Page 10 of Unlocked Dive
“No.” Before I can ask if hewantsto get out of it, he continues.
“And it’s not my mouth that’s broken.” Self-loathing flickers across his face, so quick I’d have missed it if I wasn’t obsessing over every molecule of him.
“Obviously not.” I can’t help a wry smile—or fight the way it widens when his gaze drops immediately to my mouth.
“Maybe we can work a few hand jobs into my training routine?” His laugh is ragged at the edges, and he wiggles the fingersof his scarred hand at me while I shake my head and try not to come apart.
I am so fucked.
“Got another cigarette?”
6
Echo
By the time we climb the steep, winding driveway, faded light creeping through the dripping redwood canopy, I’m fucking high on Byrd Baardwijk.
I can’t stop checking him out, and I can’t stop flirting with him—not when he keepsrespondingin his adorably reluctant way. Like he can’t help himself either. Like I’m still irresistible in spite of everything.
I keep catching his eyes on my mouth or flickering down to my crotch, and remembering the way he said “cock” like it didn’t scare him, the bare traces of his Dutch accent making my toes curl. He smokes two of my cigarettes, the filter pinched between his thumb and fingertips, and I fantasize about sucking the nicotine off his tongue.
He parks in front of a two-car garage and grabs my duffel from the back seat, slinging the strap over his shoulder while I’m still taking in the three stories of glass and timber carved into the rugged hillside. He leads me past the deck wrapped around the lower level, up a long flight of wooden stairs, and I stare at his ass and think about ripping his hair free of its messy man-bunand seeing what it feels like between my fingers—or draped over my dick.
“…old two-seater in the garage if you want to run to town. It’s about thirty-five minutes to Mendocino if you’re not trying to kill yourself, but there’s a general store a few miles back down the…” He trails off when he turns at the top landing to find me only inches behind him.
“I can carry this myself,” I tell him, sliding two fingers under the strap across his chest and giving it a light tug. “I’m an adult.”
His sharp inhale traps my knuckles against his chest, and I’m close enough to watch his pupils blow in the dying light.
Please. Please…
“Good to know.” His half smile is amused, ironic.
I want to press into him. I want to feel his cock harden against my thigh.I want—
He opens the door and turns away.
I want to be someone else.
He gives me a quick tour while I gather the shreds of my vanity. The house is three split levels of high ceilings and half walls, rich and somehow cozy with its dark, exposed beams and tall windows. Byrd’s obvious pride in his home is an eager, charming thing, and it’s hard to feel resentful of his rejection watching him. Instead of diluting his immediacy, the space only enhances it until I’m drowning in everything Byrd.
“I’ve got a twenty-four-foot outdoor rig,” he tells me. “We should be able to set it up in a couple of weeks when the ground dries out. In the meantime…” He gestures to the rope hanging in the center of the living room over a four-by-six gym mat. “This is what I usually use when I’m here.”
I walk up to the rope and wrap my hand around it, my pulse rocketing in my ears.
“How’s the recovery going?” he asks, his tone careful and agonizingly gentle.
“Brilliantly. My doc says I’m ahead of the curve and waxes poetic about the joys of youth.” I fight to keep my voice light, to keep the bitter mockery from seeping through. Byrd remains silent, and I tighten my fingers until my knuckles whiten and my bones ache. “Apparently, athletes make the best patients, always so diligent about their PT.” I let my hand drop and throw him a smirk.
It’s all true, and he didn’t ask about my soul.
“Good,” he says, with a genuine smile that instantly makes me feel like an asshole. “We’ll start easy tomorrow anyway. Ready for some food?”
“You cook?” I ask, following him back up the steps to the kitchen. His chuckle curls around the base of my spine, low and luscious.
“They don’t have DoorDash out here. Plus, my mom was Italian; cooking is practically a prerequisite.”
“I love Italian. Wine and carbs.”
