Page 32 of Moonlit Hideaway
She wiped her eyes roughly and spread her hands wide, soaking in the sun, the scent of the sea, the calls of the gulls, and the multi-hued waters, sparkling and rippling, a life of peace and contentment.
He reached for her, caressing her face and making her shiver despite the heat rising from her skin. “I’ll never ask you to stay, and I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want. But every moment with you is a jewel in time. I’ve known from the moment I laid eyes on you that I’d both want you and be pierced by you. I’m willing to take that chance, but the question is, are you?”
Sierra had never considered that she’d be the one hurt. After all, she was the one bargaining with him for protection, and they were doing a pretty good job convincing the town with their hand-holding and sweet talk.
“I’m already pretending to be your girlfriend.”
“Yes, and if we were to kiss in public, it would be for the act of protecting your identity.” His searing gaze burned through her thin excuses. “The question is, what does Sierra Rayne want? Unless I’m reading you wrong, I’m not the only one with the bruises and broken heart once this ends.”
“I want to know what it’s like. To be broken and bruised.” And before he could close his astonished mouth, she slid her hands around the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. His arms crushed her into his chest, and those lips tasted like strength and virility as she gasped at the passion he poured into her. She’d never been kissed by a man with such hunger and power, revealing a starvation she hadn’t known.
Hank was right. What was she willing to risk?
The answer came out in a desperate moan, surprising her with the intensity of her desire. This man with the masculinescent, the hard muscles, the taste of the sea, and the eyes that drank her in was more dangerous than an entire platoon of bikers. He could strip her of her fame and her pop star power—her Vegas bookings and her viral moments. And she wouldn’t regret it.
Until she left.
A grinding thud lurched them off-balance. Sierra stumbled, falling, but Hank grabbed her and pushed her onto the cushioned seat.
“We just ran aground onto a sand spit.” He raised the propeller out of the water. Grabbing a long pole from the deck, he pushed against the sand, his muscles flexing with each effort.
Her heart raced, not just from the jolt but also at the sight of Hank in his element, maneuvering the craft with expertise. The skiff creaked and groaned under his efforts, slowly inching away from the sandy trap.
“There we go.” Hank glanced back at her, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. “We just have to get the boat angled right with the tide.”
The skiff zigged one way and then the other before he freed it from the sand’s grasp. Once they had enough water, he lowered the propeller back into the water and started the motor.
“See? Nothing to worry about,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. In that look, Sierra saw not just the rugged skipper but the man who had steadily sailed into her heart. “Since I ran us aground, it’s your turn. Want to drive this thing?”
“Really? You trust me with your boat?”
He lobbed her a heart-tugging grin. “I’m already trusting you with my heart; what’s a little boat?”
She mock-punched him as she stood behind the steering console. Hank showed her the throttle, pushing forward to increase the speed and backward to slow down.
The skiff responded to her every touch, gliding effortlessly over the sound. The rhythm of the waves against the hull was hypnotic, and the bouncing over the water was exhilarating—even if this wasn’t a speedboat.
“Can I go faster?” she asked.
“Just watch the color of the water,” Hank said. “Head for the darker zones. They’re deeper.”
“Do you have charts for the water around her?” she asked as she increased the throttle.
“The sands are always shifting, and any chart would be obsolete after the next storm. The Oregon Inlet up north didn’t exist until a hurricane cut it open.”
Sierra headed for the clear water, squinting at the distant dunes. The play of light and shadow over the multi-hued water made it appear as a moving mosaic—mesmerizing.
Her eye caught on a murky shadow, partially submerged, and birds circling above. “What’s over there?”
“Slow down,” Hank said. “It might be an old wreck or maybe a pile of trees that got washed off the island. Let’s steer clear.”
Sierra turned the wheel, but the boat didn’t respond like a car.
“It’s still drifting toward the wreck,” she cried.
“We’ll be fine,” Hank assured her. “Gently increase the throttle. Don’t turn too sharp, and let the current carry us out.”
She managed to steer the skiff clear of the shadowy obstruction, and she breathed a sigh of relief once they moved into safer waters.
