I heard a clank as something dropped on deck. Maybe a tank? Or weights. I glanced behind me. She was near the entrance, picking up weights she had dropped from a tank. Her jaw tightened behind me—her left cheek muscle twitching like a coiled spring. 

What the hell was I doing? My mind raced through the list of other divers—solid, reliable people who wouldn’t set off warning sirens with flashing lights, “danger, danger” the moment they smiled. And yet I heard myself say, “Sure.”

Braden leaned forward, voice softening. “Since it’s your first Atlantic U-boat, how about I be your tour guide? I can show you things you’ve never seen before.” His words floated over the hum of the engines, making the brass rivets in the cabin seem to shine with promise.

“Promises, Promises,” I mumbled. I started backing toward the head. “Excuse me,” I mumbled, my pulse still racing. The bathroom was tiny, complete with a minuscule metal sink and a pump toilet. It was little more than a closet. I shut the door behind me and let the cold steel of the sink hold up my spinning thoughts. It stabilized into the moment—just me, the rocking hull, and the faint hiss of the water against the porthole.

When I emerged, I took a quick look above and found everyone busy setting up. I ducked back down into the cabin. I made a beeline for the bunk area, leaving both of them behind. The lower berths were my refuge on crossing days; as the boat pitched and rolled, most of the crew turned green. My dad and sister had horrible motion sickness, but my stomach was made of sterner stuff. I curled up under the thin beach towel that someone had left there. I couldn’t bring myself to go out and deal with all the people. I let my breathing slow until sleep edged me under.

The mug slipped from my fingers, clattering against the table as I forced myself to look away. “You know, you’re a little… intense,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He laughed, low and warm, the sound vibrating through me. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I didn’t say that.” The words tasted reckless.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, unblinking. “You need a dive buddy?” The question hung between us, heavy with something unspoken.

“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m flying solo this weekend.”

“Same here.” His grin was slow, deliberate, the kind that made my pulse jump. “We should hook up.”

A clank echoed behind me—weights hitting the deck. I glanced back just in time to see her jaw tighten, her fingers flexing like she was fighting the urge to snap something in half.

What the hell am I doing?

But before I could second-guess myself, the word slipped out. “Sure.”

Braden leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Since it’s your first Atlantic U-boat, how about I be your tour guide? I can show you things you’ve never seen before.”

“Promises, promises,” I muttered, already backing toward the head. My skin felt too tight, too hot. I escaped. The bathroom was a cramped metal box, the sink cold under my palms as I gripped it, trying to steady myself. The boat rocked, the porthole hissing with seawater.

When I stepped back out, the deck was alive with movement—tanks being strapped down, gear being checked. I ducked into the cabin, slipping past the others until I reached the bunk area. The lower berths were my refuge, the thin towel someone had left there doing little to cushion the hard surface. I gave up and tried to ball it up as a pillow. I curled onto my side, letting the motion of the boat lull me into a half-doze.

His hands—warm as sunlight after a long winter, light as the first brush of dawn—traced the contours of my face, my jaw, the delicate slope of my collarbone, as though he were etching every curve into his memory. I kept my eyes closed, my breath shallow, neither inviting nor resisting, caught in the suspended moment between hesitation and surrender.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble against my lips, his breath a heated promise. “Tell me you feel this too.”

I didn’t speak. Instead, I nodded, a slow, deliberate tilt of my chin, the only consent he needed.

As if that small gesture had unleashed something primal in him, his mouth crashed into mine—hungry, insistent, a storm of need. His tongue slid past my parted lips, stroking, teasing, coaxing me to respond. I arched into him, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if I could fuse our bodies together. A guttural groan escaped him, vibrating against my lips before his teeth grazed my bottom lip, sharp and possessive. He pulled back just enough to yank my tank top over my head, the fabric catching briefly on my wrists before it fell away, forgotten. The air hit my skin, cool and electric against my flushed chest, but then his hands were there—rough, calloused, the pads of his fingers leaving trails of fire as they cupped my breasts. His thumbs circled my nipples, slow at first, then with increasing pressure, until they hardened into aching peaks, sensitive to even the slightest shift of the air.

A gasp tore from my throat as he dipped his head, his mouth closing over one nipple. The heat of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the relentless suction—it sent jolts of pleasure ricocheting through me, straight to the molten core between my thighs. My back arched off the bunk, my fingers tangling in the thick strands of his hair, holding him to me as he switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same intoxicating attention. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—each movement was a brand, marking me as his.

His hands slid down my sides, gripping my hips with a possessiveness that left no room for doubt. He pulled me flush against him, and I could feel the hard, unyielding length of him pressing against my thigh through the thin barrier of his shorts. My breath hitched as his fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging them and my bikini bottoms down my legs in one fluid motion. The cool air kissed my bare skin, but then his hands were back, spreading my thighs apart, his thumb pressing against my clit in slow, deliberate circles that made my hips jerk involuntarily.

“Yes,” I breathed, the word a plea, a prayer, a surrender all at once.

He chuckled, the sound low and dark, vibrating against my skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “So perfect for me.” Then his fingers slid inside me, first one, then another, curling in a way that made my vision blur at the edges. He pumped them in and out, his thumb never ceasing its relentless rhythm against my clit, each movement winding me tighter, coiling the tension in my body until I was teetering on the edge of something vast and inevitable.

My legs trembled, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the pressure built, tighter and tighter—

I jolted awake, my skin slick with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. Had I—? The damp heat between my thighs answered the question before my mind could fully form it. Mortification burned through me, hotter than the lingering embers of the dream. The metallic clang of the head door slamming shattered the rhythmic sounds of waves crashing against the bow.

Fuck. Had someone been there? The glow from the sunlight from the opening to the galley of the head’s door spilled into the room, casting long shadows that twisted into unfamiliar shapes. My pulse roared in my ears as I strained to listen, but all I could hear was the ragged sound of my own breathing.