Sharing Sunrise by Judy Griffith Gill

collarbone, lower, to the crisp hair on his chest. Her fingers tangled there, stroking, and she discovered a nipple, hard, distended, growing harder at her touch.
    He buried his hands in her curls, tilting her head so he could have her mouth again and against her closed lids the sun was a hot, red blanket. He tasted incredible, of salt spray and man. His lips were hard, purposeful, his tongue probed deeply, his fists clenched in her hair and then relaxed, one sliding down her arm, the other encircling her nape while his mouth on hers gentled, softened, the tip of his tongue just touching her upper lip, then her lower, then the inside. When his hand slid down her back, under the T-shirt and caressed her waist, she trembled. Her stomach muscles convulsed as he stroked his palm over them, and she gasped in pleasure when he cupped a hand over a breast.
    Arching her back, she pressed herself into his palm, her nipple aching for his touch, but he denied her silent demand, pulling his hand out from under her clothing.
    “Rolph, please,” she sighed, but he groaned and gripped the back of her head, pressing her cheek to his bare, heaving chest, holding her in a way that permitted no movement at all.
    Tentatively, she trailed her hand down his arm, laid her fingers against his waist and slid them under the band of his jockey-shorts.
    He sucked in a harsh, unsteady breath and captured her hand. “No. Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t say anything. Please.”
    She didn’t, and he didn’t. They sat there, holding each other, his trembling hand stroking her back, her shoulder, touching her hair now and then, until their breathing was back under control.
    “Oh, God,” he said presently, and then said nothing more, not for a long time, not until a piercing ship’s whistle split the silence and he set her back into the corner, adjusting the tiller so that Sunrise would slip by the freighter’s stern unharmed. Marian glanced at his face. He was pale. His mouth was set in a taut line. His gaze slid away from hers, sickly.
    She bent, picked up the book she had dropped and held it on her knees, opened to the first page, eyes fixed on the print, pretending to read. It was easier that way. She didn’t want to look at him again. She didn’t want to see that terrible regret on his face. She hated it when he reached over and tousled her hair, saying, “Hey, kid. I’m sorry.”
    “What for?”
    “I shouldn’t have done that.”
    She shrugged. What good would it do to tell him that, by her lights, the only wrong he’d committed was in stopping? He didn’t want to know that. He was sick with remorse for having kissed her, for having given into the primitive need they’d both shared. If she didn’t ease the situation for him somehow, he was likely to abandon ship at the first uninhabited island they sailed near enough to swim to. From somewhere in her depths, she conjured up a cheeky smile, and the strength to aim it at him.
    “I’ve read the books, Rolph. I know what happens to stowaways, the kind of punishment meted out by the chief buccaneer. You make a darned good pirate.”
    He shot her a disgusted look. “That wasn’t what I was doing. I didn’t mean to ‘punish’ you. I’m sorry if you felt that I did.”
    She became instantly serious. “Then what did you mean, Rolph?”
    “Nothing, dammit. Not one, damned thing! It was a mistake, all right? I shouldn’t have kissed you. I won’t kiss you again. Now keep your head down while we come about. I’d better get you home.” He glanced at his watch. “I might still make my flight if the tide doesn’t turn before we get into the harbor.”
    Visions of his following the Mastersons to Australia in order to get away from her flooded her mind. “Flight?”
    “I was going to fly down to Seattle today, but when I— At the last minute, I decided to sail down.” He scowled at her as if suddenly realizing there were questions he should have asked earlier, and hadn’t. “How