Limits. Part 17

"Of course I am. Look at it." I do. And shudder.

Adam kisses my shoulders and nudges my ear with his nose, whispering, "Gen, I think we may need to talk about your sanity. It's a stuffed animal."

"It's probably a nanny-cam," I say, only half-joking.

"I had no idea you were so paranoid. I sort of love it." He wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my hair.

I press my hands over his and rub up and down the strong length of his arms, loving the coa.r.s.e hair and corded muscles, the tiny chemical burns that fleck his hands from his years of experiments and the way his wedding band glints on his ring finger. "I guess we don't really know a whole lot about each other, huh? I mean, you've gathered that I'm a paranoid freak-"

His arms pull me closer, cradling me like I'm something undeniably precious. "You're not a freak, Genevieve. You're unsure of yourself, that's all. And I take it as my personal responsibility to help with that. You just need to break out of your comfort zone." He kisses my temple, and it's like he seals his promise with that gesture. "Tomorrow."

17 ADAM.

"Kayaking," Genevieve says, pointing to the advertis.e.m.e.nt for rentals on the marina sign. "That's what we should do. Nothing to fall off of. And if you do manage to fall out of the kayak, there's nowhere to drop except into the water, and that's not remotely scary."

Speak for yourself.

"The point was to do something outside of your comfort zone, baby. How about parasailing?" I offer, glancing at the lake that looks so d.a.m.n innocent. I have no idea why people are deceived into thinking of lakes as placid.

Maybe they don't know the facts. Or maybe they ignore them. I have a problem with memorizing random facts, and one I know off the top of my head is the depth of Lake Tahoe. 1,645 feet at its deepest.

1,645 feet of cold, silent water to suck you under until your corpse is tangled in the silent, waving plants and dead-eyed lake fish nibble on your remains.

This lake isn't Lake Tahoe, and I don't know the official depth. But I hate imagining it. My throat goes dry when I imagine being pulled under and struggling for my life as water pours into my lungs and chokes the oxygen out of me in fat, desperate bubbles while the lake top remains a flat expanse of hidden secrets.

Her mouth contorts into an intense pucker, and her forehead creases. "Parasailing? Absolutely not," she says. She's shaking her head so fast I'm afraid it might spin off like some exorcist remake.

"Okay, okay. No parasailing. Kayaking sounds perfect." Parasailing sounds open, weightless, free. Kayaking sounds like an invitation to die. But I want Genevieve to be happy, so I'll reign in my wild fears.

Except by the time we make our way up through the line, they've rented all of their kayaks for the day.

"How about a fis.h.i.+ng boat?" the man in the booth whose nametag says J.D. asks us as he pulverizes a toothpick with his crooked teeth. "We've got some st.u.r.dy Outboards over there."

Genevieve turns, looking up at me from under that ridiculous layer of lashes-fluttering like they're just daring me to say no to her-and asks, "Do you know how to drive a fis.h.i.+ng boat?"

"Of course I do," I scoff.

I have no f.u.c.king clue.

I loathe water. And I only like boats as a means to keep me, at least theoretically, from drowning. But I'm in love with the way my wife's mouth curves into the sweetest smile ever when I say that I can drive this thing, so I plunk down my fifty bucks and follow the proprietor of these boats to the dock.

Genevieve climbs into the tiny silver boat like a pro and even does a little dance that involves jumping and clapping her hands way too much for safety's sake. We're on open water, and she should know better than to tempt fate like this. J.D. used the term 'st.u.r.dy' loosely, and I don't know much about boats, but this thing looks like an invitation to capsize.

"Calm down," I say, grabbing her arm to steady her. I wish we were on land. I'd even take walking through all of those generic looking craft and antique stores we pa.s.sed on the main drag this morning over this nightmare. "You're going to fall."

"Please." Gen rolls her eyes and slaps my arm with a smile. Once she catches sight of my face-which is less than amused-she straightens up. "Wait, you aren't scared, are you? I thought you said you knew how to drive this?"

"I do," I insist.

I don't.

I've never even been in a boat this small. Honestly, I think the only vessel I've ever set foot on was a cruise s.h.i.+p, and I sure as s.h.i.+t wasn't operating that thing. But if Gen needs to face her fears, so do I. Especially since I married a through-and-through California girl who would just as soon a.s.sume residence in the Pacific Ocean like a d.a.m.n mermaid if she could, rather than live stuck on dry land like a boring, safe mortal.

"Life jackets are mandatory," J.D. says around the toothpick, motioning to the two life vests crammed in the corner of the boat. I grab one and hand it to Genevieve, then quickly strap myself into one. I want to hug him, I'm so relieved he mentioned their necessity so I didn't have to look like an a.s.shole begging to know where he kept them and if I could have one immediately. "Alright, twist the throttle right there on your left like you would on a motorcycle. The more you twist, the faster the boat is going to go."

"He knows how," Genevieve says, running her hand down my arm, full of confidence in me that I sure as h.e.l.l don't deserve.

J.D. nods as I turn the key, hoping with everything in me that it starts and Gen and I can halfway enjoy this day. I feel like a first-cla.s.s a.s.shole for suggesting that conquering her fears would be so easy. And an even bigger one because I live in Southern California, married a certified beach rat, and am afraid of the water. The motor starts easily when I turn the key, and I let out the big breath I didn't even realize I was holding in.

"Here we go!" Genevieve says, clapping again.

This time, I give her a smile that isn't entirely fake. The throttle is easy to operate, and we're on our way. The lake is small, maybe eight miles wide, tops, but it might as well be the ocean to me. I try to trick myself into believing it's incredibly shallow so I stop thinking about underwater death. Genevieve grabs a pack of licorice out of her purse, then holds it out to me.

"Hungry?" she asks, popping a piece in her mouth and gnawing at it.

"I'm good," I say, not daring to take my hands or eyes off of what I'm doing. I steer the boat to the left to avoid the cl.u.s.ter of kayakers to the right of us. The thought of being on one of those kayaks instead of this death machine sounds like Olam Ha-Ba right now.

"You sure?" Genevieve asks, studying me as she chews. "You seem nervous."

She bites into a piece of licorice and pulls it out with a snap.

"Just enjoying the view," I lie. More like, Just counting down the seconds until I have dry land under my feet.

"Well, in that case, why don't you make good on your promise?" She moves close to me and pulls her thin tank off, so she's in a skimpy bikini top and shorts. When she leans over another inch, the soft skin of her stomach brushes against my arm and sends twin jolts of panic and pure bliss through me. At least if I die in the murky depths of this lake when I crash this boat, my last moments will have been spent close to her.

"Which one was that?" I ask, breathing in the sweet smell of her skin. When I focus on Gen, I stop panicking. The steering is becoming easier and more familiar, and I start to relax and actually enjoy the fact that I'm out on this lake with this gorgeous f.u.c.king girl that I get to call my wife.

"The one about us getting to know each other better this weekend. I mean, I feel like I know you pretty well after the last couple of nights," she says, a blush creeping over her olive skin. "But there's more to you, Adam Abramowitz. I'm sure of it. You're not all seriousness and science."

I tear my eyes away from the water in front of me and give her an encouraging smile. "What do you want to know? I'll tell you anything."

"Hmmm..." Genevieve pauses, holding the piece of licorice in between her lips. "What'd you score on your SATs?"

I let out a small chuckle. That's not the kind of question I was expecting. "2380."

"Figured," she says, leaning back on the seat, her body so full and soft, I'm tempted to abandon the boat controls to run my hands over it. Never mind the fact that I just had my hands all over her this morning: that only makes it more tempting. I know just how amazing she feels.

I clear my throat and focus on her questions, because thinking like that is pulling a lot of blood away from my brain and straight below my belt. Which would be great if we were in our big bed at the cabin. Not so great when I'm barely keeping this thing afloat even when I focus my full attention on maneuvering it. "I've got to tell you, I'm a little surprised, with all of the questions that you could possible ask, you went for my SAT score?"

"I'm just getting started," she says with a wink. I'm not surprised. "Beach or mountains?"

Neither right now. "Mountains," I say.

"Favorite movie? And don't say Star Wars, that's so generic."

"Metropolis," I answer.

Genevieve purses her lips and points at me with a strip of licorice. "Never heard of it."

I stare at her. "You're kidding me? 1927? There's this worker uprising led by this evil cyborg-"

"You lost me at cyborg, babe." She leans forward and gives me a quick kiss on the lips, and all thoughts of evil cyborgs melt from my brain. Her hand rests on mine and her voice drops. "We can probably just hang out here for a while, there's no one else around."

She's right. The other boats and kayaks are a good ways away. I cut the motor so that we can enjoy the quiet.

"My turn." I ignore the sickening rock of the boat and pull her onto my lap, pressing my nose to the curve of her neck.

"Go for it." She runs her hands through my hair, scratching my scalp.

My brain loses all rational thinking ability. "Kiss me first." I slide my hands over her skin, stopping at the tiny tease of fabric that barely covers her.

Genevieve lets her arms fall in a lazy circle around my shoulders and I pull her closer to me. Her skin is hot from the high sun that's been baking down on us all day. Her mouth is more and more familiar every time I kiss her, but I still don't know that I'll ever get used to it.

When I came to the US it was to get an education. I know it makes me sound like a loser, but the last thing on my mind was finding a woman. Somehow, I ended up with not only a woman in my life, but a wife. It's so much more complicated than anything I could have ever dreamed up but, d.a.m.n, it feels good.

"You're up, what's your question?" she reminds me, pulling away with the slightest pant. I can't help but feel satisfied for causing that little rush of breath.

I rub my hands together like I'm about to pull out the best question of all time.

"Do you floss?" I ask, dead serious.

Genevieve's smile drops, and she raises both eyebrows high. "Is that the best you've got, Adam? I mean, really?"

I rub my thumbs along the jut of her hips. "Are you allergic to anything?"

"Try harder," she whispers. She leans forward and the outline of her nipples in that ridiculously small bikini top is a painful tease. "What do you really want to know that you're afraid to ask?"

I close my eyes and think about the things that have drifted through my mind since I met Genevieve. Most of those questions have been answered. Like, what does she look like when she's stripped naked, out of all of those flashy clothes that aren't really her? What does her voice sound like as she gasps my name? How would it feel to have her mouth wrapped around me and my hands tangled in her hair?

I blink and shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts before I make an a.s.s out of myself here. I say the first thing that comes to mind, even though I know it will be the opposite of a turn on. "What's your number?"

Genevieve c.o.c.ks her head to the side and thinks for a second. "What do you mean? My number is in your ph-. Oh!"

I want to drag it back into the jealous, nasty regions of my brain where it came from, stuff it deep into a black hole of my insecurity and forget it. On a basic human level it's rude. It's overstepping.

But...she is my wife. I should know things like how many people she's slept with.

Right?

"Okay, so, wow." She s.h.i.+fts on my lap, towards my knees so we're not quite so wrapped around each other.

"You don't have to answer," I say, catching my finger in the belt loop on her shorts and tugging her back, but she plants her feet and shakes her head.

"No, no, it's fine. It's not as exciting as you might think. Um..." She holds out her palm like she's about to start counting on her fingers, and a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with seasickness washes over me.

The reason I asked the question in the first place was to counteract an imminent hard on, but now, grasping the reality of Gen with anyone else makes my stomach turn. It doesn't help that the sky is getting darker by the minute. I scan the lake and there are a few scattered boats left, but most everyone has made their way to the dock.

s.h.i.+t.

"Just me, right?" I say to cover, trying to make a joke.

"Well, no, before you there was-" Gen glances up and sees the pained expression on my face. She takes my hand, her wedding ring clicking against mine, and her voice drops, coming out low and firm. "Before you there was no one that mattered."

"Good answer." I pull her close, my mouth hungry on hers for a few explosive seconds. Then she moans and I realize that, as satisfying as death on this lake after sweet, hot s.e.x with her might still be, repeated s.e.x in the cabin coupled with the promise of a long life would be even better. "We should probably head in, the sky is looking pretty crazy."

I turn the key and pull the throttle, but it feels different this time. The water is choppy now and I push the tiny boat as much as I can to speed toward land.

"You should slow down, we don't want to flood the engine," Genevieve pipes in.

"It's fine." All of the paranoia I kept wrapped tight for the duration of this trip slams back into me and drives me to get to land as quickly as possible.

The engine takes on a new sound, a loud buzz from the stress of the waves and the speed, but I'm determined to get Gen and me to the dock and be done with this day. The waves lap against the boat, threatening to breach the sides and fill the boat with cold lake water. The engine struggles until it's quiet. Completely quiet.

Because the boat has stopped.

"What's going on?" Gen's eyes are wide as she looks from me to the dock about a mile away. "Why did we stop?"

f.u.c.k.

"I don't know." I swallow back the panic that's making it impossible for me to think this through. "It just stopped. s.h.i.+t. I must've flooded the engine." I'm waiting for her to say, I told you so, but she doesn't. "I'm sorry, Gen."

I try the key, praying for a miracle, but the motor won't turn over. I try again. Nothing. The engine is dead.

I reach for the chord to manually start the boat, like I've seen people do in movies, but Genevieve b.u.mps my hands from it.

"Watch out." She pushes past me and pulls up the back seat of the tiny boat. She twists her hair back into a quick bun and mutters something in Spanish.