Page 85 of The Cruiser
ChapterThirty
High above the azure Mediterranean,Morgan’s helicopter allows for a bird’s-eye view of Liberté’s deep scarlet hull.
“I love the red,” I say, talking over the chopper noise.
“It’s my favorite color,” Morgan replies. “Same red as the company logo and Monaco’s flag.”
With the yacht show underway and all available dock space at Port Hercules spoken for, Liberté’s anchored offshore. As the pilot circles overhead, I take a closer look at the rear deck of the yacht, unsure if what I'm seeing is an illusion.
“What’s going on with the pool? It looks like the bottom of it is rising.”
“It is,” Morgan says. “I designed the pool so the base rises to become the helicopter landing pad. On a smaller yacht, it’s all about maximizing space.”
“What happens to the pool water?”
“It drains into holding tanks for reuse.” As he explains the mechanics to me, the pool floor, painted with a giant black H, becomes level with the deck.
Wow. That is something else.
The pilot lands expertly on his mark, we disembark, and a smiling young man in red shorts and a crisp white polo offers us chocolate-covered strawberries. He’s one of the skeleton crew for our day trip. Morgan wants maximum privacy.
“The tour begins here,” he says, licking chocolate off his fingers. “This is the main deck. Beach club down the stairs.”
Beach clubrefers to deck space closest to the sea. An area where you can dive right into the ocean, which is what I plan to do today. It’s a perfect ocean play day: warm with just enough breeze to keep the heat at bay. I’m as giddy as a teenager on her first date. Helicopters. Yachts. Chocolate on platters. It’s like living in a dream.
And Liberté is appropriately heavenly.
I like to compare great design to the notes of a perfume. Both are layered sensory experiences. As Morgan walks me through his paradise, the top notes of his interior design are the things that hit me first—bold pieces of furniture and modern art splashed with his favorite shade of red. The mid-tones are the textures and patterns, all the details that tie everything together. The bottom note, the foundation to it all, is where the magic is. Morgan sculpts space and light in a singular, signature way that leaves a lasting impression. His design vibe is streamlined and structural but also tactile and intimate with thick, silk rugs under our feet and back-lit onyx walls that glow like my face after he’s had his way with me.
Upstairs, his bedroom on the top deck is what the cool kids call extra. A palatial spread with a bed facing east and nothing but endless ocean outside the windows. The Mark Rothko hanging over his desk is probably an original. Tucked in a corner is a cat tower, a whimsical addition that makes me smile.
“Morgan, seriously.” Out on the adjoining deck, a buffet fit for a king awaits. Necks of wine and champagne bottles poke out of crushed ice piled high in a silver bowl. Pink crab legs stacked high. Fruit and cheese, crackers, crudité, and of course … “Caviar,” I marvel. “You didn’t need to do that.”
He shrugs, smiling. “I know it’s your favorite.”
“Everything about this boat is so you,” I say, noticing a rendition of Rodin’s The Thinker on his dresser, the muscled legs just like Morgan’s. “Now I know why you spend so much time out here.”
He draws me closer, a smile growing wide and wicked. “All that’s been missing is a certain raven-haired vixen.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and laugh. “Do I know her?”
“I’m hoping to learn more about her today.”
“Such as?”
“Her capacity for pleasure.”
His hands slide behind me, deep into the valley between my cheeks. His preferred stomping grounds, I’ve come to realize. I return the favor, gripping the hard orbs of his ass. Was it just last week I fantasized about touching him? I’ve lost all track of time.
“Hmm,” I say. “I think she’s open to suggestions.”
He raises a brow. “Are you allergic to mangoes?”
Another laugh slips out. I did notice the spears of deep orange amongst the buffet. “That sounds very specific.”
“I always eat fruit for breakfast,” he says, the twinkle in his eye just like his father’s. He tugs at my dress, wanting me out of it. “And I’m very hungry.”
He’s loose today, a kid playing hooky. I get it. The zing in the air is palpable. I peel off my dress, toss it on the bed and shake out my hair. Based on Morgan’s devious smile, the small squares of mesh that qualify as my bikini won’t be on me much longer.
