are altogether different. Deeper.
Have I mentioned I fucking love a good game?
“Permission to come aboard, captain.” She stands there in too-short denim cutoffs and a wicked little white tank top. No bra, I see and appreciate. Without waiting for my answer, she kicks off her flip-flops, hooking them on a finger, her bare toes curling into the sun-warmed boards of the dock.
I hold out my hand, palm up. “Welcome aboard.”
She lets me swing her over the safety line and onto the teak deck of the yacht. She lands off-balance for just a moment as her feet hit the deck, and the boat swells gently upward.
“I got you,” I promise, and she nods. We’re making progress.
We have forty-five minutes before the race begins. I am supposed to be above deck, taking pictures and talking up the race. Now that she is on board, she promptly puts more space between us under the guide of a little boat inspection. I steer her below deck because my team is busy and it is not as if I can fuck her out in public. There is a long list of people who would take issue with that.
“This is a real nice boat.” Her fingers touch the maple wood lightly. I designed every inch of the boat structurally but then brought in a designer to do up the insides. I am no good with paint and colors, but now, watching her face, I am pleased I made the effort. She likes what she sees.
She should. The Koa is custom-made because I always know exactly what I want. Also? I do not want what everyone else has. I make my own way, make my own decisions. So now I own one hundred thirty feet of custom-designed, sleek state-of-the-art racing yacht. The saloon is modern and elegant, a Canadian maple that lets in the light and plays with it. The result is a room as peaceful as the water and wind cradling the yacht can be just the opposite. It is not a retreat—because I never retreat—but a place to rest. To plan my next move. Instead of telling her any of that, however, I go with the obvious.
“She is built to be fast.”
Her fingers continue to stroke over the satiny grain of the maple. My dick promptly volunteers itself as a substitute.
“I’ll bet she was expensive,” she says.
Ten million dollars, but that is petty cash. It is too fucking bad my Lily’s immune to the siren call of cash. Money I can give her. Sex? Da , I am all over that. Emotions, however, are a currency I never deal in.
I cut to the chase. “Are you ready to be my wife?”
“Convince me,” she announces, sitting down on one of the plush seats lining the main cabin.
I would be happy to provide any convincing she needs. I yell up the hatch to my second-in-command on deck that I will be taking thirty minutes.
“Confident much?” She leans back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. This makes for some impressive cleavage in the vee of her tank top. I would enjoy just standing here watching, but the clock keeps ticking. When I showed Lily down here to the main galley, I thought I would keep her somewhere out of the way. Let her watch, but make sure she couldn’t get into any trouble. I cup her elbow with my hand, lifting and steering her toward my cabin. Nobody would come down here now that I have made my interest clear, but my angel will be happier with some privacy for what I intend.
She lets me lead her, and that is such a fucking turn-on. Lily is one of the strongest women I know, but she is not usually in your face about it. She simply gets her shit done and moves on.
She scowls at me. “I didn’t sign up for the tour.”
It is probably wrong that I do not care and that I enjoy her grumpiness. I shove open my cabin door. Her eyes widen as she takes it in. Yes, I have been accused of having pirate fantasies. The bed is as big as I can get it and covered in gold and white satin. A dark leather headboard stretches from the mountain of pillows up to the white ceiling. The walls are paneled in gold oak, and I have a walk-in shower through the glass door. Five-star hotels
Have I mentioned I fucking love a good game?
“Permission to come aboard, captain.” She stands there in too-short denim cutoffs and a wicked little white tank top. No bra, I see and appreciate. Without waiting for my answer, she kicks off her flip-flops, hooking them on a finger, her bare toes curling into the sun-warmed boards of the dock.
I hold out my hand, palm up. “Welcome aboard.”
She lets me swing her over the safety line and onto the teak deck of the yacht. She lands off-balance for just a moment as her feet hit the deck, and the boat swells gently upward.
“I got you,” I promise, and she nods. We’re making progress.
We have forty-five minutes before the race begins. I am supposed to be above deck, taking pictures and talking up the race. Now that she is on board, she promptly puts more space between us under the guide of a little boat inspection. I steer her below deck because my team is busy and it is not as if I can fuck her out in public. There is a long list of people who would take issue with that.
“This is a real nice boat.” Her fingers touch the maple wood lightly. I designed every inch of the boat structurally but then brought in a designer to do up the insides. I am no good with paint and colors, but now, watching her face, I am pleased I made the effort. She likes what she sees.
She should. The Koa is custom-made because I always know exactly what I want. Also? I do not want what everyone else has. I make my own way, make my own decisions. So now I own one hundred thirty feet of custom-designed, sleek state-of-the-art racing yacht. The saloon is modern and elegant, a Canadian maple that lets in the light and plays with it. The result is a room as peaceful as the water and wind cradling the yacht can be just the opposite. It is not a retreat—because I never retreat—but a place to rest. To plan my next move. Instead of telling her any of that, however, I go with the obvious.
“She is built to be fast.”
Her fingers continue to stroke over the satiny grain of the maple. My dick promptly volunteers itself as a substitute.
“I’ll bet she was expensive,” she says.
Ten million dollars, but that is petty cash. It is too fucking bad my Lily’s immune to the siren call of cash. Money I can give her. Sex? Da , I am all over that. Emotions, however, are a currency I never deal in.
I cut to the chase. “Are you ready to be my wife?”
“Convince me,” she announces, sitting down on one of the plush seats lining the main cabin.
I would be happy to provide any convincing she needs. I yell up the hatch to my second-in-command on deck that I will be taking thirty minutes.
“Confident much?” She leans back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. This makes for some impressive cleavage in the vee of her tank top. I would enjoy just standing here watching, but the clock keeps ticking. When I showed Lily down here to the main galley, I thought I would keep her somewhere out of the way. Let her watch, but make sure she couldn’t get into any trouble. I cup her elbow with my hand, lifting and steering her toward my cabin. Nobody would come down here now that I have made my interest clear, but my angel will be happier with some privacy for what I intend.
She lets me lead her, and that is such a fucking turn-on. Lily is one of the strongest women I know, but she is not usually in your face about it. She simply gets her shit done and moves on.
She scowls at me. “I didn’t sign up for the tour.”
It is probably wrong that I do not care and that I enjoy her grumpiness. I shove open my cabin door. Her eyes widen as she takes it in. Yes, I have been accused of having pirate fantasies. The bed is as big as I can get it and covered in gold and white satin. A dark leather headboard stretches from the mountain of pillows up to the white ceiling. The walls are paneled in gold oak, and I have a walk-in shower through the glass door. Five-star hotels
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