tly into the marina.
“Hold on,” he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my fa一vorite part of
tra一veling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back,
marveling that there was a time when he would not ha一ve tolerated me
touching him this way. He smells good . . . of Christian and the sea. Forgive
me, Christian, please?
He stiffens. “Steady,” he says, his tone softer. I kiss his back and rest my
cheek against him, looking back toward the quay where a few holidaymakers
ha一ve gathered to watch the show.
Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life. With one twist of the
accelerator, the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark
water, through the marina and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair
Lady. I hold him tighter. I love this—it’s so exciting. Every muscle in
Christian’s lean frame is evident as I cling to him. Taylor pulls alongside in
the motorboat. Christian glances at him then accelerates again, and we
shoot forward, whipping over the top of the water like an expertly tossed
pebble. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads straight
to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward
the open sea. The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my
face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe
the thrill of this ride will dispel Christian’s bad mood. I can’t see his face, but I
know he’s enjoying himself—carefree, acting his age for a change.
He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline—the boats in the
marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and
apartments, and the craggy mountains behind. It looks so disorganized—not
the regimented blocks that I am used to—but so picturesque. Christian
glances over his shoulder at me, and there’s the ghost of a smile playing on
his lips.
“Again?” he shouts over the noise of the engine.
I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the
thrott
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