by Cari Quinn
She arched off the bed, and he used every single trick he knew about Harper. He knew her body better than his own. He knew where to stroke, where to nip, how hard to rub, and when she liked the zip of pain with her pleasure.
Her bucking scream-filled pants were louder than the frantic seagulls outside. And he was hard as a goddamn pike, but he pushed his own need to the back of his mind.
And when she shook under his mouth, when the tremors reached out to her thighs, when she finally bowed up with a strangled breathless shout before crashing back to the bed, completely spent, he finally relaxed.
He crashed next to her, his cheek pressed to her inner thigh as he dragged in equally difficult lungfuls of air.
“Oh, my God. Seriously, what is wrong with me?”
He lifted his head. “I’m not complaining in any way, but wow.”
She shifted onto her side and scrunched down to him until their noses touched. “Evidently, I can’t get enough of my husband.”
He laughed. “Your husband is completely fine with that. As long as you give me five minutes to regroup.”
She slid the back of her knuckles over his stiff shaft before tracing his aching head. “Regroup, huh?”
“Purely a physical response to all those sex noises you were making.”
She pushed his hair out of his face. “I’ve missed us.”
He brushed his nose along hers, breathing her in before he tasted her swollen mouth. It was easy now. The wild had blown out of her like a summer storm. Okay, so it was more like a category three, but it seemed like she was back to his usual Harper.
The sleepy, cuddly one that he rarely saw these days. When she sighed and nuzzled his cheek, he finally let the last of the weirdness slip away.
“So, what do you want to do today?”
Her blue eyes danced. “Anything I want?”
“Anything that includes us going out into the world.”
She stuck out her lower lip and he laughed. “At least for an hour.”
“Okay.” She lengthened the word into a breathy sigh, before rolling him onto his back and straddling his belly. “I say we go shopping.”
He groaned.
She drilled her finger into his side until he jumped. “I want to get stuff to cook for tonight. Where else am I going to get such fresh seafood?”
When his stomach growled, he couldn’t deny that it was a good idea. “There’s a grill outside on the porch.”
“Perfect.” She vaulted off him, flashing her truly delicious ass as she crossed the room. “I cut up some fruit to go with the croissants that were on the table. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
He rolled off the mattress, dragged on his boxers and wandered over to the little table in the kitchen. Part of him wanted to follow her into the shower, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for round eight.
Instead, he found the pineapples and strawberries she’d cut up, along with the fluffy pastries and a carafe of coffee. He took the tray and padded out to the patio and stretched out on one of the loungers.
The sun was already at its zenith and a few people were out on the beach. Winter in Galveston was still beach weather for some, himself included. The sea air tasted like freedom. Not that there wasn’t plenty of ocean where they were, but Galveston was nice and remote.
He brushed his palm over the heavy beard he’d let grow in. The chances of someone recognizing him here were slim. After next month, his episode on Something Wilde would pretty much put an end to that. He had a fucking cool tattoo to show for it, but the idea of him on display for a television show was downright disconcerting. When he’d done it, he figured that his segment would be a blip on the radar compared to the other clients Casey would have on the air. Casey Wilde’s producers had loved it and the social media angle that Jazz and Harper had created so much that it was now the main ingredient of the show.
He was so fucked.
His tat was in the main credits for the show, for fuck’s sake.
He wasn’t the type to parade around half naked—that was more Simon’s style. But the stage was hot, and more often than not he ended up losing his shirt by the end of a run. Hiding his tats weren’t really an option even if he conceded to a tank or muscle shirt. His arms were still on display.
A cool tangle of hair slid over his shoulder, dragging him away from the land of fame and the famous. He grinned up at his wife. She smelled like peaches today. He slid his arm around her waist and dumped her into his lap. She giggled and snagged the bowl of pineapple from the tray before settling against his chest.
“It’s nice not to have anything to do.”
He nuzzled against her wet hair. “Agreed. It feels like we’ve been chained to a schedule for months now.”
“We have been. I know I gave you shit about pushing for the honeymoon right now, but I’m glad you did.”
Deacon tucked his chin on her shoulder. “I think I need to mark this down on our calendar.”
“Don’t say calendar!”
“All right, all right. So how about we get dressed and go see the lay of the land. Then I can bring you back here, and you can cook for me.”
“Oh yeah? Can I?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to take that joy away from you.”
“What a guy.”
Deacon rose off the chair with her in his arms and tossed her on the bed. Her skin was still flushed from her shower and her summer hair a tumble of messy waves. But it was the pure happiness on her face that caught him like a left hook.
Wow. How long had it been since he’d actually seen that side of her in the last few weeks?
She rolled up on her knees, bright eyes moving into naked territory. He waggled his fingers. “Oh no, you cannot seduce me.”
One eyebrow slowly rose in question.
He turned away and headed for the shower. “No way.”
“Spoilsport!” she shouted after him.
“Hell yes.” Deacon looked down at his dick that was so on board with that plan. “You can play later.” Then turned on a cool stream of water.
Four
The Dance
Harper shoved her feet into flip flops as she pulled her hair up into a messy bun. The wind was kicking up off the shore, so it wasn’t worth trying to fuss with herself. Not when she’d be covered in sand in ten minutes anyway.
She adjusted the lemon yellow triangles of her bikini top as Deacon came out of the bathroom. His sharp green eyes followed every move of her hands. That heat sizzled under her skin again.
Wild and euphoric, she’d been binging on her husband for the last twelve hours. She should be more in control at this point, and yet…
She swallowed as he buttoned a linen shirt. She had the oddest sensation to go and climb on top of him, pushing that shirt out of the way so she could get to the miles of tan skin.
Cripes. What had gotten into her? She and Deacon had a healthy sex life since the beginning, but she was pretty sure she was going to go into a sex-induced coma if she went at him again this morning. She was sore and swollen at the same time.
Not a good combo.
She watched him replace his towel with a pair of board shorts and couldn’t disguise the smile when she saw the tight fit of the front placket. Her husband was just as buzzed on whatever was in the air here in Galveston.
She slid a crochet cover-up over her suit and cutoffs. “Ready to get a closer look at the coast?”
“Definitely.”
She held out her hand and tugged him toward the back door. The early afternoon sun warranted a pair of sunglasses and a quick dash across the hot sand to the coastline.
Deacon’s surefooted gait left her in the dust as usual, but instead of wandering ahead of her, he turned around and stripped off his shirt, tossing it on the sand.
Distracted by the whole chest to die for thing, she’d been too slow on the uptake. Deacon went into a half crouch and tucked her over his shoulder. He headed into the spray, dumping them both into the seaweed strewn wa
ter.
She screeched at the tangle of hairy seaweed, laughing when he dunked them once more. She came up sputtering and hanging off his shoulders. They splashed around in the water for a few minutes before they trudged back in against the mild undertow.
“I forgot about how much I hate seaweed,” she said, peeling the salt-caked waxy greens off her thigh.
He shook out his shirt and draped it over his shoulder. “If we head over to the public beach, it’s not as bad there.”
She tipped her head up at him, seeing the gleam in his gaze. “You want to take a run, don’t you?”
“Kinda.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a sickness, you know this, right?”
“The endorphins are so good though.”
“I prefer the ones after sex.”
He laughed. “Those are my favorite kind.”
“How about we walk over to the public beach? We’re on vacation. There’s no need to race.”
He linked his hands with hers. “All right, Mrs. McCoy.”
She rose onto her toes and dragged him down to her mouth. He tasted of salt and sunshine. Her earlier desperation melted like the sugary sand under her feet.
This was what it was supposed to be like. She felt his lips smile under hers as he slung his arm around her shoulder and dragged her in close. They walked through the foamy water for a while then up on the packed sand until they came to the public beach.
Kids screamed as loud as the gulls overhead. Harried parents chased toddlers with spray cans of sunblock.
She peered up at Deacon. Just an hour into the sun, and he was already bronzed with color. His shirt floated behind him, now tucked into his back pocket. She had a ridiculously hot husband.
Surprisingly, no one stopped them, but plenty of women followed him with their eyes. His salt-frizzed hair was a bit shaggier than usual and his aviators disguised enough of his face that they could walk unencumbered. His tattoos were also eye-catchers. Soon enough that tat on his back would be beyond famous. Already people were doing double-takes, but he was moving too fast for people to put two and two together.
She stifled a laugh as a group of teen girls gawked as they walked by.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
He leaned down and mock-bit her neck. “Tell me.”
“Just amused by how many women have been lusting after you. I think I witnessed it from every age group at least twice.”
“Shut up.”
She bumped him with her hip. Deacon wasn’t terribly comfortable with the objectification portion of his fame, but hell…he was the one that kept his body in such fine form. What did he expect?
“Hungry?”
She shrugged. Food held little appeal lately. All she did was cook. Though the idea of someone else making something for her had merit. And she did need fuel to keep up with Deacon. “I could eat.”
He nodded to the little bar off the beach. “How can we not go into a bar with a huge mermaid on the sign?”
“Especially named Rhianna’s?”
“You wound me, woman. If you’re talking about the song that would be Rhiannon.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “A thousand pardons.”
“I might have to take your ring back.”
She elbowed him. “Good luck with that.”
His dimple flashed as he slid his shirt on, buttoning the bottom two snaps as they climbed the sandy stairs. The bar was full of reclaimed wood painted and sanded in the shabby beach colors of turquoise, yellow, and marine blue. A gorgeous mermaid mural covered the main wall. Clear glass shelves housed alcohol from rot gut tequila and illegible Russian-named vodka to Cabo Wabo and Grey Goose.
Harper climbed onto one of the stools that had been carved into a conch shell. “This place is great.”
Deacon leaned on the wide planked bar top, his elegant fingers sliding over the shellacked surface until he came to the chomped end. He laughed and looked up at the bartender. “Shark?”
She nodded. “Mako.”
“Fuck.”
The bartender leaned forward on her elbows showing an alarming amount of skin from her coral colored halter top. She pushed purple rimmed glasses up her nose. Heavily mascaraed eyes flirted behind the lenses, aiming right at Deacon. “I’m Jenn, but my friends call me DJ. What can I get you?”
Deacon grinned back at her and tapped his left ring finger on the bar top. “My wife and I are looking for some food and a few drinks.”
DJ glanced down at Harper. “Man, lucky girl. How’d you bag Mr. Universe?”
Harper pushed her shades up into her hair. “Coconut chocolate popovers.”
The bartender laughed and reached back for the ragged menu in the holder behind the bar. “Now that sounds like a story.”
Harper grinned. “Girlfriend, there aren’t enough hours left in this day to tell it.”
DJ laughed and tapped purple tipped nails on the menu. “Well, if you’re some sort of cook—”
“Chef,” Deacon said.
The flirty blonde waggled her brows. “Yeah, you might be a bit disappointed with the level of cuisine here. Rhi is better with the beer and tequila than she is the menu.”
“I heard that.” Came a voice from the back.
“Love you,” DJ called back to the little alcove next to the mermaid.
“So what’s good?”
She lowered her glasses and looked Deacon over. “You look like you can put it away.”
He shrugged.
Harper rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he can. I swear he’s got extra storage above his belly and a compartment that fills up his chest too.”
“Well, I do love a man that can fill up.”
Harper covered her face with her hands.
Deacon laughed and slid his hand into the messy knot of hair at the back of her neck, slowly stroking down between her shoulder blades.
“You guys a fan of clams?”
Harper perked up. “Oceanside clams? Uh, yes.”
“We make this awesome sourdough bread bowl for our chowder. Add in a couple of orders of steamed clams and a basket of our bar fries and we might even fill up the big guy.”
Harper squinted at the bartender. “I’m the only one that can call him Big Guy.”
DJ held up her hands. “All right.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Is he proportional everywhere?”
“Hey now,” Deacon said.
Harper grinned and nodded over the woman’s shoulder. “Is that Cabo?”
She turned. “I have Blanco and Reposado.”
“Do a shot with me and I might tell you.”
“Lawless.”
Feeling a little wild, she laughed as the bartender snapped two tall shot glasses in front of her.
DJ tucked a lock of hair around her ear. “Oh. This is going to end badly.”
“Crack open the Reposado.”
“Jesus, Harper.” At Deacon’s surprised tone, she tossed back the first glass.
“Now that is tequila.”
Jenn refilled them. “Tell me everything.”
Deacon hunkered down in a seat beside Harper. “Looks like you better pour me one too. Just ring up the bottle.”
DJ raised her hand up to a bell and gave it a good pull. The clang brought out a cheer and clap from the regulars.
“What was that for?”
“Anytime we have a bit of the devil in the bar, gotta make it known.”
Harper let the gold liquid slide down her throat. There was no burn, just the lick of good alcohol and the thrill of doing something that didn’t have any repercussions for once. She was on her damn honeymoon. If she wanted to get a little shit faced on the beach, she damn well could. She took another shot, grabbed Deacon by his scruff heavy cheeks, and dragged him down for a tequila soaked kiss.
When his tongue slid along her lips to gather the last drops, she let herself moan. This was exactly what they needed. She hopped off the barstool and wandered over to the retro fitted juk
ebox. It looked about seventy years old, but the guts were all high end electronics.
She flicked through the songs, smiling when Deacon came up behind her, his wide hands curling around her hips. “Are you going to cause a ruckus tonight, Lawless?”
“I was thinking about it.”
She rolled her hips under his touch as Elvis’s raw voice filled the bar. An old song from his ‘68 comeback special buzzed under her breastbone. She ground her ass against the front of Deacon’s board shorts. The proof of his deliciously proportional body rose up and pressed into her lower back.
The last time she’d danced with Deacon had been their wedding reception. And that day had been filled with friends and family pulling them apart every five minutes. Even her first dance felt like it had been barely a blink.
She spun around in his arms and grinned up at him as his strong thigh slid between hers. She rolled her hips in time with the thump, strum of the song. Elvis’s pitch perfect voice hummed through her chest and arrowed into her pelvis.
As the song rattled and shook to its end, Deacon dipped her back and laughed his way up her neck. His teeth scraped along the column to her chin where he laid a hot kiss on her lips. Public displays weren’t exactly Deacon’s stock and trade, but there was enough tequila burning between them, along with a long day of sun to make them both a little reckless.
When the song skipped to a chant-heavy Sting song, she glued herself to Deacon’s chest. Cocoa butter and salt swam in her head as he moved his hips in time with hers.
More couples came onto the dance floor until the postage stamp parquet floor was a mindless mass of bodies. As the sun went down and people came in to eat and drink, she and Deacon gorged on clams and tequila. They traded off with large glasses of water to keep them on the edge of fun instead of into sloppy and stupid.
They danced and they laughed, and she’d never felt more alive with her clothes on. When he dragged her onto the dance floor for one last time and a slow song left her arms and body heavy with want, she curled into his chest.
They moved slowly and in time.
There was a room full of people, but they didn’t matter. Only Deacon and his skin under her cheek mattered. The reassuring beat of his heart, the stir of his body, the bronze skin delight that was Deacon’s chest. All of it was hers.
