One moment she was giving up her fight with the galley’s kettle to investigate a noise in the guest bunk, and the next moment, she was deliciously crushed by the most virile wall of masculinity ever to wash up to her trawler.

He tasted like sea salt and heat. The powerful biceps clenched with strength and he lifted her as though she weighed no more than a twig.

This was crazy. She tore her mouth free. “What are you doing?”

“Claiming you.” His aquamarine eyes glowed with ferocious possession. “You are mine.”

His? She was his?

A hard, gorgeous man took one look at her, Lucy, and was so swept away by passion that he had to have her this instant?

He pushed through her hesitation and crushed her once more in his kiss.

His embrace was passionate but oh so gentle. His iron forearm pillowed her head and he held her safely with a huge hand on her hip. He was careful to balance on his elbow so as not to crush her with his mass and careful to give her the most room on the narrow bunk. That wasn’t easy to do. She’d had her share of uncomfortable bunk encounters over the years.

His tongue pulsed into her mouth.

He was claiming her. Right now.

And she…

She was going to let him.

A sweet, pounding ache twisted between her legs. Her center slicked with readiness. This powerful wall of male was claiming her for his own. Every cell in her body screamed yes, more, now.

On cue, the engine shuddered and began to squeal.

Low oil.

She jerked back. The mystery shipwreck survivor stared down at her with a powerful intensity, consuming her with his dark aquamarine gaze. “Lucy. You draw back from our joining.”

“No.” She wiped the hot moisture from her lips. He lowered his head to continue, and she stopped him with her other hand. “Stay right here. I’ve got to check on something real fast.”

“But—”

Another shriek sent a shudder through the hull.

She bolted from the bunk, raced through the tiny galley, and splashed into the water-logged engine room.

Her old boss had called this trawler, once a gorgeous Selene 43, now a mystery salvage with “Missy B” on its cracked hull, an “opportunity” with some character, like a slow oil leak. Slow leak? More like an oil-redistribution-plan, redistributing oil from her waterlogged Costco bulk purchase to the surrounding environment. She ripped the seal from another quart and poured it into its well. Glug, glug, glug.

And that wasn’t counting the actual leak, gushing seawater into the hold.

Could the engine take two quarts and last long enough for her to enjoy the reward she had fished onto her ship?

She wasn’t normally the type to sleep with a guy before even knowing his name. What if he was a jerk? Or dangerous? Or married? But, something about him short-circuited her brain. His kiss promised their lovemaking would be hard, slow, and thorough. Ohh, it had been so long. Long since she’d desired a man and longer since she’d been held.

As the engine took in the oil, the unbalanced-washing-machine sound calmed to a rough growl. Lucy sucked in her gut and squeezed into the corner with the backup generator. Her white tankini top caught on an edge and tore.

The rip exposed her fat, pale, needle-scarred belly.

She stopped and pushed the two pieces of fabric together. As if the tear could heal itself. She’d paid her last six dollars to the street vendor for this grease-smeared tankini. She let go and exhaled. Her belly made an unfortunate shelf on the generator.

What was she doing?

She was too big, too desperate, and too busy driving a zombie trawler actively sinking in the middle of nowhere. A one-night stand with a guy who barely survived drowning was not her smartest plan.

Lucy focused on the big backup generator. The seawater leak had developed yesterday, and it was bad enough she ought to have turned back to Cancun, but how would she and Mel afford another tank of fuel?

A large shadow framed the engine door. “Lucy?”

Her shipwreck survivor’s voice was a deep, seductive bass, richer than the chocolate in her cocoa, and sent pleased shivers up her spine. Lucy could listen to him all night.

But the accent, she couldn’t place. It wasn’t Mexican, or French, or Asian, or the most common language of the dive shops, Dutch.

“I’m here.” She capped the empty bottle of oil and tossed it back in the mildewed Costco box. “Don’t worry. We should still be able to limp into port—”

He pitched in the doorway

She plunged forward and grabbed him. His shoulder wedged beneath her arm and his head thunked her chest. She set her feet. “I have you.”

He was faint. “It seems I am not fully prepared to stand upright.”

“You’ve been through a lot.”

And yet another reason she shouldn’t jump the guy. He could barely stumble, even with her help, through the galley to the dining booth. He collapsed on a sagging booth bench. The blanket slid low on his hips.

She stepped back. “Let me check our position. Then, I’ll get you something to eat.”

He grunted.

Lucy raced up to the cockpit. The one system that had been easy to repair was radar, and since it was going on midnight, all sorts of marine hazards had to be watched for. Down the hatch again, she banged the unresponsive kettle against the dented wall.

Its light blinked on.

Good kettle.

She left it to boil on the counter, ripped open two packages of Swiss Miss, and poured the sweet powder into plastic mugs. The one thing her dad always made on their voyages was hot cocoa. She continued the tradition, swirling the mix with hot water and completing the meal with a couple of peanut butter chocolate chip Cliff Bars.

A gourmet cook she was not.

She ran up and down the stairs one more time to check the radar, and then she sat across from him and served the meal.

The shipwreck survivor opened his eyes and accepted the dinged mug with a frown. “This is?”

“Cocoa.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve got fresh water too. Drink up. You’re probably dehydrated.”

She blew across her steaming mug.

He touched his and recoiled. “It is hot!” He knocked the mug from her hand.

Hot cocoa splashed the stained deck. Her plastic mug bounced.

“Hey! My cocoa.” She scooted across the bench and stood to clean up.

“Wait. It is still dangerous.” He caught her arm. His grip was like steel. The loose blanket shifted, dislodging his modesty. “You will injure yourself.”

“Come on.” She couldn’t avoid his gloriously revealed cock. “I’m not that hopeless.”

“Burns are very painful.”

Gold swirled right to the tip. He was tattooed like an exotic island warrior from another time.

She wanted to touch his skin. Confirm it was real. Maybe lick the hard, flexing bicep and see how he tasted.

Mmm.

Okay. She reeled her fantasies in. “It wasn’t that hot. Try yours.”

“This?” He stared at the remaining mug. “It blows steam.”

“So? It gets cool in January with the wind. Here, put the blanket back on.”

He arranged the blanket once more, and the mesmerizing hold of his maleness released her so she could clean up and pour herself a second, somewhat cooler, mug.

He eyed his cocoa, skeptical.

“Have you never had cocoa before?” she asked.

“This is?”

“Cocoa,” she repeated. “Where are you from?”

“Sireno of the Ixotlana Plains.”

“Where’s that?”

He pointed at the stained floor. “Far.”

Huh. “It’s liquid chocolate. Try it.”

He watched her carefully, stuck out his gorgeous lips, and brought the mug close. Careful, as though he had also never drunk from a cup before. He slurped, frowned, and rubbed his tongue across the top of his mouth.

“Well?”

He took a more determined sip. “It is good.”

She laughed. Nothing beat a mug of hot cocoa after a long, cold workout. It brought tingling warmth back into her limbs.

He shared her smile, and his chest rumbled with a low laugh.

Nothing beat his laugh for raising delicious, chocolate-like tingling in her hardening nipples. She would love for that mouth to taste her the way he savored the cocoa.

Right.

“Um, it occurs to me that I don’t even know your name.”

He straightened proudly. “I am Torun. Warlord of Sireno. Keeper of a seed of the Life Tree.”

Wow, a warlord. It was funny to introduce themselves after being flat on his bunk making out, but she reached across the table to shake his hand. “Glad you made it. What happened to you out there?”

“A great battle. It is unimportant.” He set aside the mug and drew her hand to his lips again. “What matters now is that you, Lucy Shaw, are my bride.”

Battle? Bride?

Hold on. He had said something about claiming her right before his incredible kiss blasted away every thought in her brain.

Not only was she hitting on a naïve tribal warrior, a survivor who could barely stand upright, but they were from such different cultures that her moment of weakness had caused him to take their kiss seriously. She had to stop this right now before he took it too far.

“No. There’s been a mistake.” She tugged her hand back before her fingers disappeared into his hot mouth. “I’m nobody’s bride. I’m never getting married again.”