Chapter 12: Rain on the Deck

The storm reached us an hour after dark.

Miles's yacht sat at anchor a mile off the pier, with its lights low and rain starting to drum on the roof of the cabin.

I stood in the galley in his spare sweatshirt, stirring a pot of garlic and butter, because I was a cook and my hands needed a job.

He came up behind me and turned off the burner.

"Dinner can wait," he said.

"The pasta will go cold."

"I'll eat it cold tomorrow."

He took the spoon out of my hand and set it down.

Then he turned me around and lifted me onto the counter, and my knees went around his hips on their own.

"Say it," he said.

"Say what?"

"What you want. You write it so well."

"I want your mouth," I said. "Right now."

He kissed me hard.

His hands went under the sweatshirt and across my bare back, and I felt the heat of his palms all the way down my spine.

I pulled his shirt over his head.

His chest was broad and tanned, with a long old scar on his ribs, and I put my mouth on it and felt him shudder.

"Leah."

"I've been thinking about this since the rail."

"Bed," he said. "Now."

He carried me down the stairs into the cabin and laid me on the wide bed, and rain hammered the glass above us.

He took the sweatshirt off me slowly.

My bra went next, and his mouth closed on my nipple, hot and wet, and I arched up off the sheets and cried out.

"God, you taste good."

"Don't stop."

"I'm not going to stop."

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