“Well, no. If anything, it’s well in hand.”

  She snorts softly. “Now who’s being coy?”

  I laugh wryly. “Just making a joke.”

  The humor bleeds out of Delta’s eyes as she tests my grip on her wrist. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Jonny? For real.”

  “I’m just . . .” I shrug. “You said it last night, this isn’t really the best time for . . .” I squeeze her wrist and then let go. “This kind of thing.”

  “I know what I said last night.”

  I rest my hand on her shoulder. “But?”

  “But . . . that was before I woke up with my hand on your dick, Jonny.”

  “I didn’t put it there,” I say, maybe a little too quickly and insistently. “You moved, and your hand landed there, and I didn’t want to wake you up. And . . . well, some things are an automatic instinct. You woke up before I could figure out what the right thing to do was.”

  She smiles. “You getting hard was nothing but an instinctive reaction, huh?”

  “I . . . um. Well, yeah. I mean, a beautiful woman has her head on my lap, and then she puts her hand on my dick, yeah, it’s instinct to get hard.”

  “A beautiful woman, huh?” She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t oversell it, buddy.”

  “Not an oversell. An undersell, if anything.”

  “I was hot as hell twenty years ago. I was beautiful ten years ago. Now? I’m striking at best.”

  I stare her down. “Not how I see it.” I let my hand rest on the back of hers, and our fingers tangle, mine sliding between hers. “And that has nothing to do with where your hand is. Just my honest opinion.”

  “Just your honest opinion, huh?” She smiles, too quickly, too casually. “You wanna say things like they are? How’s this for you, then? I like you, Jonny. And I’m attracted to you. And yeah, this is a weird, intense, crazy situation we’re in, and things could definitely get weird and messy, but . . . I may have woken up with my hand on your dick by accident, but it’s been staying there because that’s where I want it to be.”

  “Some truth back at ya, then: I’m having real trouble figuring out what to do, right now. I know what I want, but I also know what my conscience is telling me.”

  “Same here.” She lifts our hands, and transfers mine to her shoulder. She withdraws her hand, and returns it to where it was, gently squeezing my aching erection. “I’ve never really been very good at listening to my conscience, though, Jonny.”

  “Me neither.” I let my hand drift into the silky black mess of her hair and down to curl around her waist. “This seems a little different, though.”

  “How?”

  I gesture around us. “Nowhere to go to be alone.” I let that statement hang, for a moment. “Not here, in Ft. Lauderdale, and not for me. We want this to be more than something quick on the beach, I wouldn’t know how to work that out. Things are a mess.”

  She sighs. “I hadn’t thought about that. It feels pretty solitary, here on the beach at sunrise.”

  “And there’s also . . .” I trail off, not sure how to phrase it.

  “There’s also what?”

  “Ava. And Christian.”

  Another sigh. “Dammit.” And then her eyes, so dark blue they’re almost indigo, piercing, intense, cut up to mine. “What if it’s not anything more than something quick on the beach?”

  “I have to stay, I have to help. I have to talk to Ava, when she’s ready.”

  “And I’m not going anywhere, because she’s my sister. She’s going to need me.”

  “Right.”

  She lets out a long, slow breath. “You suck, Jonny.”

  “I feel pretty stupid, talking you out of what you were about to do.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, not your best move.”

  I glance to where her hand is still in place, cupping me, squeezing. “Didn’t seem to change much, though.”

  She shakes her head and traces the outline. “You said it first: I’m not very good at listening to my conscience. I know this is probably a bad idea, but I can’t seem to stop myself.”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  She shrugs. “Either one of us is going to actually stop this, or it’s going to happen.”

  “What is?”

  She reaches up and opens the button of my shorts, lowers the zipper. “This.”

  “Delta . . .” I murmur, knowing I should stop her.

  “Jonny?”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I want to.”

  Shit. I had whole long string of logical, convincing reasons why I have to put a stop to this, but I can’t remember any of them now, because it feels like I’ve been hard and aching for so long I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to not ache with need and pressure. And now she’s staring up at me as she hooks her fingers into my underwear and tugs them away from my body and down, baring me.

  She sucks in a breath. “Holy shit, Jonny.”

  I frown. “What?”

  She wraps a hand around me, and it’s my turn to hiss an inhalation through my teeth. “You’re fucking beautiful, Jonny.”

  “I am?” My brain isn’t working, due to lack of blood flow, which has, obviously, been diverted elsewhere.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Been called a lot of shit in my life, never been called beautiful, though.”

  She laughs, squeezing me. “I mean this.” Her hand is soft and small, pale against my darker flesh, sliding downward slowly. “The rest of you is pretty nice, too, don’t get me wrong, but this . . . is fucking gorgeous.” At the emphasized repetition, she squeezes me again.

  “Oh.”

  She laughs again, and the sound of her laugh . . . it’s music. The slow sweep of her hand on me is a sensual glide, unhurried. The sunrise is in full bloom now, bathing us in an orange glow. It’s a moment that sticks in the mind, one of those moments you want to slow down and savor. For just a while, there’s nothing else but her and me and the crash of the surf and the caw of the gulls and the touch of her hand, the burn of her eyes on me.

  It’s a sequence of stolen time. This doesn’t belong to us. This moment belongs to the city that’s in ruins, to the man who’s like a brother to me, who deep down in my gut I feel is still alive despite the odds, and to his wife, to whom I’ve promised to deliver letters and the news of his disappearance. This moment belongs to the hurricane, to sorrow and destruction and loss.

  Yet, I feel none of that. Not in this instant. All I feel is her, the warmth of her breath on my skin, the delicate glide of her hand on my cock, the sunrise bathing us, the cool air and the gentle wind. The promise of the moment. In the back of my head, I feel the wrongness of it, too. Too soon, too . . . not forbidden—we’re nothing to each other, not in any way, so it’s not forbidden in that sense. But still, somehow, this feels . . . like we shouldn’t. But we are, and that makes it all the more exhilarating.

  So far, there’s not a lot of we in the moment, more just her doing the touching and me letting her. But if I let her, if this happens, I’m going to touch her. Because I’ve been suppressing my own desire, trying to keep a handle on it. Delta is damn beautiful, and so goddamn sensual.

  I’ve been focusing, so far, on reasons and logic, and I’ve been fighting myself, my mind, my body: a war between wanting to let her do this and knowing it’s not right, in this moment, for reasons I can’t pin down in my head.

  But as she touches me, I lose all that. All of it.

  I’m giving in. I can’t help it. The way she’s touching me is . . . there’s only one word for it: sensual. Slow and soft, each movement graceful, delicate, and sure. I’m giving in to my baser feelings, my instinctive need, my body rather than my logic or my emotions.

  And my body says to let this happen. To hold still and let Delta do whatever she wants, and then discover what her skin feels like. Find out if it’s as soft as it looks. Find out if her tits are as big and soft and lush as they look, if her ass is as firm as it looks. If she’s as responsive as she seems like she’d be, in tune with her body and what she wants and eager to get it. Neither of us are kids; neither of us are new to this.

  She’d be incredible, I bet.

  And I want to find out. I’ve been so caught up in the whole effort to dig people out that I’ve not allowed myself to even think about Delta like this, because there hasn’t been time. But we’ve stolen this moment, carved it out for ourselves as dawn rises. And now that we’ve stolen this moment, I don’t think I can go back. Now that my attraction to Delta is out of its bottle, I’m not sure I can put it back in.

  There’s a scuff of a footstep on the boardwalk nearby and the crackle of a radio. “No sign of him on the beach, but I know this is near where he’s been camping out,” a deep, rough, male voice says.

  Delta freezes. Her eyes meet mine, and she’s suppressing laughter, still gripping me in her fist, lip caught in her teeth, eyes twinkling.

  “Keep looking then, Mike,” the voice on the other end of the radio says. “Jonny’s a workhorse, and he knows what he’s doing. We need to get back to whoever is banging in that corner of the building. We need Jonny ASAP.”

  They’re looking for me.

  Reality douses the situation like a bucket of ice water. Delta, reluctantly and unhappily, fits me back into my shorts—a difficult thing, considering my state of arousal—zips me up, shifts upright so we’re sitting side by side with our backs to the retaining wall, and covers our legs with the blanket. And now, just like that, we’re two people just sitting together.

  “Down here,” I call out, after taking a few breaths to steady my mind.

  The footsteps scuff closer, and then a pair of heavy-duty work boots appear, hanging off the edge of the retaining wall, and a uniformed police officer hops down beside me. I know him, he’s Seargent Mike Harley, who’s been helping coordinate and organize the efforts at Ava’s building and the one next to it. Big, burly, a little overweight, just past thirty, friendly, with a blond buzz cut and the beginnings of a beard, Mike is a good man and dedicated to the relief work.

  “Hey, Mike,” I say, as he crouches beside me. “What’s up?”

  “Jonny, Delta.” Mike thumbs the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Found him, Dan.” To me then: “Some of the guys on the midnight shift were digging near the back corner of the next building over; that corner is pretty well caved in. They started hearing thumping, but the guys have been there for something like eighteen hours, and they’re done in for the day. We were hoping you would help out. You seem to know your way around this sorta thing.”

  I nod. “Grew up off the coast of Nicaragua, and I’ve spent most of my life out there.” I jut my chin at the ocean. “Seen my share of storm damage.”

  “So you’ll help?”

  I nod again. “Of course. Lead the way, Mike.”

  “Thank God,” Mike breathes, keying his radio again. “On our way, Dan.” To me, again: “Two of the guys on the midnight shift are from that building, and they say the location of the banging makes it likely it’s a family they know. Mom, Dad, two little kiddies.”

  “It’s been near on a week, Mike,” I say, rising to my feet. “Doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Rubble falls in just right, there’re pockets of air, and if they have water, well . . . it’s not likely, but it’s possible.”

  “But a fucking week?” I shake my head. “It was blind luck we found Ava alive when we did.”

  “Could be nothing, could be rubble settling, or the like.”

  “But we gotta find out for sure,” I say.

  “Right,” Mike says, hauling himself, with great effort, onto the boardwalk.

  Delta catches at me as I turn away, glancing meaningfully at my groin. “You okay?”

  I nod. “I’ll live.”

  She tries a smile, which wobbles a little. “Rain check?”

  I nod. “Bet on it.”

  But can the moment be repeated? I don’t know.

  And should it be?

  Another answer I don’t have.

  3

  I watch him vault easily up onto the boardwalk, biting my lip until it hurts. When he’s out of sight, I dissolve into barely muffled hysterical laughter, my hands covering my face.

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! I’m such a slut. Did I really just do that? I don’t even know the man. Yeah, sure, we’ve spent every moment of the last three days essentially attached at the hip, but . . . I wouldn’t know what to do here, without him. I’m not sure why I’m still here helping this relief effort in the first place, other than Jonny is still here, and because there’s just not space in the over-crowded hospital for me to sit with Ava like I really want to. I can’t leave her, can’t go back to Chicago, and with the city in ruins, I can’t just hang out somewhere because there’s nowhere to go, it’s all ruined or underwater or without power, or just shut down. And I feel . . . connected to Jonny. Bound to him through this shared experience.

  But even for me, that was bold.

  I can’t claim I was drunk, because obviously, I wasn’t. I can’t say I was half asleep and unaware of what I was doing, because I knew before I even opened my eyes what I was touching, and the state of it. I have absolutely no excuse for what I just did, other than I’m stupidly attracted to the man, and have absolutely zero percent control over my libido. Or my hands. Or my mouth.

  Okay, shut up, I don’t mean it like that—I didn’t put my mouth on him—yet—just my hand. And only for a minute or two. Over his pants, for most of the time. And he didn’t even come, which is a downer, in my book, because I really wanted to see that.

  I wonder if he’s a grunter when he comes. Or maybe he’s a silent type, who just breathes a little heavier; God, I hope not, those types are so boring, and it’s hard to tell if they liked it or not. I really hope Jonny is the vocal type, the kind of guy who makes sounds and talks to me while I’m making him come. I doubt it, though, since he’s fairly taciturn.

  It was such an unexpected thing, you know? I sort of slowly drifted to awareness, waking up gradually, not really understanding where I was or where I’d fallen asleep, just that I’d slept really great and was super comfy and then . . . holy fuck, that’s his cock, and it’s hard, and I’m touching it. And things sort of progressed from there, mostly outside my—well, not control, exactly, but . . . God, I don’t know. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I could have stopped, as in, my self-control is perfectly functional, thank you. I just don’t possess much will to stop myself from doing something that feels good in the moment, even if I know, mentally, that it’s not the greatest of ideas.

  But it’s a bad, bad plan to get involved with him, because . . . um.

  Because I’m a single mom, number one.

  Number two, he’s a nomad. We’ve talked about his travels quite a bit, and though he hasn’t come right out and said so, it’s clear he’s a vagabond, with no home and no family and no ties to anywhere.

  Number three, I have two settings when it comes to men: Fuck-and-Flee, and Stage Five Clinger. Reason 3-A: it seems we’re both slated to be in the area for some time—Jonny because he owes some sort of duty to Chris to talk to Ava and give her some letters or something, and me because she’s my sister, and she’s alone and she lost her home and she’s hurt and her husband is missing, presumed dead—and pulling a fuck-and-flee with a guy I then run the risk of having to see again, perhaps frequently, is a bad idea. Reason 3-B: getting involved with a guy, who, per reason number two, is just going to leave and not come back, like . . . ever, and letting myself go all Stage Five Clinger on him is, clearly, the very height of stupidity.

  Number four, he’s Christian’s best friend, and they’re clearly very close, and Ava is Christian’s wife, but they’re estranged, or they were. It is just a bad idea because it smacks of complication and entanglement.

  Well, maybe number four might be a bit of a stretch but still, I have three good reasons.

  But I really want to, and he’s hot, and he’s mysterious, and he’s forbidden in a weird sort of way, and he’s got a seriously beautiful penis.

  God, this is complicated.

  It was hot, though. Witty banter, a nice build up.

  The fact is . . . I’m horny; that’s just the long and short of it. I could make a pros and cons list a mile long, but the fact is I’ve been on a dry spell lately, leaving me all kinds of worked up. Work has been crazy lately, and I had to replace the muffler on my car, get new calipers and pads, and fix the serpentine belt, all of which cost enough that I’ve had to work double shifts the last few weeks just to pay the credit card back down to a non-heart-attack-inducing level.

  But none of that negates the fact that I am simply horny, and that does not portend good things in terms of my ability to resist a man like Jonny.

  What do I do?

  Hell if I know.

  God, I do want him, though. And now that I’ve had my hand on him, I want him even more. But, for the reasons stated above, I’m going to get hurt. Generations of women before me have come to realize you can’t keep a man with the wanderlust bug chained at home in one place. Not without ruining his spirit.

  I groan out loud and put the entire conundrum out of my head, because I’m going in circles—do I, don’t I?

  Enough, Delta. Move on. Take things as they come. If you sleep with him, you sleep with him. Enjoy it, relish the time and the experience, and know you’ll have to let him go when it’s over. Understand you’re going to get hurt, accept it, prepare for it, and don’t hold it against him.

  With those instructions firmly stamped on my brain, I stand up, brush the sand off my legs, fold the blanket, pile the supplies he’s gathered into a neat stack, and climb up the retaining wall to see where I can be put to work.

  I spy Jonny and a group of ten other men standing on a pile of rubble, deep in the back corner of the partially-collapsed building next to Ava’s. Someone has brought one of those big yellow construction machines with the arm and the scooper—hell if I know what it’s called, though Alex would know and would tell you everything about in under a minute. They’ve driven it close to the building, extended the arm close to the men digging out the rubble. The men toss the brick and stones and pipes and various pieces of debris and detritus into the scoop and every once in a while, the machine pivots to dump the rubble into a pile off to one side and then pivots again to return to its original position. I wonder, at first, why they don’t just use the scooper to dig at the pile, but then I realize that if there are people alive under all that debris, the scooper might hurt them or dislodge things in such a way as to crush them, leaving the rescue workers with no option but to dig by hand.