Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Sure,” I manage.

  I beckon him forward a few feet, to the sectional seating around the cockpit. The space has the feel of several couches arranged in a broken square. He doesn’t sit, though, as I grab some water from a cooler, twist the top off, pass it to him. I notice a dark blot on his forehead. It smears down toward his eyebrow, and my stomach does a slow roll.

  “You are bleeding.”

  I watch as he drains the water bottle dry. I lean down to get another. As I pass it to him, something dark falls like a shadow over my heart. It’s as if the night has gelled around us. Seconds crawl past surreally. I drag in a long, slow breath, and he quirks his brow, reminding me I need to do something about the gash.

  “Let me get something.”

  I return from the cabin to find him sitting on one of the padded benches, his elbows on his knees, one hand pushed into his tangled hair. I turn a light on, casting the deck in amber. Then I drag the small cooler in front of him and take a seat.

  As I open the first aid kit, the salty breeze kicks up a bite of his scent: sunscreen and warm, male skin. When I look up, I notice that the hand that’s curved around his forehead seems to be shaking.

  “Are you okay?”

  He lowers his arm. “Yeah.” But his face is drawn. His cheeks and jaw are covered with rough stubble, his lips cracked in one corner. He probably had a miserable day on that island. Had to have been desperate to swim out to an unknown boat.

  I lean in closer, squinting at the gash above his brow. It’s about an inch or so long, seeping blood, but not too wide. “Doesn’t look like I got you too bad,” I say quietly. “You seeing double, anything like that?”

  He mumbles something negatory. His eyes are cast down. They swing up to mine, and I give him a look I hope says sorry for the head wound.

  He smirks. “Hell of a welcome.”

  “After the fancy invitation, too.”

  “Touché.”

  I grin, then rip open a Betadine swab. “So, not much freshwater on that little island?”

  “None.”

  “You want some more?”

  He nods once, and I get one. I watch as he chugs half the bottle and then twists the cap back on.

  “A day’s a long time without water.”

  “Cracked open a coconut.” He lifts his dark brows, twists his full lips. My pulse picks up as he flashes me a crooked grin.

  “How was it?”

  “Kind of bad.”

  “That’s disappointing.” I hold the swab up. “I don’t think this hurts, but…”

  He shuts his eyes, and I lean in—close enough that I could brush my lips over those stark cheekbones. I can feel the warmth of his breath, and I hold mine so he can’t smell the scotch on it.

  So far, I think he’s been too distracted to notice my face. It’s too soon to say if he would recognize me.

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

  “Just cold.”

  I hear—or feel—him swallow as I paint the swab over the gash once more. Then, with some relief, I lean away.

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

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

  “So what’s your poison?”

  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.

  I think of the article I saw, about his broken engagement. “One of those times? I know what you mean. This here—” I gesture to his head. “I got you with a bottle of my favorite scotch.”

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

  “Good aim.”

  “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 invade your boat, but I felt something out there—something 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. “Careful for the money maker.” He snorts, and my gaze dips to those long lashes…to his firm, soft-looking 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 anyway. 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 revealing. Then I turn to him.

  He looks like what he is: someone who’s been stranded on an island. His hair is wild and scraggly. In the brighter light, I see his hair is rich, cinnamon brown—thick and slightly wavy. His eyes are blue-green, and they’ve got that tired look people get from being in the sun too long. His skin is deeply tanned, but red at spots along his chest and his neck. My gaze falls to his chest. It looks more sculpted out of the shadows.

  I look down and then back at his face, relieved to find his eyes are on the living area and not on me.

  “Nice.”

  That’s all he says, but I can see he’s surprised, maybe impressed.

  “Come this way.”

  The living space is done in tan and white and shades of blue. It is nice, I guess, but I don’t care. When I’m here, I want to feel a world away from my real life. When I first bought her, I thought about gutting the inside, doing something different than yacht-owner minimalist. I never made the time, though—and I guess it doesn’t matter.

  I step into the kitchen. “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.”

  His eyes lift to my face, 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.

  “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 it 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 at his forehead, then kneads his shoulder. Yeah…he’s gotta be pumping iron at least twice a week.

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

  I wait for his ocean-colored eyes to come back to mine. It’s funny how they don’t. He’s not paying attention to me. For once in my life, I’m not sure how much I like that.

  * * *

  VANCE

  * * *

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

  Now I’m standing in his swanky boat kitchen, trying not to put too much pressure on my sunburned feet, pressing one palm against the underside of the counter because my legs are tired and crampin
g, 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 tale of my disappearance. By the time I’ve got that all talked out—she’s marked me “not missing”—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 forest green around the iris’s outer rim. For just a second, I feel a kick of panic—like I’m caught in undertow.

  I toss the Advil back, and then the Gatorade. When I’m finished and he’s staring at me, I wipe my mouth and lift a brow. But it’s the cut 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, wearing my poker face.

  He grins, revealing dimples. Fuck, he’s easy on the eyes. Thick brows and those cat-like eyes, strong cheekbones. He’s got lush lips, too, 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. 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 living space with a wave. “Let me make it up to you.” I follow him through a TV area that looks like it’s straight off one of those HGTV shows.

  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 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. Best view you’ve ever had. I’ll leave some clothes here on the ladder for you.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  He winks, and my cock twitches.

  Stop it. Just because I’m a horny fucker 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.

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

  With sand in places sand should never be, it’s been a day since I jerked off. So I guess it’s no shock that I get hard the second the warm water sprays my dick, tickling then sluicing down my shaft and dripping off my head.

  Ah, 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 now, 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 back down my shaft, then tug upward again. 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 beat it faster…harder.

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

  As I pump my cock, I wonder about his—whether it’s as flawless as the rest of him. I picture it long and thick. A guy like that has got to be well-hung…maybe with some big low-hangers below. I imagine him in a chair, pants down, legs spread, with me kneeling before him. I envision what he’d look like if I wrapped my lips around his dick and sucked…then eased him deeper, one hand cinched around the base of him, the other stroking his fat balls. I’d like him with his lips parted, his ripped chest heaving as he groans for me.

  If he was mine to fuck around with, I would want him with his legs spread and his cock lodged in my throat. I’d swallow and suck until those muscle-corded thighs quaked, till he lost control and started fucking my mouth like a savage… I would tease him till he writhed and whimpered. I’d get him real bad off, and I’d just stop. Then I’d climb up on his lap and rub my own stiff cock against his.

  Oh yeah.

  I grit my teeth as I come hard into my hand. 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. I close the door behind myself and lean my back against it.

  Damn.

  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 doesn’t work the way it once did, I lock a fist around my balls and squeeze until gold spots are swimming in my eyes.

  A ragged groan breaks from my chest.

  God help me.

  I just watched him shower in the moonlight. I know every contour of his lean, taut body. I just watched him fuck his hand. The way he squeezed and stroked, that steady up and down and then back up…how he would rub his thumb over the slit at his tip…then reach down to give his balls a tug.

  I look down 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 his long, stiff sex pressed against me from behind. I clone him in my fantasy and put another Vance Rayne bent over in front of me, where I can shove my dick into his tight squeeze. He’d be soft and hot around me, grunting as I pounded him as hard as I pleased. On that vision, I come hard. I’m panting 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 hope and pray I am.

  At that moment, I remember 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 new boxer-briefs. Then I set it back down, grab a pair of freshly laundered ones that I’ve worn before, and go leave the clothes on the ladder.

  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 I walked by and our eyes met doesn’t mean he knows I followed him up from square one.

  I open another bottle of Bunnahabhain, pour a glass and toss it back. There’s a shower in my master bath. It works fine.

  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 the borrowed t-shirt. I notice it fits him more snugly than I thought it would—only a little looser than it fits me. The pants look slightly short, confirming that he is a little taller. I picture him with his eyes shut, his hand around his dick. Then he moves into the light, and we lock gazes.

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

  I glanced over and saw him at the moment that he spotted me. He doesn’t know it 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.”

&nbs
p; 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 that. This dude doesn’t know a thing about you. Just relax.

  “Turn around.”

  Fear pounds through me, raw and primal. But I turn to him because I can’t keep from it.

  “You were watching,” he says softly.

  “You were jerking off on my deck.”

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

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

  Dammit. Does he know?

  I step closer to him. When he does nothing, I lean close enough to reach out, wrap my hand around his. I squeeze his fingers with my own and then move his aside. I look into his eyes as I trace his erection 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 bolt of pure adrenaline. I drag my palm along his steel-hard dick, rubbing from tip to base.

  “You came on deck to watch,” he says, “and you liked what you saw.” He clenches his jaw and shifts his hips, pressing himself into my palm. I cup my hand around him. His mouth opens as he starts to pant. I can see his pulse thrum in his tanned throat.

  I feel a powerful impulse to tell him right then I’m not gay—as if somehow he might believe I’m playing this game for his sake. It’s a thought I entertain until he reaches for me. I know 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.”