Once the wind was banished but the motion was not, I moved to the bed and grabbed the coverlet. Pimlico stood with spread legs, doing her best to predict where the next swell would take us, but tripped forward when the sea decided she’d guessed wrong.
Cocking my chin, I didn’t try to yell over the noise. For a moment, I wondered if I’d read our connection wrong outside. When I’d pressed against her fully clothed, her annoyance and frustration screamed loudly from tense muscles. Yet once I was naked and hovered but didn’t touch, she’d relaxed as much as she could while fighting a rabid storm. We hadn’t been able to talk, touch, or taste—only watch and balance and bow to the ferocity of Mother Nature.
But we’d been linked beyond anything else I’d ever felt.
She’d been in my head. I’d been in hers.
A connection breathed between us now that had no words but was so fucking strong.
Tiredness and muscles ached and throbbed, but we still had a few hours before the storm stopped toying with us. We were soaked past bone and into soul, my teeth locking together from the building shivers.
Moving to the sunken couch, I sat and dug into the cushions. As Pimlico deliberated if she wanted to join me or if I’d overstepped too many of her boundaries tonight, I pulled out the seatbelts wedged in there for times exactly like this.
Fighting to stay upright for the first hour was fine. Fighting to stay seated and not tossed across the room by the fifth hour was not.
Not bothering to dress, I locked the belt around my hips, ignoring that I fluctuated between aroused when I looked at Pim and calm when I looked away. Slowly, she stumbled toward me, grabbing onto bolted down furniture as she made her way across the space.
By the time she flung herself onto the couch, her chest rose and fell with exhaustion. Giving her a smile, far happier than I should be about entrusting our lives to a tyrannical ocean, I reached across her and slid the buckle into its home.
Wrenching the seatbelt tight across her belly, I grabbed the duvet and covered both of us.
I never took my eyes off her face, watching her carefully as the material settled around us, giving instant comfort and warmth on our cold drenched bodies.
A normal person with no aversion to clothing would snuggle in straight away; perhaps even sigh in relief to be draped in softness.
Not Pim.
She tensed. Her jaw worked as she swallowed, wrenching her arms out to press the coverlet down away from her face and neck. She didn’t stop touching the soft cotton, but after a few seconds, she forced herself to relax.
I couldn’t figure out why she had such an issue with clothing. Yet another question I desperately wanted to ask. I had pages and pages inside my mind. Sheets and sheets of queries and demands that would all have to wait until she was ready.
Her two weeks is up.
You could force her to talk.
My face went slack even as my body continued to tense with wave rocking.
Hadn’t I been patient and kind? Hadn’t I gone out of my way to build a thin crust of trust so Pim could walk over water without drowning?
I’d fulfilled my side of the bargain.
It’s time for her to fulfil hers.
BY DAWN, THE storm hiccupped and decided it’d had enough fun for the night.
Each rock slowly grew less violent. Each gale slowly lost interest. Elder woke from where we’d fallen into pockets of fitful sleep and unbuckled from the couch. Standing naked, he gave me a rueful smile as he strolled into the bathroom and stole a towel.
The boat still skipped and dived, but we’d either adapted to the instability, and our internal gyroscopes handled it better, or he’d taken whatever mystical powers his dragon tattoo had and enlisted its help—unseen wings flapping with power, keeping him airborne even as his feet stayed connected to the Phantom.
I hated how his body no longer looked like a weapon or instrument to deliver pain but something I’d like to touch. I didn’t know why I hated the switch of my conclusions. Wasn’t it healthy to finally look upon a man and only see a man—no matter how handsome and unique he was—rather than see a killer?
Elder didn’t know the jumble of my thoughts or how he distracted me while wrapping the towel around his waist. Raking a hand through storm blown hair, he said, “I’m going back to my quarters. I have work to do—if, of course, the satellites are still intact.” His eyes lingered on mine, then on the bed where snatches of desire smouldered.
I tensed.
If he told me he wanted me, I wouldn’t disobey. He’d earned sex after all he’d done. I might even marginally accept it. I wouldn’t enjoy it, but I wouldn’t loathe it like I had.