Her mouth opened under mine, and I met her there, tasting salt and the faint metallic trace of what we’d survived. Her fingers slid up into my wet hair, tugging me closer, pulling as if she needed to eliminate every inch of space between us.
I pressed her back against the ladder rungs, one arm braced beside her head to keep us steady as the boat rocked; her body burned warm where it pressed against mine—alive, real.
I broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against her lips.
“You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” she whispered back.
I kissed the corner of her mouth.
My hands moved under the hem of her soaked shirt, sliding up the smooth skin of her sides. She shivered, but not from the cold this time. I peeled the wet fabric slowly upward, and she lifted her arms without hesitation, letting me pull it free. I tossed it onto the deck above us, where it landed with a heavy slap.
The blood had dissolved, diluted to nothing by the saltwater.
It became hers now.
Us.
I traced the line of her shoulder with my lips, shifting lower, pressing slow kisses against the soft swell above her bra as the ocean lifted and lowered us together in its own unhurried rhythm.
She sighed, so quiet the waves almost swallowed it.
Her hands found the buttons of my shirt, fumbling them open with clumsy, eager fingers. When the fabric parted, she pressed both palms against my chest, right over my heart. Her fingers spread wide, as if she needed to touch as much of me as possible.
“You’re still here,” she breathed.
I covered her hands with mine.
“Still here, love.”
I kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, while my fingers traced along the edges of her bra, then eased beneath the cups, freeing her gently. Her nipples already tight in the cold water, pink and perfect, and the sharp little gasp she drew made my chest constrict.
I pulled her closer, skin to skin now, the warmth of her against me chasing away everything cold—the water, the fear, the memory of dead hands grabbing at her.
My mouth moved to her throat, finding the pulse that pounded just beneath the surface. She tilted her head back against the ladder, offering more. I took it—slow kisses down the column of her neck, across the ridge of her shoulder, then lower.
When my lips closed gently over one nipple, she arched against me, fingers digging hard into my shoulders.
“Callan…”
The way she said my name—half plea, half surrender—shattered something inside my chest that I’d been holding shut for longer than I wanted to admit.
I stayed there, tongue circling lazily, then drawing her in with soft, steady pressure until her hips rolled involuntarily against mine. The water turned every movement slow and liquid, almost dreamlike—the urgency blunted into something deeper, more deliberate.
I slid one hand down her waist, over the curve of her hip, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her pants.
She nodded against my temple. No hesitation.
“Yes.”
I worked them down as she helped me push the wet fabric past her hips, and it became immediately, absurdly difficult—soaked fabric clinging to skin, both of us kicking and twisting in the water, laughing breathlessly between kisses as they came free. I balled them up and threw them onto the deck.
Then the water held us bare beneath the surface, pressed together in the dark blue quiet of the open sea.
I lifted her slightly, guiding her legs around my waist. She locked her ankles behind me, her arms circling my neck. The ladder at her back kept us anchored. I held her there—one arm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head—and the weight of her against me, the trust in it, undid me before we’d even started.
I eased the thin fabric of her panties aside.