My Offer!

The pup was finally secure in a holding pen, its whimpers softening under the volunteers' careful hands. The group dispersed slowly, murmuring thanks and heading back to the center, but I lingered by the water's edge, the chill seeping through my damp clothes.

Maris stood a few feet away, rinsing equipment in a bucket, her back to me. Grime streaked her forearms—mud, salt, bits of seaweed clinging to her sun-kissed skin.

My heart hammered as her sharp gaze from earlier replayed in my mind, pinning me like a spotlight I couldn't escape. I wanted to flee, to check into the inn and bury myself in silence, but my feet moved toward her instead, drawn by that unyielding pull.

I stepped closer, the gravel crunching under my boots, my slender fingers twisting together. 'Maris,' I said softly, my voice barely cutting through the waves.

She turned, those confident eyes locking onto mine again, assessing, dominant. Heat flushed my pale cheeks, and I **** the words out.

'Your hands... they're filthy from all this. Let me help. I can scrub them clean.' It was a small offer, tentative, but it felt like surrender, my body humming with the need for her approval, for her touch to bridge the gap between us.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking in that teasing way that made my stomach twist. Water dripped from her elbows as she held out her hands, palms up, scarred and strong.

'You think you can handle it, Elena?' Her tone was low, commanding, laced with a challenge that sent a shiver down my spine. I nodded, swallowing hard, and knelt beside the bucket, dipping a rag into the soapy water.

My knees pressed into the damp sand, and as I took her right hand in mine, her fingers brushed against my wrist—deliberate, firm, holding me in place like she owned the moment.

The contact ignited something slow and burning, a heat that spread from her skin to mine, pooling low in my belly. Her grip tightened just enough to remind me who was in control, her thumb pressing into the pulse point on my inner arm, feeling my heartbeat stutter.

I gasped softly, my dark hair falling forward as I started scrubbing, the rag gliding over her calluses, tracing the lines of her palm. Her skin was warm despite the cold, rough from years of pulling nets and cradling sea life, and I imagined those hands on me—guiding my hips, pinning my wrists above my head.

God, the thought made my pussy clench, a faint wetness gathering between my thighs, hidden under my jeans.

'Gentler,' she murmured, her voice a rumble that vibrated through me. Her fingers flexed in my grasp, not pulling away but demanding more, her hold teasing the edge of my fragile control.