad I don’t also know if it’s something I can live with.
I’ve spent my life with my mother, who loved nothing more than to pull the rug out from under me. My mother, who has spent her life doing one stupid, dangerous thing after another for one inexplicable reason after another. Once I went to college and got out from under her thumb, I swore I’d never live like that again. Swore I’d never let my peace of mind rest in the hands of someone who cared so little for it.
And yet here I am, completely infatuated with Shawn freaking Wilson. It’s bad enough that he plays football and can be injured at any second in the game. It’s another thing altogether to think of him deliberately doing something reckless just for the adrenaline rush.