Page 76 of The Cruiser
Cèline smiles. “Yes, of course. He’s accomplished so much on his own. He never wanted Alix’s help. But we’re so glad he hired you. He could use a woman’s hand in his affairs.” Her grip on my arm is firm, and if we’re alone much longer, she’ll be offering me a permanent room here.
In the nick of time, Morgan calls us up for drinks. Gracious, practiced hosts, Alix and Cèline make me feel right at home. Morgan relaxes with his mother’s obvious seal of approval of me. Dinner is exceptional, and when Josie clears the table for coffee, Cèline encourages Morgan to watch the sunset with me from the gazebo. “We’ll have dessert when you come back.”
More directive than a suggestion, Morgan knows the drill. We refill our wine glasses and make our way to the gazebo.
Once we’re out of earshot, Morgan asks, “How did it go?”
“She trod lightly.”
He laughs. “Why do I not believe that?”
The property line narrows into a round of grass pristine enough to be the eighteenth green at Augusta. Right in the middle sits the gazebo, painted white and commanding a breathtaking view.
“We can watch from here,” Morgan says and leads me to a swinging bench hanging from two sturdy cables drilled into the support beams. I curl up beside him, legs tucked underneath me. A few yards ahead, the land falls away, suddenly and steeply, and I can hear waves crash below as droplets from the spray shimmer in the sun. Morgan drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we rock back and forth in companionable silence, wine glasses slowing draining. I stare out at the sea, as I did so often as a child, curious what lies beyond the horizon. My thoughts drift, and I burrow closer to Morgan, his body heat comforting.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks. “There’s a blanket here.”
I gaze up at him. The sun slowly sinks to the west and a wash of perfect magic hour light illuminates his features. “The temperature is perfect. The meal was perfect. Everything here is perfect.”
Morgan smiles and pulls me closer. “I agree.”
Our gentle kiss melts my bones, turns my body into jelly. Instead of the frantic dominance of this morning, the slower tempo highlights how good of a kisser he really is. He tastes like wine and heaven, his tongue soft and jousting with mine. My nipples start to swell with anticipation, and I moan a little into his mouth. I’ve been waiting all night to kiss him.
“You feel wonderful,” he mumbles. “I need more.” We set down our wineglasses and fall back onto the bench, him on top of me.
“You feel rock hard,” I tease, grinding against him.
“We can do something about that.”
I peek through the slats of the bench, at the pink roofline in the distance. “Can they see us?”
“No.”
I want him bad, feel the heat funneling between my legs, but didn’t plan for this. As if reading my mind, his hand rummages for whatever’s in his pocket. “I’ve learned from the best,” he says, holding up the condom with a boyish grin. “Be prepared.”
“You have one in every pocket now?” I joke.
“No. Good idea though.” He sits up, laughing, and pats his lap. “Here, like this.” He helps me position myself, knees on either of his thighs. The billow of my skirt covers both of us, allowing him to unbuckle and get ready in privacy.
“You don’t even have to look,” I marvel.
He nibbles on my lower lip, his scruff tickling my chin. “The best view is right in front of me.”
“Don’t rip it off,” I warn him, his hands now free and roaming under my thong.
“I’ll work around it,” he promises. “But I need some help. Up.”
I rise onto my knees, abs tightening as the bench sways. Morgan tugs my thong lower, just enough for access. I warm and bloom under his first touches and I can smell myself, ripe with need. My hands slide down the flat planes of his back muscles to grip the firm curves of his ass.
"I love it when you touch me there," he says.
He starts to flower me open, my heartbeat thudding out of control. If fingering a woman is art, Morgan is Renoir. No hard lines or stark realism. The strokes of a master. My head sinks into the dip of skin where his shoulder and neck meet, and the smell of him goes straight to my head.
“I don’t think this is what your mother had in mind, sending us down here.”
“I think it's exactly what she had in mind."
"What about not giving her false hope?”
He leans back, our faces shrouded in a tangle of my hair. A silence hangs heavy before he finally says, “Oh, she is smitten. Of that I am certain.”
We kiss again and he drills a finger deeper. I can feel myself slipping toward the edge. Morgan pushes me to the breaking point faster than anyone with just his fingers, but I’m hungering for him to be deep inside me.
“Hold on,” I say. “Let me.”
I find him under my skirt, his thick vein pulsing and angry beneath my fingers. I angle him into my hot, wet warmth and he bites his lip with a strangled sound. My inner muscles also groan, but become pliant, now familiar with the intruding dimensions. I ease myself lower, each pulse a delicious sensation. He lodges himself in place with a final thrust, his balls tight and pressing against my ass. I wrap my arms around him, pleasure in how we lock together like puzzle pieces.
“Good?” he asks. With my nod, he pushes one foot against the concrete slab. We start rocking on the bench, on each other, and he whispers into my ear, “I can’t think of anything better than making love to you overlooking the sea.”
Later, when the sky is thick with stars, and our bellies are full of rich espresso and sweet cherryclafoutis, we drive back to Monaco and hold hands in the Chiron.The gazebo feels like a dream; a sway of building arousal, the setting sun on our skin, and the pounding waves louder than our muffled cries into each other’s shoulders.
