The Brit

“White knuckle?” He pouts, and, damn him, it’s kind of adorable on his murderous face. It’s mischievous. Playful. “You want white knuckles? Because I can think of a much better way of achieving that.”

I sigh. “How? When I’m gripping your bedpost?” That’s all good and well, but I’ve given him plenty of opportunities to give me white knuckles, and he’s not taken them. Now he wants to take me on a jet ski. He’s also being mildly sweet this evening. He’s even talked about his father. The man has a split personality.

He shakes his head on a small smile. “Get that arse down here, Rose.”

It’s the way he says ass. It’s something else that sets my insides alight. I bat down the heat and wade into the water. “Fuck, it’s cold,” I gasp, tempted to dash straight back out.

“You’ll be used to it in no time. Come on.” He makes grabby hands, and I soon find myself up to my waist. “Wait there.” He mounts the jet ski like a pro, and then offers me a hand, pulling me up onto the big padded seat easily. “Comfy?”

“Where do I hold on?” I ask, looking around for something, anything, other than him.

He reaches back and takes my hands. “Here.” And guides them around his front. I squeeze my eyes closed and shut off my sense of smell. His back is so broad. So hard. With my cheek pressed to him, I clench my thighs around the seat. “Relax,” he says on a laugh.

I ignore him and focus on remaining still and holding on tight, the roar of the engine drowning out the remnants of his amusement.

Danny pulls away smoothly, the sound now a comfortable purr, and I open my eyes. We’re chugging along at a leisurely pace, and Danny points to a yellow buoy. “We can pick up speed once we’re past that marker.”

“Great,” I quip, my hold constricting. And the moment we’re past that buoy, the engine bellows, and I jerk on a girlie squeal, starting to bump on the padded seat, as he goes from zero to one hundred in a few hair-raising seconds. “Shit,” I yell, squeezing the life out of him. “Oh my God, Danny!” The asshole. He’s doing this on purpose, trying to scare the shit out of me. It’s working. “Slow down,” I scream, and he laughs wickedly, continuing at an insane speed across the cove. Salty water is hitting my face, despite him shielding me, and my hair is flying all over the place. Love it? Nope. Can’t say I do. I’m sure if I were to loosen my hold of him, I’d fly off the damn thing. “Danny!” He takes no notice, zooming across the open water like a madman. I’m incensed. So fucking mad, I’m prepared to risk falling off just so I can hurt him. I release one arm and feel down toward his groin, locating the delicate flesh on his inside thigh. And I pinch him through the rubber of the wetsuit. Hard.

“Fuck.” We immediately start to slow, and he looks over his shoulder.

“Did that hurt?” I yell over the rush of water.

“Yes,” he grates.

“Good.”

He releases the throttle and we eventually slow to nothing until we’re bobbing on the water. “Are you telling me the warrior woman is afraid of something?” he asks.

“Are you telling me the Angel-faced Assassin just felt pain?”

He huffs a light bubble of laughter. “You caught me by surprise.”

“I know how that feels,” I murmur, settling into his back. “Is that why you’ve dragged me onto this stupid thing? To make a point?” So I’m not too keen on flying across the water at one hundred miles an hour. Forgive me.

“I have no point to make, Rose.” He flexes the throttle a little. “Shall we go slow?”

“Please.”

“Don’t hold me so tightly. You’re more likely to fall off when I take a corner.”

“Then don’t take a corner.”

His laugh. Oh, his laugh. “I need to take a corner, or we’ll wind up in Cuba.”

“Then do it slowly.”

“I’ll do it slowly,” he confirms, his tone pacifying. “If I get too fast, pinch me.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” I leave my hand on his thigh in readiness . . . and maybe because it feels good there. I’m thinking Danny must think so too, because he surrenders one of the handlebars and takes it, flattening my palm and holding it down. I swallow a few times and turn my face the other way, looking out to the Atlantic as we drift along at a comfortable speed.

The water is calm, my heart is calm, my life, in this moment, feels calm. He’s weaving his fingers through mine, feeling them, twiddling with them, stroking them. I close my eyes, forsaking the incredible view, and channeling all of my energy into savoring how good it feels. To be this close. To be touching. Without being forced to. Enjoying. Without pretending. Is this what other women enjoy regularly? Would they consider this . . . romantic? I know that will never be part of my life, not permanently, but I can enjoy this glimpse . . . can’t I?