by Marsh,Anne
Lily came back. If I am lucky, she will come all the way back tomorrow and I will win my bets. She will be safe. Those are tomorrow worries though. Tonight is only for sailing with the men I almost call friends.
It is still dark, but the sky already lightens on the horizon. Miami’s port is now a row of multistory cruise ships off starboard, the ships lit up like Christmas trees in a Boy Scout lot. The rest of the port is concrete yards lined with metal shipping containers and towering cranes for loading and off-loading the heavy containers. The port’s heart is this commercial center ringed by expensive condo developments, private slips, and narrow causeways. The place hums with energy even in the early hours of the morning. With the Miami River behind me now, I move out into the bay and toward the sea. Miami River is a major entry point for contraband. Drugs, people—any kind of contraband one person pays another to move. Shippers call to off-load cargo, then load up to make the run to the Bahamas and further out into the Caribbean. Until recently, the port was a Wild West.
Six hours until race time—all the time in the world. The yacht’s prow splits the surface cleanly, and there is nothing but clean air out here. Behind us, the lights of Miami fade away as I ride the waves out to sea.
4
XANDER
I hit the docks early. It is race day, and I need to know who is running late, who nurses a hangover, who just looks as if it will not be his day. Those details make a difference when you fly into the final turn and the harbor is dead astern and there is room only for one yacht. Those other men will flinch and pull back, but I will be all in. Besides, who the fuck am I kidding? I like to win. I crave it like an addict does the next hit of his drug. If I crash the yacht getting to the finish line first, I will still be the winner.
I have a bet to win with Liam and Jack.
I am not the only racer with a game plan, of course. My team arrives when I do, and we move down the slips, checking out the competition. Both Liam and Jack are here, despite our late night sail. The dock bristles with yachts, most of which never sail more than twenty miles offshore. I do not confine myself to that playpen. The entire goddamned ocean is my playing field. Even before serving my time with the Miami-Dade Corrections and Rehabilitation Department, I never liked being confined, and nothing beats the changeability of the ocean—she is all wind and water, constantly changing. No two races are ever the same, which is fucking awesome. We have ten yachts starting in today’s race, and I will beat their asses.
I am below deck running through pre-check when there is a stir on the docks. My cell buzzes with an incoming call from my security chief.
“You got a guest,” he says when I answer. “Come on up and collect her, or I’m sending her home.”
Then he hangs up on me. He is the best in the business. Bullets, bombs, terrorist threats and kidnappings—he has that shit handled. Conversational small talk, however, is not his favorite thing, and he refuses to make the effort. As long as he keeps me not getting killed, however, I will deal. When I come above deck, I spot Lily right away—she is a beautiful woman in a sea of racers. She sticks out and not just because she is trying to hide behind a pair of big, white sunglasses that make her look as if she is channeling Audrey Hepburn.
Her gaze runs over the Koa. I want those glasses gone because they make it hard to figure out what she is thinking. Part speculation, part resignation. I can see that, but I want more. I have spent years trying not to think about her, forcing myself to stay away, but now she has come to me and the game is on. The small, hard-shell suitcase by her feet is a sober black with a duct-taped frowny face on the side.
Someone should tell her I love a fucking challenge. If she is unhappy about our current arrangement, I simply have to talk her into changing her mind. While I stare at her, thinking dirty thoughts, one of my bodyguards takes the case from her and looks at me. I am the man in charge. My word is law here, and it seems Lily just cottoned onto that. Now she looks at me as if I am Johnny Fucking Depp, putting the moves on her when she has pledged her undying love to Will.
“My cabin,” I tell the bodyguard. He nods, vaults over the side, and disappears past me.
She sucks in a breath. Her choice of roommates clearly does not thrill her, but she married me. She came here. And she is the one who wants something from me. It is not my business if she has regrets—she is an opportunity I will not pass up. Besides, I enjoy pissing her off. Her anger heats up her eyes, melting the cold reserve. My dick hardens as if she is my own personal trophy.
I practically see her take a mental step backward. She stands there, feet planted on my dock, and goes for the small talk. Since her shit now resides in my cabin, I bet I get her too. She just needs to talk herself into it, and this is how she has decided to do it.
“You run in this race every year?”
She asks. I answer. I can play this game too. I vault over the safety line and land on the deck next to her. The mountain will come to Mohammed.
“It depends.” Change and challenge. Those are my two mantras. This should come as no surprise to anyone who has spent more than two minutes in my company. Repetition is for losers, and anchoring in one place or re-running the same courses is not for me. Once I get the Koa out into open water, the wind and the waves fight me until I find a groove. Succeed or fail. You can dress racing up with yacht clubs, rule books, and trophies, but the fundamentals are the one constant. Haul ass, fly across that water, and the best man crosses the finish line first. I am sure it comes as no surprise to you that I rarely lose.
Lily smiles. I have no idea what is lighting her up, but she has a Mona Lisa smile that gives me ideas. Strip her down, get her bare, fuck her hard—and see if she still gives me that sidelong smirk when I have been deep inside her and she is still feeling me. Da. I know that it is rude and all shades of wrong, but it is also honest. Deal with it. I left her alone when she was sixteen, and I will not touch her now unless she asks me to. I cannot be fairer than that.
She slants a look at me, but her sunglasses prevent me from seeing her eyes. At sixteen, her eyes crinkled up at the corners when she smiled. It was goddamned cute, so I reach over and ease her sex kitten glasses up with my finger. Slowly. Her eyes widen, and she catches my wrist with her hand. As if she can stop me. I shove the glasses onto the top of her head.
Lily has gorgeous eyes even if they veer between wary and plenty pissed off. I am a dick because her inability to ignore me makes me happy. I am more than a convenient ride or a get-out-of-jail-free card. I am her husband, and we both know that means something. Not as much as it will mean when we finish this race, but there is still that something between us right now even if it is mostly sexual chemistry. I know precisely how the main mast feels when the sea air hits the mast hard, swelling the sheet with impossible tension.
So fuck it. I cup the back of her head with one hand and set the other on her waist, and then I kiss the ever-loving fuck out of her. Paparazzi fill the dock and billionaires gossip just as much as normal people. All of Miami will know about our relationship by the time this race starts.
Lily is not onboard with my kissing her. She bites me. Christ, I like that too. She could chew me up, and I suspect I would still be hers. This is a problem, but I can fix it. Either I get over her, or I convince her to be my wife for real. Since that needs more time than a handful of minutes on a dock, I back up. I give her space. Instead of kissing her again, I just grin at her.
She shakes her head. “We need to discuss personal space.”
Not a fucking chance unless she has a move-in plan she wants me to vet. I do not need to look closely to see the neon No trespassing sign she just posted. Our kiss is not over even if we have two feet of empty space between us. This is because I do not know how to be done with her. My Lily is a straight shooter. She would never play the kind of games that seduce a single woman onto a man’s yacht for some weekend fun. Whatever games Lily plays are altogether different. Deeper.
Have I mentioned I fucking love a good g
ame?
“Permission to come aboard, captain.” She stands there in too-short denim cutoffs and a wicked little white tank top. No bra, I see and appreciate. Without waiting for my answer, she kicks off her flip-flops, hooking them on a finger, her bare toes curling into the sun-warmed boards of the dock.
I hold out my hand, palm up. “Welcome aboard.”
She lets me swing her over the safety line and onto the teak deck of the yacht. She lands off-balance for just a moment as her feet hit the deck, and the boat swells gently upward.
“I got you,” I promise, and she nods. We’re making progress.
We have forty-five minutes before the race begins. I am supposed to be above deck, taking pictures and talking up the race. Now that she is on board, she promptly puts more space between us under the guide of a little boat inspection. I steer her below deck because my team is busy and it is not as if I can fuck her out in public. There is a long list of people who would take issue with that.
“This is a real nice boat.” Her fingers touch the maple wood lightly. I designed every inch of the boat structurally but then brought in a designer to do up the insides. I am no good with paint and colors, but now, watching her face, I am pleased I made the effort. She likes what she sees.
She should. The Koa is custom-made because I always know exactly what I want. Also? I do not want what everyone else has. I make my own way, make my own decisions. So now I own one hundred thirty feet of custom-designed, sleek state-of-the-art racing yacht. The saloon is modern and elegant, a Canadian maple that lets in the light and plays with it. The result is a room as peaceful as the water and wind cradling the yacht can be just the opposite. It is not a retreat—because I never retreat—but a place to rest. To plan my next move. Instead of telling her any of that, however, I go with the obvious.
“She is built to be fast.”
Her fingers continue to stroke over the satiny grain of the maple. My dick promptly volunteers itself as a substitute.
“I’ll bet she was expensive,” she says.
Ten million dollars, but that is petty cash. It is too fucking bad my Lily’s immune to the siren call of cash. Money I can give her. Sex? Da, I am all over that. Emotions, however, are a currency I never deal in.
I cut to the chase. “Are you ready to be my wife?”
“Convince me,” she announces, sitting down on one of the plush seats lining the main cabin.
I would be happy to provide any convincing she needs. I yell up the hatch to my second-in-command on deck that I will be taking thirty minutes.
“Confident much?” She leans back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. This makes for some impressive cleavage in the vee of her tank top. I would enjoy just standing here watching, but the clock keeps ticking. When I showed Lily down here to the main galley, I thought I would keep her somewhere out of the way. Let her watch, but make sure she couldn’t get into any trouble. I cup her elbow with my hand, lifting and steering her toward my cabin. Nobody would come down here now that I have made my interest clear, but my angel will be happier with some privacy for what I intend.
She lets me lead her, and that is such a fucking turn-on. Lily is one of the strongest women I know, but she is not usually in your face about it. She simply gets her shit done and moves on.
She scowls at me. “I didn’t sign up for the tour.”
It is probably wrong that I do not care and that I enjoy her grumpiness. I shove open my cabin door. Her eyes widen as she takes it in. Yes, I have been accused of having pirate fantasies. The bed is as big as I can get it and covered in gold and white satin. A dark leather headboard stretches from the mountain of pillows up to the white ceiling. The walls are paneled in gold oak, and I have a walk-in shower through the glass door. Five-star hotels are less posh, and I must work under a serious space constraint here.
“I’m not having sex with you,” she snaps. “Hello. Annulment much?”
“Okay,” I agree. “Orgasms, yes. Penetration, no.”
She gapes at me and I shrug. The terms are hers.
“You have ten seconds to step inside,” I warn her.
“Or?” Her voice is dulce de leche sweet. She is pissed off, and not afraid to let me know it. She steps inside my room though, which is either a tactical error—or a very happy acceptance of my invitation. I decide to hope the answer is B.
I close the door. I do not lock it—if she wants to leave, she can turn the handle and go. I cannot take what I want, not from her. She has to give it to me. Fortunately, I am a master fucking negotiator and Lily has never had a poker face.
“Ten minutes,” I promise her.
“Until what?” She glances toward the portholes as if she thinks I am still talking about the Billionaire Race.
“Until I make you scream my name.”
LILY
Xander pisses me off although the way he makes my naughty parts feel is almost compensation enough. Almost. God, the man’s arrogant. In the Xander-verse, he’s the king of everything he surveys—and he certainly believes that includes me. I should march out of his cabin on principle—but principle’s not what’s turning me on right now.
Xander is, damn it.
“Time me,” he whispers in my ear, his heated words making those reprehensible naughty parts melt more. He cradles my hips with his big, sexy hands, and yes, I notice he’s brushing his thumbs over my hip bones. How can I not? His legs press against mine, and even through all his clothes, I feel his enormous dick. If I could just make him stop talking, he’d be perfect.
“You’re setting the bar high.” I tug, and he lets me go, which is another disappointment. “Or low. I didn’t realize there was a time limit on your availability. Do most women lose interest after ten minutes?”
He laughs and tosses his helmet onto the bed. Okay then. “You want to know about the other women in my life?”
Do I? It’s sort of easier to ignore the inescapable fact that my husband’s freaking gorgeous, but that his enormous dick has made the rounds like the hors d’oeuvre tray at a party. A really big party. I turn around, buying time to think about this. It’s not my favorite mental image, to be honest. I’d rather stop thinking altogether and just enjoy the possibility of having Xander at my sexual beck and call.
His race jacket is black and hugs his shoulders and chest, the close fit emphasizing his muscled physique. Xander may have amassed a fortune investing in Wall Street and resort properties, but he does more than sit behind a desk all day, and the man just radiates danger. Or maybe that’s the combination of the body armor and personal safety knife he’s wearing strapped to his side. Who knew racing could be such a dangerous sport?
“I do want to know,” I decide.
“Why does it matter?” He prowls toward me, effortlessly closing the few feet of space I’ve managed to put between us, and then he walks us back toward his bed. The mattress bumps against the back of my knees.
“Because you’re offering me a used penis and I’d like to know where it’s been?” I don’t want to overact, but now that I’m thinking about it… yeah. I absolutely want to know.
“Nowhere,” he growls and slides his hands up my bare arms. The rough pads of his fingers teasing my skin feels so good that I have to fight to not lean into him like a cat.
“Excuse me?” I give up the fight and lean. In answer, his hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head up. His fingers stroke my skin as he lowers his head.
“My dick has been nowhere,” he whispers roughly. “It was waiting for you, da?”
My brain short-circuits, which is only partly due to his lips brushing mine. His left hand moves south, skimming down my back to cup my butt. He makes me feel incredible.
“You haven’t had sex in six years?” My question trails off into a moan because holy shit, does the man have a talented tongue. He explores my ear with his mouth, licking and nipping and really? I don’t need to be talking now. I just want Xander. On me. In me. Underneath me.
“I have much
to make up for,” he murmurs, and he’s making a great start. Callused fingers trace a path down my neck, and then his mouth follows. Thank God I’ve got the bed behind me and Xander in front because I’m pretty sure my knees are done holding me up. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into his kisses. I can live with him holding me up for now.
“Tell me how I am doing,” he whispers roughly, and I nod.
So far, he’s a perfect ten in my book. The man’s confidence is not misplaced. I wrap my arms around his neck, sliding my legs around his hips as I pull his head down to mine. Why does this man turn me on so much—when every other man leaves me cold? He unbuttons my shorts, his palm pressing against my stomach as his fingers trace the lacy edge of my panties. I rock against him. He’s not even naked, and he’s driving me crazy.
He kisses me hard and fast, and then he’s setting me down, and yes that’s my whimper I hear.
“Tick tock,” he whispers and strips my shorts and panties off. “Ten minutes. I always keep my promises, angel.”
His mouth brushes my throat, his hands urging me down. Must be a bitch to race with that erection of his—he’s thick and aroused. The yacht rocks—we’re moving, easing away from the dock as the crew prepares to sail the Koa to the starting point. I stagger, off-balance, and Xander seizes his opportunity. We tumble onto the bed together, and he rolls me, coming up on top. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
My life’s been turned upside down by men, and so he shouldn’t get what he wants either. I won’t be his plaything. Breathing harshly, I yank his head down to mine, my hands cradling his face. He groans something harsh and sibilant in Russian, and then his mouth covers mine. I thought his kiss would be hard. Fierce. Possessive. Instead, he kisses me as if he’s tasting me. As if he has all the time in the world and he simply wants to find out if I’m his flavor—or not. His tongue licks inside my mouth, learning me.