I feel like melted chocolate poured across this bed and moan quietly when Finn’s hands smooth up over my belly, gently unfastening the knot.

“It may tingle a little when I take it off.” He kisses where the knot was, where there’s now an indentation of what almost looks like a flower on my skin. “It’ll be sensitive.”

“Okay,” I say on a long exhale. And it does; as he unwinds the soft rope from my arms, reversing the intricate crisscross pattern across my body, I can feel the air hit the delicate lines on my skin, but only for a split second before Finn’s mouth slides along the same path, licking, kissing, soothing everywhere it feels so sensitive.

It’s overwhelming how good this feels, and how gentle he is. When my hands are free, I slide them both over his shoulders and up his neck, holding his face to my chest as he licks and sucks at the rope lines beneath my breasts.

Finally, he pulls my nipple into his mouth, tongue circling. “So fucking good,” he murmurs, switching to my other breast, fingers ghosting along the fading lines.

His hands find my wrists and he guides my arms over my head, looping the rope around them again.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

Bound like this, I can leave my arms over my head or loop them around his neck. But for now I leave them where they are and relish the feel of the comforter beneath my back as Finn grips my hips and drags me to the foot of the bed.

Reaching between my legs, he strokes me with two fingers, making a V as he slides over my clit and then inside, repeating the pattern again, and again.

“You’re so damn warm.” He bends, kissing my hip.

Finn pulls away and steps back so I can watch him push his jeans and boxers down his hips, kicking them onto the floor. He grabs a condom from a box in the top drawer of the dresser but doesn’t put it on yet.

Instead, he climbs up on the bed, straddling my chest. Above me, he feels like fire, the heat emanating from his skin unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I feel like I’ve grown extra nerve endings over the parts of my body that were covered by rope.

He braces a hand beside my head, gripping his cock with the other. “Kiss me.”

When the broad head of his cock touches my lips, I let my eyes fall closed at the sound of his groan. I love the tight flare of the crown, the taste of him. I lick around the tip, opening wider when he slides more into my mouth, rocking just in and out while I play, getting him wet enough to slide easily past my lips.

“You like it?” he asks, voice rasping. “The feel of my cock on your tongue?”

Nodding, I open my eyes to see an expression on his face I’ve never seen before: frenzied adoration, as if he’s never seen anything more amazing in his life.

“I never came in your mouth,” he says quietly. “I kept thinking about it, but then I always ended up wanting something else instead.”

Backing away, and proving the point he just made, he straddles my hips as he tears open the condom and rolls it down his length. If this was a movie, I would rewind and watch those three seconds again and again. I like the way he looks down as he puts the latex on, gripping himself, reaching down absently to run his palm across his balls. With a little growl, he moves the rest of the way down my body and stands at the foot of the bed, between my legs.

“Wrap them around my waist. Hold on to me with your legs.”

I do everything he says because I don’t know anything else but that I need Finn inside me right now. He holds his cock straight and rests one palm on the mattress beside my hip, sliding the head just in.

Just out.

Just in.

Watching me with his lips parted, eyes heavy, he pulls just out again.

I groan, pushing my head back into the mattress and gritting my teeth.

“I like seeing you so impatient,” he whispers, bending to kiss my collarbone. “You have any idea how you look right now? Dripping wet all over me?”

He knows I don’t have words and doesn’t really seem to expect an answer as he pushes in, inch by inch, reaching down to circle his thumb around my clit, murmuring, “Ah, ah, ah, don’t come yet.”

But when he pulls back, he barely takes a breath before thrusting back in and then I know it’s on. He gives me all of it, his hard thrusts and those low, animals sounds he makes with every one. His hands, so big, curled around my body, holding me steady as he fucks so hard.

I relish this man telling me to wait.

Wait.

Not yet, Harlow. Don’t you fucking go without me.

I said wait. I’m close. I’m so fucking close.

He pulls out just when I’ve almost burst into a thousand tiny pieces, and then he eases back inside, whispering, “Wanna come?” against my neck. And I do. I do, please please, I’m begging, and I realize it only on the second, maybe the third please, and he loves it, I can tell, because he’s wild again, and for a tiny, frantic pulse I’m startled by the memory that there is something bigger than this. I squeeze my eyes closed and fall back into feeling like there isn’t anything else in the world but Finn and the way he makes me feel.

Rational thought vanishes as quickly as it peeked in, and I’m screaming as he moves back into me, grinding, grinding, grinding until I come. His palm is cupping my ass to pull me into him, his lips are on my shoulder, and his cock is so deep inside I don’t think I ever knew I could feel so full.

Finn jerks over me, his body tense as he groans against my skin. I feel the twitching of him inside me, the pounding of his heart between us—or is it mine?—I can’t even tell anymore. I have no idea where he ends and I begin.

I’m not sure which of us is more exhausted. Finn did all the work, moving over and into me, pushing and pulling me where he wanted, and yet I feel totally drained. My legs are heavy, my bones composed entirely of rubber. I could sleep for days.

It’s exactly why I’m here.

At some point Finn has unbound my wrists, rubbed his thumb along the faint red marks.

“These will fade,” he says, examining them, a hint of regret in his voice. “Probably within an hour.”

Nodding, I close my eyes, count to ten, and then move to stand. I begin to dress, feeling his eyes on me from the bed.

“Jesus, Harlow. You don’t have to rush off,” he says, his voice thick and sleepy. The sky outside is deep lavender post-sunset. “Oliver won’t be home until late.”

I open my mouth, saying, “I should . . .” and pointing vaguely north, toward home.

He nods, watching me put everything back on before he pats a heavy hand on the bed. “Harlow, you shouldn’t run off.” Pushing to sit at the edge of the mattress, he says, “Stay. Let me . . . fuck, I don’t know. Set up a bath for you, or . . . just stay here. It was intense. Wasn’t it intense?”

It was. It was so intense that I’m suddenly second-guessing everything that brought me here.

As I gather my things to leave, I’m not sure if being with Finn is an escape, or a new dangerous obsession.

Chapter FOUR

Finn

THE LIGHT CHANGES and I step off the curb, crossing the street in the middle of a small crowd. With my phone pressed to my ear, I listen as my brother Colton rattles off a list of things that will have to be repaired, most of which need to be done before the boats can leave the dock again.

“And you’re sure the wiring’s shot?” I ask. My stomach churns and I feel the need to clarify. “Do you know if it’s the wiring itself, or have you checked the fuse panel?”

I hear him sigh and can imagine him taking off his hat, using the brim to scratch the top of his head. It’s Tuesday and he’s worked straight through the weekend on this. I’m sure he’s beat. “Checked the panel myself while Levi was in the wheelhouse with a meter. We replaced any bad fuses and every goddamn one of them blew as soon as we flipped the breakers.”

“Fuck.”

“Pretty much.”

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, stepping into the shade of a bright red canvas awning. The sun is high this time of day, the sidewalks clean and nearly empty of shadows.

“I need to replace a bunch of wires, figure out how to pigtail them in on the damaged lines. It’s gonna take some time.”

“Jesus. I need to be home, not in fucking California of all places.”

I lean against the wall of a brick building, trying to figure out exactly how all this happened. It feels like it’s been one thing after another this year; add that to a long line of years with not enough fish and not enough money and well, I’m in fucking California.

But Colt isn’t having it. “Stop,” he says. “We’ve got it handled here. We need you there, figuring out the next step. We’ve made it through worse. We’ll make it through this, too.”

I take a moment before I ask the question I’m dreading. “So how long?”

He blows out a breath and I can practically hear him calculating. “I need to unbolt and pull panels from the wheelhouse floor,” he says. “At least a couple of days.”

It could be better. It could definitely be worse. I do the mental calculation of how much money we’ll lose being off the water. “You serviced the engine?” I ask.

“We serviced number one,” he says.

“And? Same? Worse?”

He hesitates. “A little worse.”

“Fuck. How long will it hold?”

“Report says at least six months. But it said that six months before that, Finn. And six months before that. There’s only two percent more shavings in this oil sample than there was the last time. I’d say we have at least a year, easy. By then we’ll have finished the season and we’ll be good. We can do this.”

“Right,” I say, and push off the building. I pass several shops, restaurants, and small bars, the sidewalks growing more crowded the farther I go. The San Diego sun beats down, and I feel the heat of it seep into my black T-shirt, through the thick denim of my jeans. Colton is right; we’ve been through worse. We don’t need to push the nuclear button quite yet.

Why the fuck am I here, then?

“So you’re all ready for the meeting?” he asks, a hint of anxiety finally coloring his tone.

“Doesn’t sound like I need to be.”

His nervous laugh rings through the line. “Finn, let’s keep the option open, okay?”

“I know, Colt. I’m just fucking with you.” Though I’m not. Not really. I want my business to stay the way it always has, and the L.A. Option, as I’ve been calling it, is not an option.

“When do you go?” he asks, like he doesn’t have the date burned into his brain. Like we all don’t.

“Next week.” I lean against a building, scrubbing my face. “Why did I come down so fucking early? I could be there fixing shit and—”

He groans. “God, would you stop worrying? Spend some time with Ansel and Oliver, have fun. Remember fun, Finn? And for all our sakes, please, get laid before you head up to L.A.” I almost trip when he says this because Jesus Christ, my abs are still sore from the marathon sex with Harlow the other afternoon. “All this will still be waiting for you when you get back. Got it? Fun?”

There’s a run-down large brick building to my right, and I glance inside the windows as I pass. My reflection looks back at me against the busy street, but I stop in my tracks. Because there, sitting at a table and frowning down at her laptop, is Harlow.

Fun, I think.

“Yeah, I got you.”

THE HOSTESS AT the little podium smiles as I walk inside. She’s hot, in that cool, pinup kind of way, and like she’d be perfectly at home stretched across the hood of a vintage muscle car. Her purple hair is cut short and clipped with little barrettes at the sides; her lip is pierced and so is her nose; splashes of bright-colored ink cover both of her arms. I almost consider calling Colton back; this girl is exactly his type.

“I’m over there,” I tell her with a smile, and point to where Harlow is sitting, still alone, still staring at her screen and scrolling mindlessly through whatever she’s looking at. Every once in a while she picks up her phone, scrolls some more on that, and sets it down again.

The hostess smiles back and motions for me to go ahead, handing me a menu and winking before I turn away. It’s dark and blessedly cool inside. October on Vancouver Island is chilly. In San Diego, it’s as if the summer is only just getting started. Perpetual summer. No wonder everyone here is so laid-back.

Sleek black cushions and couches line the walls and create little seating areas in the front half of the restaurant, while long, well-worn tables and stools fill the back. It looks more like a club than a place you’d have pizza.

Harlow is at a long wooden table in the corner. She’s in some sort of yellow skirt thing today, her tan legs stretched out, wrapped in a pair of tall brown sandals, and resting on a stool across from her. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a knot that seems simultaneously messy and complicated, and as I near the table, I’m more than a little pleased to spot what looks to be a small hickey on her shoulder.

“Hello, Miss Vega,” I say.

She jumps at the sound of my voice and looks up, her smile vanishing and replaced by an expression of surprise . . . and maybe defeat.

“Finn.” I don’t miss the way she angles her laptop away as I slide onto a seat across from her. “Please,” she says dryly. “Have a seat.”

“You know, I think I actually heard your eyes roll when you said that,” I reply. “That’s talent.”

A waitress steps up to the table and I glance down, seeing that Harlow has only a glass of iced tea in front of her.