by Sara Ney
“Should we go see what the opening production is?” Scarlett glances up from the ships entertainment itinerary, reading out loud and chewing on a chocolate-covered strawberry. “The welcome aboard opening production is a thrilling prelude to a weekend’s worth of fun, including musical numbers, dancing, and a message from the entertainment director.” She turns to me. “Can we do that?”
“Sure.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’d rather poke my eye out with a dull pencil than sit through one of those onboard productions.
We set our napkins on the table, push our chairs out from the dining room table, and say good night to my parents.
“Breakfast in the morning before we get off at the island?” Dad asks.
I scratch my head. “Um, I’m thinking room service.”
Mom narrows her eyes at me. “If you order us anything, I will kill you.”
My palms go up in mock surrender. “I only did that one time—you’ve got to stop bringing it up.”
She shoots Scarlett a look. “There is a menu hanging on the back of your door. You fill it out and hang it outside your stateroom. Someone comes along and picks it up, and the next morning, they deliver whatever it was you circled.” Her lips purse. “Once, Sterling ordered us one of everything and had it delivered at seven AM.”
Damn that was funny—man were they pissed off.
“Hey, I came and ate it all.”
“But if you hadn’t, it would have gone to waste.”
I scoot to my mom’s side, planting a kiss on her upturned cheek. “Come on, you thought it was funny.”
“It wasn’t funny—not when you’re on vacation and your two-hundred-pound man child climbs onto the bed with trays of food, and especially not when you’re trying to be romantic with your husband whilst on vacation.”
“Jeez Mom!” Is nothing sacred?
She shrugs. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Your timing always did suck.”
“Anddd that’s our cue to leave.”
Scarlett and I make haste, fingers laced together, hustling to find the ship’s amphitheater.
We’ve been here ten minutes when I first start to doze. On stage, costumed crew members dance across the stage, a large forest scene hanging in the backdrop. The shadow of trees loom, backlit by blue lights, and honestly, I don’t have a clue what the fuck is supposed to be going on.
My parents live for this shit.
I, however, am bored as fuck, and I lean back in my seat, legs spread, head hitting the wall so I can close my eyes.
I yawn.
Tune out, mind wandering.
Wonder what’s going to happen when we get back from this vacation, back to school. I’ve never done anything in half measures, and I’m not starting with her.
When we get back, I’m going to tell her I love her and hope we can make this relationship work.
Scarlett catches me stifling a yawn with the back of my hand, giving me a little poke in the ribs. Leans over to stage whisper, “Should we go? You look tired.”
I am beat—but so is she.
Still, I shrug, not willing to end her fun. “Only if you don’t want to stay.”
Her eyes study me in the dark. “We can go. I’m okay heading up to the room.”
Thank God. “You sure?”
“Definitely.” A nod. “Yes.”
“All right.” I stand, grabbing her hand, leading her down the theater aisle in the dark. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We sneak out, dashing to the elevators, pressed to the mirrored wall of one when ten people cram in with us. I catch her eye above half a dozen heads, wiggling my eyebrows. Feel for her hand behind an old balding dude, tickling her palm with my forefinger.
Together, we exit on the eighth floor, strolling down the narrow hallway, bumping into each other every few steps, laughing. Flirting.
When we reach the door, I pretend to have forgotten the key inside the room, and Scarlett smacks my arm when I finally fish it out of my back pocket.
Anticipation thrums through my body as I swipe the keycard in front of its censor on the door, the little green light granting us entry with a blink, blink, blink.
“You going to take a shower?”
“I have to—I feel so gross.”
“Ladies first.”
“Thanks.” She skirts around me, gathering up her stuff. Removing her necklace and other jewelry, setting it all on the desk. “It won’t take me long.”
“No rush.” I flop down on the bed, arms resting behind my head, watching her fuss, crossing my legs at the ankle. Casually learning her tells. The little things about her that will have me lying in bed at night fantasizing: her slender wrists and the way she rubs them after removing her bracelet. The way she purses her lips when she looks in the mirror at herself. How short she is compared to me when she unbuckles her wedge heels, but not when we’re lying horizontally on the bed.
Scarlett begins pulling little black bobby pins from her hair, setting them one by one on the table, loosening the braid. Uncoiling it from the crown of her head.
It falls down her back, wavy and full. Wild.
“Is there any way you can leave it like that?”
“My hair?” She turns, touching the strands with the tips of her fingers. “Do you like it like this?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty.”
Pleased, she continues padding barefoot around the room. Asks me to unzip her dress. Grabs fresh underwear and pajamas from the tiny cabin closet, disappearing into the bathroom, running the shower and using the toilet.
For ten minutes she’s in the bathroom, taking off her makeup and doing whatever the hell it is girls do in the bathroom, door clicking open at the eleven-minute mark.
My girl is prompt.
White towel wrapped around her head as a turban, she’s got on that pitiful excuse for pajamas: sheer, white tank top—the one I can see her nipples through—the pink bottoms with sheep, and not much else.
I wonder if she knows I can see her tits through that top, but far be it from me to point it out.
I’m an athlete, not an idiot.
Peeling myself off the bed, I grab my shower shit and vow to get in and out in as little time as possible.
Five minutes.
Tops.
“Be right back.”
***
“Are you excited about tomorrow?” Scarlett asks when I slide back into bed, dressed only in a pair of black boxer briefs.
We’re hitting the beach in the morning, renting snorkel gear and swimmin’ with the fishes—so to speak.
“If you’re asking if I’m excited about seeing you in a swimsuit, the answer is yes, I’m excited about tomorrow.”
“Did you have fun today?”
“Eh, it was all right. I enjoyed spending the day with you, but man, I am so fucking tired.”
“It was a long day—the drive with your parents was fun.”
I give her a side eye; the two-hour ride was torture, not fun.
“What part of my mother’s inquisition, exactly, did you enjoy?”
“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad.” She laughs, pulling up the sheets to hide her smile.
“Scarlett, my mom had a list—an actual fucking list she was asking you questions from. How did you not think that was weird?”
“It was harmless, but you don’t think she’s going to…ya know, put my answers in any of her books, do you?”
I toss my head back and laugh. “Oh ho, oh yeah—she’s definitely putting that shit in her books. Somehow she’ll find a way to make it work.”
Scarlett pushes the coverlet down, rolling to her side, bending her arm and resting her cheek there. “It was a good day. Tomorrow is going to be better.” She’s quiet for a few beats. “Have you ever brought anyone on a vacation with you?”
“No. Have you?”
“No, and besides, we never really took many family vacations to begin with. I do go on the trips through the science department, but that doesn’t really count, do
es it?”
She shifts, the straps of her tank top slipping a few inches down her right shoulder. My gaze fastens there briefly then drags itself reluctantly back to her eyes.
“Are we a couple?”
“Yes?” I hope that’s the answer she’s looking for.
“And…other stuff?”
Other stuff. Fuck yeah to other stuff.
“You’re my friend, Scar. I feel like the physical part is the natural next step. Plus, I want to bone you so hard it’s becoming both physically and mentally draining.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” She giggles.
Laughing is a good sign, right?
I swallow the lump forming in my throat, pressing on my Adam’s apple, to make it go the hell away, so I can say what I’m about to say.
“You know the night you went to dinner with your friends from bio lab? I knew I wanted to be more than just your friend.”
“How?”
“Don’t you ever just look at something and know? I just…did.”
I fell in love with her that night.
Gag.
“I can’t believe we’re having a relationship talk.” My mother must be rubbing off on me, dammit.
“I love that we’re talking.”
Love.
There’s that word that’s wreaking havoc in my damn chest. I wish she’d stop saying it so my heart would stop racing.
Scarlett
“My mom said I should talk to you more about this stuff more often.” He averts his eyes, watching the ceiling as he speaks, a lopsided smile plastered on his face. “Feelings and shit.”
He’s pleased with himself for opening up to me.
Truthfully, I am, too.
“Oh?” I feign ignorance. “Did she?”
“Yeah. Both my parents are a wealth of infinite wisdom. Today when we got on the boat, my dad told me to use my common sense this weekend and wear a condom.”
Condom, condom, condom.
My body temperature skyrockets, and I brush my gaze toward the thermostat. How hot do they have it set in here, anyway?
“He never had the sex talk with you when you were growing up?”
“Oh, we’ve had the sex talk all right—a few times, actually.” Rowdy readjusts his large body on the bed, folding those thick biceps behind his head, mattress dipping from his weight.
“My senior year of high school, they both sat me down to explain that since I’d signed my letter of intent to play for Iowa, girls were going to be coming out the woodwork.”
“Were your parents right?”
A brief hesitation. “Yeah.”
He casts me a guilty look, thick eyebrows knitted into a frown as if just realizing what that one word implies: he took full advantage. Had lots of meaningless sex with countless meaningless women.
Well.
That information I certainly could have lived without, but I asked, so I have no one to blame but myself for the small crater of jealousy forming in the pit of my stomach.
“They’re always riding my ass about groupies, and safe sex, and using my head—not the one inside my boxers.”
“I don’t blame them. I bet it’s not easy watching your son work his ass off, keep up his grades, and then have to fend off all the girls.”
“I guess I don’t either. The girls are…” He clears his throat, once again directing his gaze toward the ceiling, as if the answers are spelled out for him up there. “I was done with the parties and the casual sex by my sophomore year. That’s why I moved out of the house. It got real old—not for everyone in the house, obviously, but it did for me.”
I can’t imagine what that world is like. Being a biology student is so far removed from the world of athletics, it’s laughable.
“Do you feel like you have to be on all the time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like…” I prop myself up so I can see him better. “You can’t say or do what you want because people are always watching.”
He nods. “That’s exactly it, yes. Coaches, the media, other students with their fucking cell phones recording us. The popular players can’t even take a dump in a public bathroom without it ending up online.”
I try to picture my face on some stranger’s profile online, or an article written about me on the internet.
“What’s it like?”
“It doesn’t happen to me often—I’m not a big enough name for anyone to give a shit about. I play ball for Iowa, Scarlett, not Miami or Vanderbilt.”
“Are those teams good?”
“Those teams are the best.”
“Could you have played there?”
He goes quiet. “Yeah, I could have played there.”
“Should you have played there?”
“No.” He turns his head toward me and studies my face. “I’m right where I need to be.”
My heart leaps, damn if it doesn’t, and suddenly we’re not talking about baseball anymore. We’re talking about us—him and me and the fact that we’re lying here now, alone in this room, alone in this bed.
“You can touch me, you know.” His voice has a hesitance to it, as if he’s afraid I’m going to reject him. “I want you to.”
His voice is rumbly and low, twisting up my insides like it always does. So deep from fatigue, my stupid, neglected ovaries clench into a tight fist while the space between my legs grows uncomfortably hot.
Rowdy is so achingly handsome. So. Freaking.
Hot.
I could stare at him all day and he wouldn’t have to say a single word to entertain me.
His green eyes watch, transfixed, as my hand glides through the white sheets toward him, waiting with baited breath for my next move. It’s as close to a beseeching look as Sterling Wade has ever given me, a slight tremor in his voice.
He wants me to touch him—bad.
“Do you? What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“You don’t have to know what you’re doing, you just have to listen to your body, and hopefully that body is telling you to touch me.”
He delivers that quip with a serious expression, the smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“I can’t believe you can say shit like that with a straight face.”
His chest rumbles. “Sometimes neither can I.”
My hand rests atop the white bedding, tentatively pausing.
He rolls on his side, matching my position. Arm creeping forward, fingers sliding, large, tan hand meeting mine in the middle of the bed. It’s a warm palm covering mine, caressing, the tip of his forefinger tracing along my ring finger.
Touches my shiny, pale pink nails before flipping it over. Continues tracing the sensitive skin there, giving me the shivers before moving up my wrist, drawing tiny circles along my flesh.
Up my inner arm to the crook of my elbow.
Then down again.
I hold my breath when he retraces his steps, the journey headed north, up my bicep.
Stop breathing completely when his fingers splay under the strap of my tank top, his eyes tracking the movements, together with mine.
The boat rocks, waves splashing against the steel hull of the ship as it cuts through the rough sea. A glass of water on the desk slides to one end, hits the edge, then slides back again.
A part of me wants to climb out of bed and open the balcony door; the other part wants to see where his hand goes next.
The ocean wins.
“Give me one second?”
I pull away, scurrying to the door, pulling the latch and sliding it open, greeted by the sound of pounding waves. Stand staring out into the dark, the vast ocean illuminated by the bright moon looming above. Locate a few wayward stars among the overcast sky before turning and settling myself back on the bed.
Climbing on all fours toward Sterling’s body, he’s covered from the waist down by the stark, snowy sheet. A golden god whose tan, size, and chiseled attributes are highlighted by the moonlight.
Rising to
my knees, I grabble for the hem of my tank top, gliding it up my torso, pause before exposing my breasts.
Take a deep breath, peel my shirt off, and toss it to the foot of the mattress.
His nostrils flare.
“Can I get under the covers with you?”
He reaches for me then, pulling back the sheets so I can climb inside. Tenderly tugs me over so I’m on top, skin on skin.
Instantly, his hands begin rubbing my back—down, then up—plunging into the waistband of my sleep shorts. He grips my ass gently, caressing, while the ship rocks slightly back and forth.
I run my fingers through his hair. Run them over his shoulders, gripping his biceps. Clasp his hand, lacing our fingers when our lips finally meet.
The ship creaks.
Waves crash.
Tongues roll.
Then, in one swift motion, I’m on my back and Sterling hovers over me, eyes raking down my body, settling on my naked breasts.
When he reaches up to settle his giant hand on one, I arch my back and moan, tipping my head back into the pillow. Teeth rake my bottom lip.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly, he brushes his thumb across my nipple while the rest of his palm cradles the underside, lightly pushing it up. Plump.
His voice is gravelly, low. “I’ve been wondering what these look like.”
Mine comes out breathless. “And now you know.”
His eyes make contact.
Lips curve.
“And now I know.”
I watch, fascinated, as his shoulders dip, presenting me with the crown of his head. Lips find and fasten on my breast, sucking. Licking. Sucking some more.
I moan.
He moans.
The ship? Moans.
Everyone is satisfied.
Tiny nips of his teeth have my lower half wriggling; I’m on fire, and when he makes his way down my stomach, kissing a wet trail down to my belly button, a thousand thoughts go through my mind: What is he doing? Is he about to go down on me? Did I wash well enough when I took a shower? Shit, I never shaved my crotch. What if it takes too long for me to come and I suffocate him?
Even worse: What if he’s terrible and I don’t come at all?
I’ve never, in my life, had anyone with their face between my legs.
But I do now.