Page 15 of The Cruiser
I thumb the phone off, my cock pulsing angrily between my fingers. That was a close call. It’s rare for me to feel anything this intense, but I sense the magnitude of my pending explosion in the way a jockey perched on his thoroughbred feels the trembling power between his legs. This runaway train is on the verge of veering out of control. The last thing I see in the mirror is a man holding on for dear life before my guttural howl shatters the silence and a million little Morgans spurt hot and furious onto my chest.
In the swirling aftermath, my brain is empty but screaming loud. With the room spinning and my heart pounding, the combined sensations are not unlike steering Papa’s sailboat safely out of my first storm. That lurching moment when I rode the edge of danger and thrill and came out on the other side, intact.
Merde.
That was downright savage.
Fingers on autopilot, I gently milk out the remains and dab myself clean with the sheet. My eyelids drooping and heavy, I feel a monster slumber coming on. The best thing about owning a jet is the freedom to fly whenever I want. And I’ve got plenty of time with a late checkout. I drag the sheet over me, and a flash of red suddenly appears, crumpled and wrong, like my unprincipled behavior. Panties. The ones Dakota kept hunting around for late last night. She wasn’t thrilled to get kicked out of my room, whining about not wanting to drive home so late. But I couldn’t imagine waking up to all that metal on her face staring back at me. Or hearing another story about casting cattle calls and how demoralizing they are. And who has a rat as a pet? With a shudder, I fling her underwear toward the trash can across the room and count my blessings. What was I thinking? The clingy ones are always the worst.
Especially when they’re stand-ins.
Vandana is a genuine star. The real goddamned deal. No woman has ever looked me in the eye and asked me what was in my heart. What makes me fucking tick as a man. It took me by surprise, and she had no clue my response was total shit. All I could think about were her curves under that deceptively simple dress. I know the only way to strip her bare will involve wrangling. And that’s where the complexity comes in.
The challenge.
Vandana’s going to make me work for it, of that I am sure. Her natural inclination is to resist. She’s not used to be being tamed. She’s an equal; she’ll want to take charge.
Maybe I’ll let her.
Nothing is sexier than ambition.
* * *
“Your drink, sir.”
A gin and tonic lands with a slam on the table in front of me. I raise an eyebrow at Gabby, a former Miss Budapest, or so she claimed.
“Thank you,” I say, regretting my decision to fuck her and glad I didn’t risk putting my head between her muscled Hungarian thighs. Her flight-attendant professionalism is nowhere near the blatant fawning she displayed two weeks ago on my trip to Fort Lauderdale, and she marches back to the galley with her attitude and ample breasts. Beyond her, the captain and co-pilot are in the cockpit completing last-minute communications before we take off. They’re my usual crew; only Gabby is a newcomer. I suppose she’ll find a new crew if I don’t fire her first. Sleeping with the hired help isn’t recommended, but what else is there to do, bored and drunk on an eight-hour flight? Unfortunately, I wasn’t wasted enough to block out her squealing. Good lord. With visions of a traumatized piglet running around in my head, it took forever to climax. My rebuff on this trip has stung her, but as the saying goes, once bitten, twice shy.
Calling me a dangerous beast earlier was a little over the top, and hypocritical, considering she stalked me in the airport terminal bathroom. I politely told her no, and then she accused me of being heartless, which is the furthest thing from the truth.
My heart beats ferociously.
It’s like a shark, always moving, always on the lookout. The trouble is, I’m swimming in an ocean of sameness. I’m restless. Bored and endlessly seeking. It’s useless to try and explain it to the likes of Gabby; there’s no way she can grasp the inner workings of me. She sees what all of them see: money, yachts, my looks. A life of leisure. No effort. I need a woman who can match my drive, in and out of bed; a woman who adores and covets me, not all the exterior trappings. But the hunt for the one drags on longer than a snail trying to cross the Saharan sands.
What a surprise the lovely Vandana has turned out to be.
Tall, slender, and brilliant as well as ravishing, and unwilling to be pushed around.
I can’t get her out of my mind.
I must thank Olivier, my right-hand man at Royal Morgan Yachts, for sending me on this mission despite my reluctance. I rarely take his advice, as it has often proven dubious, half-baked, or more beneficial to him than me. But this time he might finally be right.
And his ears must be burning because lo and behold, here he is calling. We’re beyond the need for salutations, so I answer with what I know he wants to hear.
“All is well,” I assure him.
“With your radio silence last night and delayed flight, I hoped that was the case,” he grumbles. “There is a thing called texting. You might want to try it. Details, please.”
Dear, dry, dull Olivier Lepage. Always cutting to the chase. And he thinks I’m a social outcast.
“She’s clever, very spirited, and even more breathtaking in person.”
“Did you behave yourself?” he asks warily.
“More or less.”
“If she’s still talking to you, we can consider it a success. Remember,” he warns, “no funny business. She’s married.”
