Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six)

by Julie Ann Walker

  So where does that leave me?

  And perhaps it was a day for epiphanies because as soon as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. It left him with this. This moment right here and now. This one time to hold the woman of his heart in his arms.

  And by God, I refuse to waste one minute thinking about what tomorrow will bring.

  Slowly, inexorably slowly, he slipped his fingers from her body. Loving the way her inner muscles grasped at him. The air inside the lighthouse was warm and damp. But it still felt cool against his fingers when he lifted them to his mouth, his nostrils flaring at the scent that coated them. The scent of her. The scent of passion and completion.

  Even though she couldn’t see what he was doing, he could tell she knew by the soft, mewling sound she made. And when he put his fingers in his mouth, her taste exploded on his tongue. Tart and sweet. Salty and delicious. It was the unmistakable flavor of hot, healthy, satisfied woman. And he could no more hold back his animal-like sound of approval than he could hold back the tide.

  Maddy’s voice was husky when she whispered, “And now it’s your turn, sailor. What is it you say? Tit for tat?”

  Before he knew what she was about, the button on his cargo shorts sprang open under her dexterous fingers. His zipper followed suit. And then Maddy’s cool, soft hands were inside the front of his boxer shorts and closing around his hot, throbbing shaft.

  He groaned and had to brace his palms against the metal wall on either side of her head to keep himself upright. His dick pulsed hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “You’re quite a handful, aren’t you?” Maddy murmured, nibbling on his jaw, then alternating nips with sweet, wet kisses.

  Roger that. Not that he was one of those guys hung up on size, but he was pretty sure his dick was ten feet tall and bulletproof. At least it was in this moment.

  He could have made some witty reply to that effect, but his tongue hit the top of his mouth and stayed there when she used her thumb to spread his own wetness over his super-sensitive head and down the length of his shaft. Then he nearly swallowed his tongue when she fisted him firmly and began pumping.

  “So,” she breathed against his lips, “tell me how you want to be kissed. How you want to be touched. How you want to be fucked.”

  Raunchy and sexy and determined to give as good as she’d gotten. That was Maddy. Wonderful, remarkable Maddy.

  “K-kiss my chest,” he managed. “My n-nipples are sensitive.”

  When her soft mouth landed on the flat disk of his left nipple, his areola contracted, forcing the center to form a tight bead.

  “Ah, hell,” he groaned when her tongue lapped at his tip, flicking it softly. Each twang echoed down into his dick. And then she closed her lips over him and sucked, pulled deep. If there was any light, he knew he’d see her cheeks hollowing out. Below, she tightened her fist around him and pumped in a rhythm that matched the cadenced suction of her mouth.

  It was too much. Too good. His hips jerked forward. He curled his fingers into the metal of the wall, anchoring himself to the moment. Fighting off the orgasm that threatened to explode from him with just one more lick. One more suck. One more stroke.

  He didn’t want to come. Not yet. He wanted to luxuriate in her bold, unmerciful ministrations for a while longer.

  “Tug my balls down,” he rasped, his breath sawing from his lungs, his stomach muscles contracting. “Quick, Maddy, or you’re gonna make me c-come.”

  “I want you to come,” she murmured around his nipple. “I want to feel you spill into my hands, all hot and wet and slippery.”

  “Fuck. Me,” he groaned at each naughty wording coming out of an upside-down mouth that he knew looked deceivingly sweet and innocent.

  “Now, Bran,” she said, echoing his earlier words back to him. “I want you to come for me. I want to feel it.”

  Bran had been taking orders most of his adult life. But none had ever been as erotic or carnal as the ones Maddy issued. Lightning hit the base of his spine. His hips worked back and forth in a rhythm that was a counterpoint to the push and pull of her sweet, soft hand. Higher and higher he climbed. Tighter and faster she tugged.

  And then it happened.

  His orgasm burst from him. Lights flashed behind his screwed-tight lids. Pleasure rolled over him in wave after body-shaking wave. He spilled his desire into her hands.

  He thought he whispered her name, but couldn’t be sure. He thought he was still on his feet, but couldn’t be sure of that either. The only thing he was sure of was that he was coming harder, faster, longer than he ever had before. Because it was Maddy.

  Maddy, Maddy, Maddy…Her name was a refrain inside his mind. Maddy…sweet, wonderful Maddy…

  * * *

  10:10 p.m.…

  “I think Bran and Maddy might be soul mates,” Alex said.

  And it was the one trillionth statement or observation she’d made since they parked themselves at the small, molded fiberglass table on the back of the catamaran. Mason should know. He’d kept count. And while just about everything else she’d jabbered on about hadn’t inspired any responses from him, he felt compelled to answer this one.

  “The concept of soul mates is crap,” he told her, lowering the field glasses he’d been using to keep an eye on the ocean around them. He adjusted the knob on the marine radio he’d moved from inside the small galley, and static briefly echoed over the line. “Hollywood invented it to sell tickets to Rachel McAdams movies.” When Alex just blinked at him, he narrowed his eyes and demanded, “What?”

  “I’m trying to decide if you really spoke or if exhaustion has me hallucinating.”

  He harrumphed.

  “Okay,” she nodded. “So not hallucinating then. There’s no way I could recreate that certain…je ne sais quoi that echoes through your special brand of caveman-esque grunt. It really is quite something, you know? It’s like, with one word that isn’t even a word, you’re able to convey annoyance, frustration, disapproval, and dismissal.”

  “Alex—”

  “And since when do you watch Rachel McAdams movies?”

  He shook his head. “I never said I did.”

  Had he really jumped for joy when he saw the catamaran sail toward the island after he set off the flare? Had he really been happier than he could remember being in…well…forever when she dropped anchor and jumped overboard to start swimming in his direction?

  To his consternation, the answer was yes to both questions.

  Alex is nothing but a pain in my ass. What the fuck was I thinking?

  “Sure you did,” she challenged, her eyes twinkling behind the lenses of her glasses. “You said soul mates were invented by Hollywood to sell tickets to Rachel McAdams movies. Which means you must’ve seen a few to make that summary judgment.”

  “You’re missing my point.” He hadn’t been thinking. That was the only explanation. Or at least he hadn’t been thinking with the head atop his shoulders.

  “I don’t think I am.” She placed her elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her palm. “You like Rachel McAdams movies. Admit it. So which is your favorite? Most people are partial to The Notebook, but I like The Time Traveler’s Wife the best.”

  “I don’t watch Rachel McAdams movies,” he grumbled, though he had watched The Time Traveler’s Wife. But only because he liked the paranormal, science-fiction aspect of it.

  “Well, why not?” she demanded, her deep auburn eyebrows pulling down in a vee.

  “Because I have these things,” he told her.

  “What things?”

  “They’re called a dick and balls.”

  “Oh, big macho man.” She waved her hands. “Has to act all rough and tough, like he doesn’t enjoy a good star-crossed lovers story just as much as the rest of us.”

  “Now that’s something I believe in,” he told her,
leaning back in the molded fiberglass seat and lifting the field glasses to do another quick scan of the dark horizon.

  “What?” she asked. “Star-crossed lovers?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “Just lovers in general. I believe in hormones and animal magnetism and the biological urge to mate.”

  She studied him for a second, blinking slowly. “So you’re saying…what? That there’s no such thing as love? Only sex?”

  Hearing the word, just the word, come out of her mouth made his shorts feel too tight.

  “I’m just saying there’s no such thing as soul mates.” He shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I’m saying there’s lust that leads to love. And love that leads to lust on rare occasions. But mostly there’s just lust that burns hot and fizzles fast.”

  “Wow.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a real romantic.”

  There was a time… “Hey.” He shrugged, feigning far more indifference than he felt. “You asked. It’s not my fault you don’t like the answer.”

  “Point taken,” she allowed with a bob of her eyebrows.

  They were ever mobile, those eyebrows of hers. And he couldn’t help but wonder if they felt as soft and sleek as they looked. He curled his fingers around the edge of the table to keep from reaching to find out.

  She started peeling the orange she’d grabbed from the galley, and his attention shifted from her eyebrows to her hands, to the swift, efficient movements they made. He was instantly mesmerized. The soft moonlight streaming down from above seemed to highlight just how graceful and small they were. Narrow palms. Thin fingers. Short, unpainted nails that showed half-moon shapes up by her cuticles.

  Pretty.

  Alex had pretty hands.

  Which made sense, he supposed, since the rest of her wasn’t too hard to look at either. Oh, not that Alex ever flaunted her cute, all-American-girl appearance. Quite the contrary. She didn’t seem to care that her curly hair was usually sticking out every which way. She didn’t wear revealing clothing that showed off her delicately curved figure. And she hid the most amazing green eyes he’d ever seen behind a dark pair of tortoiseshell glasses.

  Nevertheless, there was no mistaking how attractive she was. It was always there. Staring him in the face. Taunting him.

  And maybe that was why he was always so short with her. Because he could have ignored any woman who strutted her stuff. But it was impossible to ignore a woman who didn’t seem to know or care she even had stuff.

  Or maybe I’m short with her because she drives me crazy. There was always that possibility.

  “Orange?” She held out a peeled half to him.

  “Sure.” He accepted her offering. One thing about her that didn’t drive him bonkers was the fact that she fed him. Always. “Thanks.”

  For a couple of seconds they sat in blissful silence. The only time Mason knew Alex to keep quiet was when she had food stuffed in her mouth, which, thankfully, was quite often. But he should have known the reprieve wouldn’t last for long.

  “So which kind do you think Bran and Maddy are?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “People where lust turns into love? Or people where love turns into lust? Because they’ve been cultivating this friendship for months, which leads me to think they’re the latter. Then again, seeing them together is like walking into a welding factory.” When he cocked his head, she wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m talking sparks, baby. So that leads me to think it’s the former. I guess it’s that whole chicken-and-egg thing. One of the quintessential mysteries of life. Although maybe you have more insight. After all, you were there when they first met.”

  He blinked. “What was the question again?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why is it no one can ever follow my line of inquiry?”

  “Maybe because after you ask something, you keep talking for five minutes, and by the time you’re finished, people have forgotten the initial query.”

  “Well, then people should learn to focus.”

  “Consider me a camera,” he told her, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Despite all the ways she exasperated him, it was fun keeping up with her lightning-fast mind.

  She blinked at him. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or just being a smart-ass.”

  “Can’t I be a serious smart-ass?”

  “We’ve gone off the rails.”

  “You act like that’s something new for you.”

  “The question,” she stressed, “is whether you think Bran and Maddy are the kind of people where lust turns to love or vice versa.”

  “Neither,” he said, popping an orange slice into his mouth. “Theirs is a lust-only situation.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked curiously, taking a bite of orange. A drop of juice landed on her lip, and she absently licked it away. He gritted his teeth when the sight of her pink tongue caused an ache to form low in his belly.

  “Because I know Bran,” he said, looking away from her. “And he won’t let love into the equation.”

  “Why not?”

  He turned back to stare at her the way he would stare at a blank wall. “He just won’t.”

  He and Bran were peas in a pod in that respect. They both agreed that there were two kinds of love. The kind that flourished and left both parties stronger for its presence; the rare kind of love. And the kind that destroyed and made both parties weaker and warier for having experienced it; the more common kind of love. Turned out, neither one of them cared to play the odds on the former because both of them had already experienced the carnage left behind from the latter.

  “Does it have something to do with his father or the way he was raised?” Alex asked.

  And now Mason’s stomach ached for a whole new reason. “What the fuck do you know about that?”

  “Nothing,” Alex said, blinking warily. “I just heard LT say something to Romeo once about Bran being the way he is because he was afraid of becoming like his bastard of a father, so I figured…” She let the sentence dangle.

  “LT should keep his fuckin’ mouth shut,” Mason grumbled. They all had baggage. All of them. As far as Mason was concerned, they had an unspoken agreement never to talk about it.

  “Is that your nice way of telling me it’s none of my business?”

  “Was I being nice? I wasn’t trying to be.”

  “Exchanged smart-ass for wiseass, huh?” Alex twisted her lips, and Mason noticed for the first time how small and plump they were. A rosebud mouth, he thought it was called. “Does Dorothy Parker know about you?”

  “Who?” He was still distracted by her mouth. How is it so red when she isn’t wearing any lipstick?

  “You know.” Alex furrowed her brow. “Dorothy Parker. Queen of the snappy comeback? No?”

  He shook his head.

  She blew out a disbelieving breath. “Remind me to educate you once we get back to Wayfarer Island. Some of her satire, even though it’s fifty years old, is better than anything anyone is writing today. She’s super sarcastic. I think you’ll like her.”

  “Mmmph,” he said, then a thought occurred to him. “Wait, she’s a writer? But you said you only read for educational or research purposes, never for enjoyment. If I remember correctly, you watch Sex and the City for enjoyment.”

  “Well, that whole no-reading-for-enjoyment rule doesn’t apply to Dorothy Parker.” Alex narrowed her eyes. “And do I detect a hint of judgment in your voice? Don’t tell me you have a problem with Rachel McAdams movies and”—she stressed the word—“Sex and the City. Because I’ll be forced to agree with Maddy’s earlier assessment that you’re a big, ol’ misogynist.” She popped another orange slice between her succulent lips.

  To distract himself, he did the same, savoring the burst of tartness on his tongue. “For your information,” he said sullen
ly, “I have no opinion of Sex and the City. I’ve never seen a single episode.”

  Her eyes rounded behind her glasses, and he was struck by the deep, saturated hue of her irises. They reminded him of the wet jungles of the Amazon or the vibrant stands of bamboo in the Sagano Forest of Japan. Kelly green. Luck o’ the Irish green. Gorgeous green. “Seriously?” she asked. “Not even a clip?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Forget Dorothy Parker,” she said. “We have to remedy your Sex and the City deficit first. We’ll fire up the laptop and do a marathon the minute we get back. I know you passed on the offer earlier tonight. But this time I’m not taking no for an answer. Besides”—she grinned and bobbed her eyebrows—“you’ll like it. Did I mention the boobs and boinking?”

  He really wished she would stop talking about boobs and boinking. Every time she did, his mind immediately conjured up images of her boobs, and what she’d look like boi—

  He shook his head, refusing to finish the thought. “Which begs the question,” he said. “Why do you like it?” And then it occurred to him. “Unless…are you…” His mouth was suddenly dry as a desert. He slid another slice of orange between his lips and chewed to wet his whistle. “Do you…ahem…bat for the home team?” Was it possible he’d read her wrong these last few months? “Or maybe you’re a switch-hitter?”

  His gaydar was usually spot-on. But maybe his long, self-imposed dry spell had caused his systems to go wonky.

  Alex frowned. “Your baseball jargon is flying right over my head. English, please.”

  He wasn’t sure how else to ask the question except to just…ask it. And was it totally crazy he wasn’t certain what he wanted the answer to be? If she was batting for the home team, it definitely solved the little problem he seemed to be having with her, the one that made him question his self-imposed moratorium on all things sporting that double-X chromosome. Then again, he couldn’t help thinking, But that’d be a crying shame. In his not-so-humble opinion, Alex’s dainty femaleness seemed to cry out for a male counterpart.

  “Do you like girls?” he blurted.

  “Of course,” she said.