Rachel had the guests do introductions—I would never have thought of that—and now the women are sitting in the bow, chatting happily and passing around a small tube of hand lotion.

No small dogs are present.

Like I said, a perfect night.

Also, Rachel’s wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans that show off her amazing ass and a tank top that swerves over her perfect tits and makes my own jeans too tight.

I’m glad she’s not wearing a sundress like the one she wore last Sunday to Gabe’s housewarming. It had a scoop neck and thin straps that looked like they’d blow off her shoulders in a strong breeze. I tried so fucking hard not to stare down that neckline. And failed. So much soft skin, so much fodder for my late-night self-love.

I’m not sure what happened on that porch, to be honest. One minute I was sticking to my guns about what a bad idea it would be to have Rachel on my boat… and the next, I was giving her my phone number.

I blame the dress. And her mouth. And her Rachel-ness. The way her face got soft with sympathy right before she offered up her and her mom’s services for the party. And something in me just caved, because I wanted her on my boat. Cheerful, beautiful, soft-hearted, kind Rachel. On. My. Boat.

Even if it’s a terrible idea.

And now here we are. Me, still with my grave doubts, and her, with her swervy tank top. Every time a breeze kicks up, I look over to see if she’s feeling the cold.

God help me.

“Okay, I was a little dubious about this until I tried it,” Rachel says, holding up a sparkly gold tube.

I stop listening and just watch the sky, which is slowly turning an unearthly green-purple.

Until a few words catch my attention. In an unexpected and very visceral way.

“…on your clit or your labia…”

What the fuck?

I’ve just learned something. When a woman I’m hot for suddenly starts talking dirty out of the blue, my body reacts a split second before my brain. My dick is halfway to hard before my forebrain even comes online.

She’s passing around more of those sparkly gold tubes, and I crane to see.

Sensual Heat.

Wait, what?

The women are laughing and exclaiming words of approval as they rub it on their hands and their faces.

I can’t take my eyes off Rachel, who has smoothed a bit on her cheek to demonstrate. Fingertips sliding across her satin skin.

“Give it a second,” she says, laughing. “It’ll start to tingle.”

The women are all oohing and ah-ing. Wanting to know how much it costs.

All I can think about is Rachel, tingling. Everywhere.

“Rachel,” I hear myself saying. Sharply.

The women look up at the sound of my voice, and I wince.