Prelude (On My Knees Duet), Page 2

  He shuts his eyes, and I lean in—close enough that I can feel his breath against my face. I hold mine so he can’t smell the scotch on it.

  So far, I think he’s been too distracted to take a good look at my face. It’s too soon to say if he’ll recognize me.

  I rub the swab’s rust-orange tip over the gash, and he stiffens. “Hurt?” I murmur.

  “Just cold.”

  I see his Adam’s apple bob as I paint the wound once more. Then, with some relief, I lean away.

  “I don’t think it’s deep enough to require stitches. A little Neosporin and a butterfly bandage, and you should be set.”

  He nods once, and I note his long, thick lashes before diverting my gaze to the first aid kit.

  “So what’s your poison?” I ask.

  He looks up, and I give him what I hope is a friendly-but-not-too-much smile. Polite—that’s what I guess I need to aim for. And don’t I know polite professional?

  I clarify, “What were you drinking when your ship sailed without you?”

  His lips twitch at the corners, and he shakes his head, wincing a little. “Tequila.” I like his voice. It’s nice and rich, with just a hint of Brooklyn.

  I think of the article about his broken engagement. “Tequila, huh?” I gesture to his head. “I got you with a bottle of my favorite scotch.”

  The words spill from my mouth, and instantly, I wonder why I let my guard down.

  “Good aim,” he says.

  “Big shock.”

  “Sorry,” he says, sounding sincere. “When I saw you anchored so close, I knew I could swim it fast. I was fucking thirsty. Bad thirsty. No clue when the tour people would be back. Didn’t plan to crash your party, but I felt something out there—something in the water brushed my leg.”

  “Then I threw you right back in, huh?” I tape a butterfly bandage over his cut, then add one more for good measure. “Two’ll cut down on the scar,” I murmur.

  Again, that little quirk of a grin. “Can’t be too careful with the money maker.” He snorts, and my gaze dips to those long eyelashes…to his princely lips. I know I should stop, but I can’t seem to. It must be the scotch.

  I lean away. “You hungry?”

  He shrugs.

  “Let’s head into the cabin. More to drink in there—cold stuff. I think I might even have some coconut water.”

  He makes a mnh sound, and I chuckle as I lead the way. As I step inside the yacht’s main living area, I shift a magazine atop a stack of books with titles I don’t want him seeing. I drag my gaze around the space, checking for anything else that could reveal my identity. Then I turn to him.

  He looks like what he is: someone who’s been stranded on an island. His cinnamon brown hair looks wild and tangled, but I imagine after a wash, it would be thick and slightly wavy. His eyes are blue-gray, and they’ve got that tired look people get from being in the sun all day. His skin is deeply tanned, though sunburned red at tender spots along his chest and his neck. My gaze falls to his chest. Here in the light, it looks more sculpted.

  I look down at my feet on impulse, then back at his face. I’m relieved to find his eyes are on the painting over the bookshelves and not me. I see his gaze shift to the porcelain mermaid mounted on one of the shelves before shifting to the little glass-encased wooden schooner with the sheepskin sails.

  “Nice.” That’s all he says about the place, but I can see he’s surprised by it—maybe even impressed.

  “Come this way.”

  The living area is impressive, I guess, but it doesn’t matter to me. When I’m here, I want to feel a world away from things like that. When I first bought her, I thought about gutting the inside, doing something more minimalist than the last owner, a fine art dealer, preferred. Never had the time, though—not since everything that went down in 2014.

  I open the refrigerator and glance over my shoulder. “Want some Gatorade?”

  He rubs his right palm over his left arm—scratching an itch or a self-conscious mannerism?—and shakes his head a little absentmindedly as his gaze moves once more around the room. “Doesn’t matter what.”

  His eyes lift to mine, and I hold my breath. But there’s no recognition on his face. Not even the do-I-know-him squint I get so often lately.

  “Do you have a phone on you?” It seems unlikely, but I have to ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Is there anyone I can call?”

  He rubs his temples. “Maybe the cruise line?”

  He gives me the ship’s name again, and I get the call going, set it to speaker mode, and leave my phone on a countertop—just far enough away from him so he can tell I don’t want him to pick it up.

  I slice some fruit while he waits on the line, stealing glances at my unexpected guest as he shifts his weight and rubs his forehead, kneads his shoulder. Yeah…I think he’s pumping iron at least three times a week.

  I set the fruit aside and pour some Gatorade for him. Then I lean back against the counter and fold my arms.

  I wait for his ocean eyes to come back to mine. Funny how they don’t. He has no interest in me. And for once in my life, I don’t like that.

  2

  Vance

  I feel him watching me. My temples are throbbing—his fault. First he tried to bash my skull in with a scotch bottle, and then he got so close when fixing it that his cologne filled my whole damn head. I can still smell him.

  Now I’m standing in his swanky kitchen, trying not to put too much weight on my sunburned feet, pressing one palm against the underside of the counter because I feel sort of dizzy, and motherfucker won’t quit staring at me.

  I’m thinking of saying something when a woman comes onto the phone line, and I have to recount the sad tale of my disappearance. By the time I’ve got that all talked out—she’s marked me “not missing” and given me instructions about catching up with the ship at its next port of call—the ache in my head is bad enough to make me grit my teeth, and my throat’s desert dry again.

  As I reach for the phone to end the call, he steps over, scooping it up and setting a tall glass and three Advil in its place.

  His eyes hold mine. “You should drink more.”

  They’re like nothing I’ve seen—fading from brown around the pupil to hazel and then flaring darker forest green around the iris’s outer rim. For just a second, staring at them, I feel a kick of panic, like I’m caught in undertow.

  I toss the Advil back, and then the Gatorade. When I lower the glass, I find him staring at me again. I wipe my mouth and lift a brow—but it’s the slashed one. I hiss in surprise, and his face twists in sympathetic pain.

  “Sorry again.”

  “That’s not fucking good enough.” I hold his green-brown gaze, trying not to smile.

  He grins, revealing dimples. Fuck, he’s easy on the eyes. Thick brows and those feline eyes…strong cheekbones. He’s got lush lips and a nice, hard jaw. With his soft-looking, gold-blond hair, he reminds me of the old Ken dolls my mom kept in a trunk in the attic. He’s handsome in a prototypic way that should be boring. Instead, I find it captivates me.

  He steps around the countertop, beckoning me into the fancy ass living space with a wave. “Let me make it up to you.” I follow him across a Persian rug, past an abstract painting by someone I should probably know and a crazy good porcelain sculpture that I guess must be mounted right onto the shelf.

  When he leads me down a sleek, hardwood hall, I can feel the blood rush in my head. He stops a few paces in, opens a closet door, and nods at—a ladder?

  “Indoor shower’s on the fritz, but climb up this, push the hatch up, and you’ll be in an outdoor one up on the deck. Best shower view you’ve ever had. I’ll leave some clothes here on the ladder for you when you’re finished.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He winks, and my cock twitches.

  Stop it. Just because I’m a horny fuck doesn’t mean my scotch-swilling host is. Hell, there’s a plus or minus 90 percent chance he
’s straight as a ruler.

  I do as he advised, climbing the short ladder, opening the hatch, and lifting myself up into a nook on the deck. I stand slowly, draped in shadows, and I realize that I’m right beside the mast. There’s a drain in the deck beside me, and hanging from a thick pole that’s clearly part of the sailing apparatus is a nozzle. A mesh soap bag dangles beside it.

  I turn the removable showerhead on, pointing it at the drain till the water’s warm. Then I drop my swim trunks and exhale as I run a nice stream over my cock and balls. Damn, it feels good to get clean.

  My cock’s had no attention since Pigtails. Guess it’s not surprising that I get hard the second the steamy spray hits my dick, tickling, then sluicing down my shaft and dripping off my head.

  Ahh, fuck. I look around, but who the hell is watching? It’s just me out here, and a warm breeze, the sound of water lapping at the boat’s sides and a smattering of stars around the pearly moon. With my erection jutting out in front of me, I wash myself till I feel good and clean…then work some lather into my palm and stroke my stiff cock.

  Shit. I squeeze my head and move down my shaft, then back up. My knees feel weak, so I wrap my free hand around one of the ropes hanging from the mast above me. Then I shut my eyes and jerk faster.

  Oh fuck. I never go a day without this. My balls feel tight and full, like they’ve been shoring up their load. I can’t help it when I see his face behind my eyelids—those exotic-looking eyes, that kissable mouth. His rich-boy blond hair and that fucking demigod body.

  As I pump my cock, I picture his: long and thick. A guy like that should be well-endowed…maybe with some nice low-hangers below. I imagine him in a chair, pants down, legs spread, with me kneeling before him.

  I envision the look on his face if I wrapped my mouth around the tip of his cock and sucked…then rolled my tongue around and eased him deeper, one hand gripping his thick base, the other stroking his fat balls. I’d like to see him with his lips parted, his ripped chest heaving as he groans for me.

  If he was mine, I would want his cock in my mouth all the time. I’d suck until those muscle-corded thighs quaked, till he lost control and started fucking my throat like a savage. I would tease him till he writhed and whimpered, and then I’d just stop. I’d straddle his lap and rub my aching dick against his.

  Oh, yeah.

  I would try to wrap my hand around us both, but of course, we’d be too thick. So I’d just rub my palm over our heads—especially his—and work him till I had him dripping.

  With a sweep of my thumb over my own head, I grit my teeth and come hard into my palm. That’s when I open my eyes—and find him staring at me from across the deck.

  Luke

  I walk quickly toward the bow and back into the cabin, through the living space and down the long hall to the master suite, where I shut the door behind myself and lean against it.

  Shit.

  My heart is pounding and my pumped-up dick is throbbing to the rhythm of it. I wrap my hand around my hard-on and squeeze painfully, rubbing my thumb along the underside of my shaft. When that trick doesn’t work, I lock a fist around my balls and squeeze until gold spots swim in my eyes.

  A ragged groan breaks from my chest.

  God save me.

  I just watched him shower in the moonlight. I saw every contour of his lean, hard body. I just watched him spill into his hand. The way he squeezed and stroked, that steady up and down…how he would rub his thumb over his tip, his balls bouncing below…

  I look at where I’m fisting my cock, pumping slowly to the memory of it. I need to come. Right now.

  As I squeeze myself, I imagine stroking his stiff sex until he comes like that in my hand. I picture Vance Rayne bent over in front of me, where I can rub my weeping cockhead up and down along the crack between his firm globes…

  Then I’d part them, lube him till he’s bottom-fucking my hand, and shove my dick into his tight ass. He’d be velvet soft around me, grunting as I pounded him. On that vision, my balls throb and my shaft thumps in release. I’m panting like a runner as I sink into a crouch.

  I clean up quickly—put a shirt on, change my shorts.

  I look at myself in the mirror, and I blink impassively. I could be anyone. To him, I pray I am.

  At that moment, I remember that I didn’t leave him any clothes. I grab some lounge pants and an undershirt and pull open my underwear drawer. I take out a pack of boxer-briefs. Then I set the new pack back down, grab a pair of laundered ones I’ve worn before, and stride down the hall to leave the clothes on the ladder.

  Afterward, I pace the kitchen with an ear turned toward the hall. I can’t retreat to my room. Not before I show him to his.

  Nothing happened, I remind myself. Just because he saw me as he finished doesn’t mean he knows I watched the whole time.

  I open another bottle of Bunnahabhain, pour a glass and toss it back.

  This is what you’ve become. It’s pathetic.

  I down another two fingers of scotch. Then he’s at the mouth of the hallway. He’s half shadowed by a potted palm, so I can’t see his face. His long hair has dripped damp marks onto the shoulders of my cotton T-shirt.

  I notice it fits him more snugly than I thought it would—almost like it fits me. The pants don’t quite cover his ankles, confirming that he is a little taller. I picture him with his eyes shut, his hand around his thick erection. Then he moves into the light, and we lock gazes.

  I’m thrown off, but I’m a practiced performer. It requires almost no real effort for me to keep my face as unreadable as his.

  I was walking by, doing some requisite task. I didn’t see him until the moment he spotted me up on the deck. He doesn’t know that isn’t true. Could be he’s the one embarrassed.

  “How was it?” My tone is neutral—as it would be if I hadn’t watched.

  “How did it look?”

  Heat creeps up my throat as my pulse surges. I let a small smirk bend my lips. “Looked like you enjoyed it.”

  His eyes hold mine. His handsome face is indecipherable. He murmurs, “Did it?”

  “It did.” I turn toward the counter, pour some more scotch. “Nothing wrong with that.” My heart is galloping so fast I can’t draw a full breath. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a thing about you. Relax.

  Then I hear his voice. “Turn around.”

  Fear surges through me, raw and primal. But I turn to him because I’m not a coward.

  “You were watching,” he says softly.

  “You were jerking off on my deck.”

  He reaches down so casually that it takes me a second to realize he’s cupping an iron-stiff erection. His fingers smooth over the bulge as I feel my own sex press against the fabric of my briefs.

  “You didn’t know I would be.” With his eyes locked on mine, he steps closer. “Tell me why you came up to begin with. What’s your name?”

  Oh, God. Does he know?

  I step closer to him. When he does nothing, I lean close enough to wrap my hand around his. I squeeze his fingers and then move his hand aside, looking into his eyes as I trace his impressive length with my fingertips.

  “What are you implying, Mr. Rayne?”

  His eyelids go heavy, and I feel a warm rush of relief, followed quickly by a shot of pure adrenaline. I rub my palm over his sex, caressing him from tip to base.

  “You came on deck to watch,” he says, “and you liked what you saw.” He clenches his jaw, rolling his hips so his bulge is pressed against my palm. I cup my hand around him, and his lips part as he starts panting. I can see his pulse thrum in his tanned throat.

  I feel a powerful impulse to tell him I’m not gay—as if somehow he might believe I’m playing this for his sake. It’s a thought I entertain until he reaches for me and his broad palm finds me hard enough to rip a hole in my shorts. He wraps his hand partway around me, and I grunt at the onslaught of pleasure.

  “I just came so fucking hard…thinking of you, captain. You’ve got
beautiful eyes. That big, bulky body.” He runs a hand over my chest, tracing until he finds my nipple through the cotton of my shirt. “And”— he strokes me firmly through my shorts— “I can feel you’re hung just like I hoped you would be.”

  The room whirls around us as we work each other. Then his fist closes around my tip, and my knees nearly buckle. I step back, wresting control from him. In doing so, I’m forced to let go of his thick erection.

  For a second, everything is blurry but his face. I can’t breathe, and I can’t stop looking at him. He’s undeniably attractive, but he’s rough around the edges—so unlike what I thought I preferred. It’s not just his looks I’m drawn to, I realize as concern moves through his features. His gaze drops down to where I’m jutting straight up for him, and my blood roars in my ears.

  Vance steps closer. “It’s okay.” The words are quiet. “Sometimes it’s better with a stranger. And I’m clean. I just got tested. What about you?”

  I watch his hand smooth repeatedly over his cock, which is pointed toward the hemline of his soft pants. He’s breathing heavy, just from what he’s doing to himself. He’s breathing heavy at the thought of what the two of us could do together.

  When he steps closer, my eyes shut of their own accord. I stand statue still while he unbuttons my shorts—as if my inaction makes me blameless. Then he reaches inside, pulling the elastic of my briefs away from my abs, and I groan as his big, warm hand closes around the head of my cock. With his other hand, he reaches into his pants and starts stroking himself.

  His fist tightens around my shaft. “So big.” His lips are curved into a smirk. I can see his nipples through the cotton of his borrowed shirt.

  As he’s working me, I feel my balls draw up and my cock swell tighter, like I might come in his hand right here and now. I take a step back, and he lets me go. I can’t help picking up where he left off, though—stroking myself.

  “I know you want it.” His murmured voice is low and rough with need. He puts a hand on my shoulder and walks me back against the fridge. Then he rubs his cock against mine as he drags his stubble-sharpened cheek against my smooth one and leans down to kiss my throat.