Page 18 of Their Reluctant Catch

The coarse rope slides through my fingers as I check yet another net. The repetitive motion lulls me as the quiet of the dock surrounds me. TheSea Spiritrocks gently beneath me, the water lapping against the hull in a soothing rhythm. The ocean is calm today, and it settles my mood. My hands move with the ease of years of practice. I don’t have to think or watch what I’m doing, as I thread and twist, repairing a tear in the net.

The rope feels sturdy and dependable. I love working with rope. I tighten the knot and pull, testing its strength then drop my gaze to the fibers stretched taut between my hands. My mind drifts.

I like knots.

I like the control and the precision it takes. I love how each twist and loop becomes part of something bigger and functional. But in my fantasies, knots are more than practical—they’re sensual. I imagine the contrast of pale, smooth skin against the rough texture of hemp rope. The way it would frame a woman’s curves, highlighting the rise of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the fullness of her hips. And after securing a woman’s body in a harness of rope, I would use more ropes to pull her into the air.

Blonde hair spilling across her shoulders and dangling to the floor. Sparkling green eyes watch me, wider than normal and somewhat uncertain, as I walk around her, checking the bindings and her blood flow.

My body tenses as the fantasy deepens, and my cock hardens in my pants. I picture her arms bound along her body, and her ankles secured high up in the air and wide apart.

Fuck! I stroke my cock through my pants crotch.

Her body arches against the restraints as I draw slow, teasing circles over her skin. I’ll heighten her senses, take away her control, and make her focus only on what I want her to feel. I fondle her breasts and tease the nipple. Give it a little pinch to heighten the anticipation. Circle her until I’m between her legs. Her pussy at the right height and angle for my mouth. A little moan and a shudder as I take my first long lick. That first taste is always a rush and a surprise. I’ll settle in for a thorough teasing, building up her pleasure until she’s trembling, begging, and completely undone.

And when she’s limp and pliable, when there’s nothing left but raw, vulnerable need, I’ll make her come again. And again.

A sharp cry pierces the air, and I snap back to reality as the gull’s warning call pulls me out of the haze. I’ve unbuttoned my fly and I’m holding my dick with a firm grip. My body feels coiled, ready, and aching for release.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, forcing my hand to relax and quickly fix my fly. My cock is still painfully hard and throbbing.

I stand, drop the net to the deck, and scrub a hand over my face. What the hell is wrong with me?

Damn Todd for stirring my interest in her. I was fine before. Content to let him chase whatever skirt caught his eye. But Savannah? She’s different. There’s something about her—sharp and guarded, yet soft in ways she doesn’t realize.

And that’s the problem. I don’t need this. I don’t want this. Fantasizing about her, about anyone, is a distraction I can’t afford.

I sigh when I glance toward the dock as Todd pulls up. My jaw tightens as I take a few steps toward the dock, willing my body to settle down.

I grip the edge of the boat, the wood rough under my palms, and draw a slow breath. Let’s hope Todd brought Finn, and he can fix this damn boat.

Because I sure as hell can’t fix what’s going on in my head.

I sigh, partly in annoyance and partly in relief, as our van pulls to a stop a little too close to the dock for comfort. I turn my head, expecting Finn to hop out of the passenger side, toolbox in hand. But what I see instead has me frozen in place, my grip tightening on the boat’s railing.

A tall, slender blonde emerges, her black denim hugging legs that go on for miles. She straightens, brushing her hair from her face, and her sharp gaze flicks toward me.

“That’s not Finn.” I cross my arms and plant my feet, like I’m bracing for a spring tide wave.

Todd smirks as he steps out of the driver’s side. “Who’s the Sherlock now?”

Fuck.

“Why is she here?” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Shehas a name,” Savannah cuts in, as she strides toward the boat. “And I thought you wanted to fix your boat, ship, whatever this thing is.”

My jaw tightens as I cross my arms, glaring down at her from the deck. “Do you even know anything about boats?”

“No,” she says with a shrug, “but I know plenty about engines.” Her tone drips with confidence. “And I don’t see sails, so this thing must have one.”

I bite back the retort sitting on my tongue. She’s not wrong, but sailboats have engines, too. And I can’t believe I’m about to hand her a free pass on calling theSea Spirita thing. Instead, I turn to Todd. “Why isn’t Finn coming?”

“He’s busy.”

“What?”

Todd sighs and shuts the van door. “He’s busy with the damn Malloy boiler.”

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