Page 51 of Shipwrecked

“Can I see?” I ask.

I get a sleepy, “Sure.”

There’s arnica and Voltarol. Sudocrem for scrapes. I peel back the blanket and slide up Jules’s shirt. I’m staring at a pale and, bar a few bug bites, unblemished back. The curve of Jules’s spine is easy to trace down his slender frame. I frown. “I don’t see any bruises. Where does it hurt?”

Mathieu gives me an odd look, and Jules twists to look up at me through sleep-squinted eyes, confused. “Bruises from swimming?”

“Oh.” Swimming.

The tiredness evaporates from Jules’s eyes. His face goes red. He tucks himself back into Mathieu, whose neck muffles his voice. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Mathieu’s eyes narrow, his gaze flitting between the two of us. He traces a large question mark across Jules’s back. “Did you hook up on the yacht?”

I hesitate. Jules makes a sound. I can’t say if it’s a good or bad sound, only that it comes from deep in his throat as he shudders. Is he embarrassed?

“That’s none of your business.”

Mathieu swats me.

“Ow.”

“Did you hook up?” Mathieu asks again, fingers that were rough on me now carding gently through Jules’s hair. “Hm?” He encourages Jules away from his neck and meets his eyes. His smile is soft and encouraging.

Jules falls for it.

“We made out,” Jules admits.

“I see. Fun.” Mathieu’s mouth finishes the N against Jules’s. He kisses his bottom lip, then his top. Then he cups Jules’s cheek and slips his tongue into his mouth. Both make warm, agreeable sounds. Mathieu expertly draws little gasps out of Jules. They’re the most arousing thing I’ve heard in my life.

Heat gathers in my thighs as I watch.

I tear my eyes away to look out of the lean-to. Charles and Mary are deliberately looking away. If I was willing to swat Mathieu back, now is when I’d do it. I reach over, squeezing the wrist of the hand he has cupping Jules’s face.

Mathieu’s eyes flick open. Dark eyes peer out from even darker lashes. He breaks the kiss. “Kiss his neck if you want to join in.”

“We have no privacy.”

Jules tenses. His gaze slips to the campfire, but when he lays eyes on Charles and Mary, he relaxes. “It’s not Darren.”

I frown.

“Does it matter? You are single. You can kiss whoever you like,” Mathieu points out.

“Pissing him off while we’re all cooped up together isn’t a good idea.” Jules pushes Mathieu’s chest, who retreats. Jules sits up, and I see the exact moment he remembers the other thing we did last night. He goes red all over again as his gaze flashes down to his boxers. His thighs squeeze together.

An inappropriate image forms as Jules squirms. One of lube, or oil, spread between his thighs. My cock pumping between them. It’s hard to shake free of it. I have this horrible suspicion that Jules would be agreeable to the plan.

“Cillian’s thinking about fucking you,” Mathieu says.

My eyes snap from Jules’s thighs to the blasted French boy, reclined with sinful lips curved into a devious smile. He’s evil. A beautiful troublemaker.

Jules peers at me. I’m stuck between glaring at Mathieu and smoothing things over with Jules.

“Just your thighs,” I deny.

I know from Mathieu’s laugh that I did the opposite of what I intended.

Chapter Nineteen