“Fuck.” Morgan flung her head back as Emilia’s tongue passed over the hollow of her collarbone. She tried to push Emilia off and turn her against the wall, but Emilia stopped her, taking Morgan by the wrists as her mouth moved back up to brush her ear. Morgan gasped again. Emilia traced the curve of her ear and felt her shudder. Still gripping Morgan’s wrists, she returned to her mouth, teasing her lips with long, slow strokes. She knew Morgan could have fought her off if she’d really wanted to top Emilia, but she also knew with growing certainty that Morgan wanted no such thing right now.

It felt good, intoxicatingly good, to set the pace herself. She released Morgan’s wrists and skimmed her fingertips up the bare skin of Morgan’s arms. Morgan clung to Emilia’s belt, her muscles rock hard, and whimpered into Emilia’s mouth as Emilia ran her fingertips just as lightly down along the sides of her breasts and down farther, lifting the hem of her shirt to trace the smooth skin of her stomach. She wanted to slide her hand past Morgan’s belt. She wanted to be inside Morgan, needed to feel her, needed to taste her hot against her.

“Emilia.” Morgan’s voice, raw, stopped her hand. She leaned her forehead against Morgan’s as their breath mingled in the space between them.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Morgan groaned in frustration, and her hips pushed into Emilia’s. “No. Fuck no. I just—”

Emilia slipped her hand into the waistband of Morgan’s jeans.

“Just what?”

“Just . . .” Morgan’s chest rose and fell, and she kept her eyes shut as she tried to speak past the shudders wracking her taut body. “Is this what you want?”

Emilia drew a line along the border of Morgan’s briefs. “Is this what you want?”

“Not. What. I asked.”

Footsteps sounded on the wood of the wharf. She kissed her hard on the mouth, willing the intruder back into their boat so that she could fuck Morgan Donovan blind against this wall, right now, right here.

A child laughed in the distance.

“Fuck,” she swore as she pulled away. Morgan’s flushed cheeks glowed in the near darkness, and removing her hand felt like the hardest thing Emilia had ever done. She allowed herself to linger in the shelter of Morgan’s arms until the footsteps drew even with the boathouse.

“We should patch that boat of yours,” Morgan said in her ear. Each word vibrated through her.

“Or we could go out in your boat.” Or your truck, or a locker, or anywhere we won’t be interrupted.

“I have a four o’clock appointment.” Morgan’s voice dripped regret.

“That gives us an hour,” Emilia said. She supported Morgan as she put weight back on her damaged foot and waved at the small boy and his father as they walked by.