Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  That’s familiar. That’s comfortable.

  But looking into his eyes, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt he means it. He will do whatever it takes to keep me safe. Fight off sharks and seagulls and tsunamis, and anything else the world might throw at us today.

  Of course, I’m no damsel in distress. I’m not a woman who needs a man to save her.

  But I am a person who knows when she needs help.

  When she needs a friend.

  I need his friendship right now.

  I need him by my side.

  Here with me.

  My resistance melts away. I kick my fear onto the boardwalk.

  The back of my nose starts to sting a little, and I nod. “Okay.”

  His expression gentles. “Yeah?”

  I nod and suck in a bracing breath. “But let’s hurry and get in before I chicken out again.”

  “You’re not going to chicken out, and we’re not going to rush,” he says, taking my hand and leading the way toward an open space on the sand. “We’re going to take it slow and easy, step by step, and give your squirrel brain plenty of time to get used to the idea.”

  I huff as I spread out the beach blanket and set my borrowed beach bag on top of it. “I don’t know about that. My squirrel brain is pretty—”

  Jesse whips off his T-shirt, revealing all those beautiful muscles I became intimately acquainted with last night.

  My gaze rakes down his frame, from his broad shoulders to the gorgeous biceps that I’m pretty sure I bit at some point.

  Sometime around orgasm two, my memory gets a little fuzzy.

  I narrow my gaze, staring hard at his muscle. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me, but I would swear there’s a little red spot there.

  Jesse chuckles. “Yeah, you left a mark,” he says in a husky voice that makes my nipples tighten against the spandex of my suit. “I’ll have to return the favor later.”

  Later . . .

  Because we’re going to do it again.

  Be naked together—like last night when it was just him and me, and pleasure so fierce there were moments when it was almost too much. Like my body was struggling to rise to the challenge of channeling all that glorious goodness.

  Jesse is high-voltage bliss and my erotic wiring is glitchy and out of practice, but I could get used to that kind of struggle. I could get used to him. To being with him like this, like partners in so much more than list-checking or graffiti crime.

  “Assuming I survive,” I say, my breath catching as he reaches for the bottom of my filmy cover-up.

  “You’re going to do more than survive; you’re going to kick ass,” he promises, drawing my cover-up over my head, sending a rush of arousal surging through me.

  Heart beating in my throat, I tip my head back and murmur, “Kiss for luck?”

  He smiles, nice and easy—just his style. Dipping his face closer, he slides his lips across mine, a sultry, summery kiss that makes the impossible feel possible.

  That does the final trick in sweeping away my fears.

  When he breaks the kiss, I’m dizzy and warm.

  Most of all . . . ready.

  “I like your good luck kisses,” I say.

  “And I like giving them.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

  And me.

  And . . . us.

  But there is no us.

  I repeat that truth to myself over and over again as we cross the sand to the water, then wade in, yelping over the cold temperature.

  “It’s freezing, but we’ve got it. Like this,” he says, splashing and playing.

  In no time, Jesse turns getting used to the chilly water into a game, easing me into floating on my back in his arms before I fully realize what’s happening. One minute, I’m laughing with him as we dare each other to dip deeper and deeper into the water; the next, I’m gazing up into a clear blue sky, buoyant in the gentle waves with his hands hovering lightly under my shoulders and bottom.

  It’s shocking how fast I master the whole floating thing.

  I did know how to swim once—not well, by any means, but I could dog paddle anywhere I needed to go—but I could never float, and I’d assumed I’d be too terrified to do anything but flail if I ever again found myself in water deeper than a bathtub.

  And yes, that day in eighth grade, feeling the ocean clutching at my legs, dragging me away from the shore no matter how I fought to get back to safety, comes back to haunt me more than once.

  But every time I’m tempted to freak out, Jesse is there to hold me.

  Just . . . hold me, cradled in his arms in the water until I’m ready to try again.

  Several feet away, a mom and dad are helping a young boy, maybe seven or eight, learn to swim.

  The same way.

  He’s floating on his back too.

  Maybe I should be embarrassed that I’m twenty-seven, and he’s two decades younger, but floating is peaceful.

  I’m going to enjoy it.

  I’m going to learn to swim, dammit.

  Whether you’re seven or twenty-seven, swimming is one of those skills a human should probably possess.

  Good on him.

  And good on me.

  When I flip over, taking a break, I give the kid a few claps and cheers. “Good job. You’re getting the hang of it.”

  “Thanks!” he shouts.

  “You too,” his mom calls out.

  I laugh and give her a thumbs up.

  I float some more, and after, Jesse and I move on to putting my face in the water and rolling it to one side to pull in a breath. Next, we add long pulls of my arms while Jesse supports my legs, and then I try kicking while he holds my hands, guiding me through the waves. He tries to teach me the breaststroke, but we get distracted making breast-stroking jokes and making out, and decide we had better stick to the crawl.

  Midafternoon, we break for sandwiches, but stick to iced tea for drinks so we’re 100 percent safe to go back into the water.

  I haven’t swum on my own yet, but I’m ready.

  Or . . . nearly ready.

  I suck in a deep breath, facing Jesse across the fifteen feet or so of open ocean between us. The water only comes up to Jesse’s waist—my ribs—and if I get in trouble, all I have to do is put my feet down and stand up. This is completely safe, but I’m still . . . terrified.

  But also determined.

  I can do this.

  I can take back this lost part of myself. Fear doesn’t get to keep me in a cage anymore.

  That’s what this part of the list is about.

  Only I should get to decide my potential. Not fear. Not the ugly or sad or scary things in my past. Just me.

  The knowledge swells inside my chest, and for a second I swear I can see thirteen-year-old Claire standing beside Jesse, willing me to keep swimming, the way she did all those years ago.

  And I’m not about to let her, or myself, down.

  Sucking in a breath and holding it, I dive into the water. Seconds later, I emerge from the waves and pull toward Jesse. And even though my flutter kick is anything but smooth and I end up craning my entire head out of the water for a breath instead of using the graceful, side-sip method we practiced, I make it the entire distance without any major mishaps.

  It’s almost . . . easy.

  “Hell yeah, woman,” he says, brushing my wet hair from my forehead as I swipe the saltwater from my cheeks. “You did it!”

  “It wasn’t even that hard,” I confess, my breath coming fast. “All those years, and being so scared, and missing beach trips with Gigi and . . . it wasn’t that bad.”

  He laughs, but then sobers as he reads the angst in my expression. He bends, bringing his face closer to mine. “Hey, it’s okay that you were afraid. Almost drowning is scary shit. And don’t be so hard on yourself. You definitely worked for this.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I . . .” I force a smile. “You’re right. I did have to work for it. It’s just frustrating that I let fear call the
shots for so long.”

  “That’s next,” he says, confusing me until he adds, “Number two. No more ‘sorry.’”

  My brows pinch together. “Actually, it’s no more ‘sorry’ for no reason, but I’m still going to say it when I need to. That’s part of being a grown-up—knowing when to say you’re sorry and meaning it when you do.”

  “But you don’t have to apologize for having feelings. Especially about the list.” He hesitates before adding in a softer voice, “And especially with me.”

  Having feelings . . .

  He pulls me against him, lifting me up as a big wave rolls in. For a moment, the water is deep enough that I’d be in over my head if I didn’t have a taller swimming buddy by my side.

  The symbolism isn’t lost on me.

  I am getting in over my head.

  I need an intervention. A “to-don’t” list to keep me from breaking the friends-with-benefits rules.

  I make a mental note to get on that . . . later . . . and concentrate on enjoying the rest of the afternoon. I swim to Jesse again and again, a little farther each time, until I’m swimming almost the entire length of the beach.

  I’m not the only one.

  Near me, the young boy is dog paddling on his own. When his eyes meet mine, I call out, “Sweet dog paddle, man!”

  “Arf, arf,” he responds, making me laugh.

  Kids are weird. And I love it.

  By the time I finally step out of the surf at the end of the day, my arms are trembling and I feel like I’ve had an honest-to-God workout.

  I also feel . . . amazing.

  “Excuse me.”

  I turn at the voice. It’s the dog paddler’s mom. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thanks,” she says, smoothing a hand over her flowery sundress.

  My brow knits. “For?”

  “Our son. He didn’t want to learn to swim for the longest time, no matter how we tried to convince him. But when he saw you learning, it was like something clicked. He said he wanted to try too. That’s what he said—try too. I think seeing someone who’s not his age going for it made a difference.”

  A smile spreads across my face from the list effect. “That’s so great to hear. Tell him he’s super brave. Also, please tell him arf, arf from me.”

  The woman laughs, then lifts a hand in a goodbye wave. She turns and heads off.

  But the way she started the conversation snags at my brain. “Wait a second,” I call out.

  She wheels around, tilts her head. “Yes?”

  “When we started talking, you said you were sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. One, you didn’t interrupt. And two, I’m so happy you shared that with me. So no sorrys, K?”

  She smiles as if she’s giddy too. “No sorrys.” She says it like a rallying cry.

  And maybe it’ll be my new one.

  I rejoin Jesse, feeling victorious.

  “Celebration beer?” I ask, nodding toward the boardwalk as Jesse and I tread through the sand toward our blanket. “Saw a dive bar not too far from the subway entrance.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Jesse says, toweling off.

  “We go straight back to your place instead?” I ask, openly ogling him as he drags the towel down his taut, muscled stomach.

  He flashes a grin my way as he rubs his hair dry. “We’re definitely going back to my place, but we’re celebrating first. There’s a funky little brewery farther down the beach. You’re going to love it.”

  “Yeah?” I finish drying off and reach for my cover-up.

  “Trust me. I know what you like,” he says, in a voice that makes me sizzle all over again.

  “You do,” I say, in a voice that I hope makes him burn up too.

  He flashes a heated gaze my way, and yep, that “to-don’t” list can wait.

  18

  Jesse

  Her lips part.

  Her lashes flutter.

  And she moans, “Oh my God. So good.” Her lips close around the perfectly roasted marshmallow I slip into her mouth, triggering a vivid mental flashback to this morning, when she took my cock in her mouth with similar relish.

  I want to bite her bare neck, slip my hand under that filmy cover-up that does nothing to hide her curves and get her off while the waves crash onto the shore.

  She deserves an orgasm or five after the dragon she slayed today.

  And maybe I’ll get to give her one, sooner rather than later . . .

  After the last of the sunset light fades and the darkness closes in, no one’s going to be able to see what my hands are up to.

  We’re at one of Lost Summer Brewery’s beachside firepits. There are eight of them in total, but they’re all several yards apart, granting a certain degree of privacy, and our closest neighbors are a couple nearly as into each other as we are. They’ve barely come up for air since they sat down.

  Though I’m sure to anyone looking on, Ruby and I seem like a couple too.

  We can’t keep our hands off each other, and by the time our server delivers our second pint of Kona Ale—a coffee-flavored dark beer that is fucking delicious with roasted marshmallows—Ruby is in my lap, sprawled across me in the big Adirondack chair.

  “Beautiful,” she murmurs, gazing out across the darkening water. “I wish we could stay here. Just . . . camp out on the beach and wake up in the morning to the sound of the waves.”

  “I thought you hated camping?” I challenge her.

  “Not romantic camping on the beach,” she counters. “That might be nice. Not Four Seasons nice, but nice.”

  “No camping around here that I know of, but there’s a place on Governor’s Island. You can rent a tent and sleep across the water from the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Really? That’s so cool.” Ruby snuggles closer to my chest with a yawn. “Maybe we should add camping to the ‘something new’ list, after all.”

  My head rears back. “What? You’ve really never been?”

  “No, never.”

  “But I thought you went to Camp Knick Knack Paddywhack with Claire when you were kids. The one my mom’s friend owns upstate? Claire went every summer. Sometimes twice.”

  “My mom wouldn’t let me,” Ruby says, reaching for her beer on the small table next to our shared chair. “She and Dad are terrified of heavily wooded areas. They watched too many camp-themed horror movies in the eighties. And they’ve lived in the city their entire lives. That many trees all together seems . . . unnatural to them or something.”

  I snort. “Trees? They’re literally the most natural thing there is.”

  She swallows her sip and laughs. “Right?” She shakes her head and sets down her beer on the table between our chairs. “But you know how they are. Once they get their minds set on something, there’s no changing it. So, my dream of spending summer at camp with my bestie went unfulfilled.” She freezes for a moment before turning back to me with a wide-eyed look.

  That matches mine.

  It’s instant, this awareness.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask, my brain already three steps ahead, nailing down how we make this happen.

  “Number three on the list—the old dream coming true,” she says with a wistful sigh. “But we can’t. I’m too old to go to camp.”

  “Screw that. You’re never too old to go to camp.” I lean over the wooden arm of the chair, digging into my beach bag for my cell.

  Ruby laughs. “I’m pretty sure that’s not true. I don’t think a bunch of pre-teen girls would appreciate a woman in her twenties crashing their week-long slumber party. I don’t even know what boy bands or video games are cool these days. I’m totally out of touch.”

  “We’re not going to camp with the kids; we’ll camp on the other side of the lake. There’s another camping area. Trust me, I know that place inside and out. My mom and Rachel are tight.” I scroll through my phone until I find Mom’s number and tap it, continuing to talk as I lift my cell to my ear. “Rachel has a few cabins on the o
ther side for old folks like you and me. It’s not super fancy, but—”

  I break off as Mom answers the phone. “Hey, Mom, I’m here with Ruby, and we’ve got a brilliant idea.”

  “Oh, good! I love brilliant ideas. And Ruby. Tell her hello for me,” Mom says warmly before adding, “Dad says hi to you, by the way. He wants to go throw axes with you at that lumberjack bar before you leave. He’s been practicing and is positive he’ll beat you this time.”

  I grin. “In his dreams. But that’s kind of what I’m calling about. Do you think Rachel would let Ruby and me camp out at her place? On the far side of the lake? I want to teach Ruby how to throw axes in the wild.”

  Ruby snorts and whispers, “Yeah, right. Good way to lose a limb, my friend. My hand-eye coordination is even worse than my breaststroke.”

  But she looks excited, nibbling on the edge of her thumb as Mom puts me on hold to hop on a call with Rachel.

  I cover the receiver. “When can we leave?”

  “She might not say yes,” Ruby says.

  “She’s going to say yes. Rachel loves my family. She never says no to Mom. So?” I curl my fingers into her hip, loving that I can, that we have these moments, even for a little while. “When can I kidnap you? Tomorrow morning?”

  “I can’t.” She bites her bottom lip but a grin breaks through. “I’ll need at least a few days to get ready. I have sketches due for the new menus, and card orders to place, and I’d have to pack, and—”

  “She’s ready for you whenever,” Mom says brightly as she comes back on the line. “But let me know before you leave so she can text you a list. She needs a few things from the bulk store. You can swing by on your way out of town. I’ll give you my membership card.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, Mom.” I squeeze Ruby’s thigh. “We’ll probably head out the day after tomorrow.”

  “I said a couple of days,” Ruby hisses, but she’s laughing as she swats my chest. “At least two.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to pack for Ruby while she works tomorrow,” I tell Mom—and Ruby. I’m raring to go. The thought of getting out of town with this woman has me all jazzed up, and I’m pretty sure I know why. A trip, just the two of us, feels like the next step. A dangerous step, but one I want to take with her. I want to know what it’s like to vacation with Ruby, to have her all to myself for a few days with no interruptions. “Then we’ll head out Wednesday morning. I’ll make sure I get that list before we leave.”