Time always seemed to drag on forever when he wasn’t doing as he wished on his day off.
“Ninety-nine bottles of rum on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of rum…” he sang as he unlocked and slid into the red Toyota. He dropped his cell on the passenger seat, buckled his seatbelt, and then shoved the key in the ignition.
The damn car started! There went his excuse to stay home.
Sighing, Flynn pulled out of the garage and into traffic. It was just after eight in the evening, so traffic wasn’t all that bad. The Sunday crowd at The Golden Galleon was usually tapering off a bit by this point. They tended to get slammed between four and eight when most people had their evening meal.
It had been months since he’d had no choice but to go help supervise the crew on a Sunday. He tried not to resent them for it. Several of their waiters had graduated from college in the last few months and moved away. They were hard boots to fill; regular waiting experience didn’t mean much in their restaurant, because performing experience was equally important. They didn’t have waiters and waitresses, but cabin boys and wenches.
About twenty minutes later, Flynn turned into the staff parking lot at The Golden Galleon and pulled into his spot. He grabbed his phone and then got out of the car. There were, admittedly, a decent amount of cars in the lot, but it wasn’t jam-packed.
His footsteps rang loudly against the concrete as he stared at his restaurant. Miniature anchors framed either side of a wooden sign that read “The Golden Galleon.” The O’s were doubloons and the L’s were peg legs. All the windows were round, just like portholes, and the paint job resembled real wooden planks.
Flynn curled his fingers around the door handle and tugged it open. His eyes narrowed at the sight that met him: the overflow seating area was empty. Grinding his teeth together, he stalked toward the wooden desk the hostesses used to greet the guests. It was currently occupied by two women in low-cut blouses and flowing skirts. They wore large, gold hoop earrings and bright lipstick.
“Fighting Flynn, it’s your day off, sir!” said Alissa. The shocked look on her face told Flynn all he needed to know—the restaurant wasn’t slammed tonight.
“I know, wench,” he ground out. She brightened at the title like a true theater major; Alissa saw her job as just another role to play.
“Then why’re you here, sir?” Sara asked as she shoved a long lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. “I thought that book you’ve been waiting for finally came out.”
“It did.” He wished for a pistol so that he could shoot Jason in the foot. Jason knew how much he had been looking forward to a quiet night off—reading and relaxation. “The captain called me in.”
“Whatever for, First Mate Flynn? We’re not that busy.”
“To amuse him, apparently.” He hooked his hands around his thick belt and glanced around, assuring himself that everything was as it should be. Hooks sprouted from the walls, holding lanterns to light up each booth. The various miniature pirate ships in glass bottles were recessed in the walls above the tables, colored lights giving them a ghostly feel.
The sound of splashing water had him craning his neck. In the middle of the restaurant was a shallow pool of water that held colorful fish. A wooden board jutted partway over the water, resembling a gangplank that guests were asked not to walk. He didn’t want to imagine the conniption fit their insurance company would throw if a customer got injured on it.
Once a month they held a show with fake swords and a volunteer waiter who got caught planning a mutiny against Captain Lane. This month’s event had taken place last night; One-Eyed Pete had tried to poison the captain’s rum.
“Do you want me to fetch the captain, sir?” asked Alissa.
“No! I’m just going to take a nap. The captain can fetch me himself if he wants me that badly.” Flynn stretched and stepped behind the wooden hostess desk. A long, cushioned bench extended out of the wall, and he lounged back on it, arms folded behind his head. He tossed his cell phone and keys to Alissa, who caught them and placed them in one of the drawers.
The wenches tittered. “Can I get you supper, sir?”
As soon as the word passed Sara’s lips, Flynn’s stomach rumbled. He always forgot to eat while he was reading, telling himself he would go get something after this chapter. “This chapter” inevitably became “one more” and so on. “Thank you, wench. Supper would be lovely.”
“What would you like?”
What did he want? A burger? A steak? Chicken?
“Peg Leg Paul says the cannonball platter is especially good tonight, sir.”
He didn’t want spaghetti and meatballs. “No.”
Alissa smiled down at him. “Might I suggest the treasure chest, Fighting Flynn?”
Hmm, the appetizer combination plate was delicious, but he wasn’t in the mood for deep fried green beans, mozzarella sticks, or buffalo wings, and those comprised half the plate. “No.”
“Mast and sails?”
“Seaweed salad?”
Not the garden salad; he’d had that yesterday for lunch. His fingers curled and tugged lightly on his hair beneath the bandana. Steak and potatoes did sound good… but he wasn’t sure he felt like using silverware. This was his day off, damn it! He was supposed to be unconscionably lazy. That left finger food. Burger and onion rings, then. “I’ll take an eye patch, well-done, with a side of doubloons.”
“An eye patch, well-done, with a side of doubloons,” repeated Alissa. Her theater major ensured she had sharp memorization skills and was one of the main reasons they had hired her. If she weren’t so slender, he would’ve bet a pile of gold—not that he actually had a pile of gold, because he didn’t—that she would be their highest grossing waitress. As it was, she had tried and failed to carry their heavy, wooden serving trays.
“Right.”
“Would you like deep blue sea or parrot’s piss with that, sir?” Sara asked.
“Parrot’s piss,” Flynn said. Lemonade was better than water every day of the year, especially lemonade made with real lemons.
“I’ll go let the cook know,” Alissa said before walking around the desk and out of sight.
“You and the captain have a row?” Sara asked worriedly. Her empathy was one of the reasons they had hired her—that and her open-mindedness. He and Jason didn’t want any stupid bigots working for them. If an applicant couldn’t handle their homosexuality, they weren’t hired onto the crew.
“No. I don’t know what his problem is,” he grumbled. He let Jason have Wednesdays all to himself, damn it! Every healthy relationship required some time apart. He hadn’t gotten sick of Jason in six years, and he didn’t expect it to happen any time soon. “It’s a good book too.” If he had been by himself, he would’ve cursed.
Pirates cursed, but not in front of customers. That was one of their ironclad rules.
“I know!” The smirk on Sara’s face was wicked enough to belong to a demon. “I can’t believe that he killed off—”
Flynn jumped up and slapped a hand over her painted lips, eyes narrowed in a cutting glare. “If you spoil Forget-Me-Never, I will fire you.” He wasn’t joking. Jonathan Froste was the only author who continuously surprised him; a gift like that was to be cherished. She gave his rough palm a wet, smacking kiss. Flynn wrinkled his nose and wiped the lipstick onto his pants. “Cute. Real cute.”
“Don’t let the captain hear you say that,” Alissa said as she clomped back around the desk in her three-inch heels. “Lane’s the jealous type.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Flynn mumbled.
“Really?” She folded her arms beneath her chest, shoving her breasts even higher; he feared they might spill from the loose, off-shoulder blouse. “I seem to remember him barring O’Reilly from the restaurant for weeks after he wrote his number on a napkin and slid it in your pocket.”
He couldn’t exactly argue with that, seeing as it was true.
“And he wouldn’t let Laura Samuels have shipwrecks for a month after she gr
abbed your”—she glanced over her shoulder, but no one was anywhere near them—“bits.”
Laura was one of their regulars and loved the shipwreck dessert: an amalgamation of brownies, cookies, ice cream, and candy. She had fondled his ass on a dare, had even made sure to ask his permission first. Flynn figured Jason was really upset that he had given her the go-ahead, because he knew Flynn wasn’t the least bit interested in women.
He rubbed the back of his neck and felt his cheeks heating. “Yeah, there was that.”
“And when that new waiter offered to blow you in the privy, he—”
“All right!” he snapped. “Clearly, you have more than an idea.” Flynn supposed the evidence looked more incriminating when it was piled all together than when it was separated over time.
The girls giggled at him.
“Can’t blame the captain, though. If you were mine, I wouldn’t want to share either,” Sara said before winking with great over-exaggeration.
“I’m glad you agree with my point of view, Miss Sara. I can’t abide crew members who think for themselves.”
Flynn winced in unison with Alissa and Sara. Sighing, he let his eyes meander away from the scuffmark on his right boot. His gaze collided with Jason’s broad shoulders and chest. The Golden Galleon’s captain was stocky, muscled, with a neck that was just a smidgeon too short. His arms and legs were long, and his hands were thick and wide.
The lengthy, weather-beaten jacket he wore over a shirt almost identical to Flynn’s lent an air of maturity and experience to him. His nose had been broken three times, and his chin was sharp. The grand, feathered hat on his head hung down and shielded his eyes. His hands rested on the butts of two fake pistols that slotted through his belt as he stood, legs braced apart and lips tugged down in a fierce scowl.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Jason said. I hate waiting went unspoken between them. They both disliked a lack of punctuality in themselves and others.
“I figured as much.” Flynn stretched his arms and arched his back, turning his head to hide the smirk that formed when Jason’s eyes devoured him. They were always starving for each other, even when they had just finished. Besides, Jason deserved to be punished after dragging him away from his book and pajamas and their quiet apartment.
“Why have I been waiting?”
“Why have you been waiting?”
“Why didn’t you come to the office immediately upon your arrival?”
“Why did you lie to me to get me here?”
Jason’s eyes flashed beneath the brim of the battered hat. “Because I—” He stopped and snarled, hands fisting the pistol butts.
Snorting, Alissa rolled her eyes and stepped between them. She pointed a long, red fingernail at Jason. “Captain, you called Flynn and lied to him to get him to come in because you’re bored and lonely.” When he would’ve contested that, she shushed him. She turned and pointed that same finger at Flynn. “You gave up your day off because you love the captain more than whatever masterpiece Jonathan Froste has written now.”
Sara placed a hand over her plump lips and snickered.
Flynn scowled. Of course, he loved reading too, but books were only a short escape from real life—a vacation without actually going anywhere. Jason was who he came home to.
“Now stop being stubborn, Fighting Flynn. Be a good first mate and attend to your captain.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, causing him to groan loudly as Sara bit her lip to keep from bursting into laughter.
Thoroughly chastised, Flynn swung his boots onto the wood flooring and got to his feet. He spread his arms wide and pasted a beaming grin on his face. “Jason, I’m here! Sorry for the delay. Traffic was a bitch! What can I do to help?”
Jason’s lips twitched. “I need you in the office.”
“But my supper’s not here yet!” Flynn protested. He was really hungry.
“Now, Flynn!” Jason’s voice dropped an octave and got all gravelly. He didn’t take that tone often; Flynn loved it when he did. It made his breeches uncomfortably tight, because that tone was attached directly to his cock.
“I’m coming, Captain,” he purred. He winked at the girls when they snorted. “Hold supper until the captain’s finished with me, wenches.”
“Aye aye, sir!” they chorused.
Flynn and Jason wended their way through the tables, smiling and waving at regular guests but not stopping to speak with anyone. Each step Jason took was purposeful and heightened Flynn’s curiosity and arousal. His eyes had shone with a wicked light. Something was up.
Jason opened the door to their office and barked, “In!”
After they both entered the spacious room, Jason closed the door behind them. The click of the lock could barely be heard over the loudness of Flynn’s breathing, his attention immediately claimed by the object standing in the middle of the office. “Where did you find it?” he asked reverently. His cock was so hard that he was shocked it didn’t slice through the cloth constraining it like a cutlass piercing flesh.
“I had it custom made.”
Flynn stepped forward, eyes riveted on the wooden sculpture. They had hunted for one of these for ages with no luck. “Must’ve been expensive.”
“It’s worth every penny,” Jason said, voice gruff.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Flynn’s fingers trailed over the smooth wood. It had been sanded to perfection; not a single inch of it was rough or splintery.
Jason stepped up behind him and rubbed his hard cock against Flynn’s ass. Flynn pushed back, and they both moaned. “Worth abandoning your day off for?” asked Jason. His breath wisped along the shell of Flynn’s ear and sent shivers serenading down his spine.
“Hell yes!” His head fell back as Jason began nibbling his neck, teeth teasing the straining tendons. “You’re forgiven,” he added. Sex fantasies trumped novels—always. Even people with amnesia knew that.
After taking a step back, Jason drew one of his pistols and poked it into Flynn’s lower back. “Flynn Olsen, also known as Fighting Flynn and First Mate Flynn, you are hereby charged with piracy, plundering, pillaging, and unlawfully lusting after your captain’s cock. How do you plead?”
“Oh, Captain,” Flynn drawled as he forced his ass backward and rubbed it against the steel-hard length behind him, “I am completely and utterly guilty.”
“I know,” Jason whispered against his ear before straightening. “Therefore, I sentence you to half an hour in the stocks.”
Flynn shivered as Jason lifted the top bar of the stocks, and he willingly put his hands and neck in the carved grooves. His breathing sped up as Jason settled the top over him and locked it in place. A booted foot kicked his legs farther apart, and then metal cuffs were being closed around his ankles over the tops of his boots.
Groaning, he hung his head as much as he could. When Jason’s hands went to work at his belt buckle and pants, Flynn had to fight back his orgasm. He knew they shouldn’t be doing this here. The Golden Galleon was a restaurant, their livelihood, and the Health Department would throw a hissy fit if there was evidence of sex occurring inside a food establishment.
At that moment, he just didn’t give a flying fuck.
Only Sara and Alissa had any idea of what they might possibly be doing, and neither girl would dare to say anything. The Golden Galleon provided a fun and safe work environment that paid good wages. Rich clients tipped well. It wasn’t something most people would willingly forfeit.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Jason admitted as he peeled Flynn’s pants down just enough to reveal his bare ass. He slid one blunt finger down Flynn’s crack, dipping it inside the hole that was still slightly loose from their morning activities.
Thank fuck he hadn’t known about this, or else Flynn would’ve been useless right now. He would’ve spent all day jacking off to thoughts of being fucked like this: open and helpless. “Oh?” he managed to gasp out.
Jason fingered his prostate and grunted when Flynn pressed back, des
perately seeking more contact. “I love it when you submit to me, Flynn. When you prove that you belong to me.” Jason pushed a second finger inside with the first and bit Flynn’s earlobe. “When you give it all up for me, I want nothing more than to stuff my cock inside you and keep it there forever.”
Flynn emitted a keening whine at that, ejaculate dripping from his slit and running in a rivulet down his thigh. The muscles in his shoulders bunched, and he both hated and loved that he couldn’t thrust back farther and force the invading digits deeper.
“Does that sound good, mate?”
Flynn moaned, eyes rolling into the back of his head as Jason’s fingers prodded his prostate.
“Well, does it?”
Nodding as well as he could in the stocks, Flynn cursed his tongue for falling mute at a time like this. It sounded brilliant. He wanted that, wanted Jason, and had ever since they first started dating seriously back in college.
The sound of metal scraping against metal and a leather belt sliding through pant loops echoed through the room. Flynn could barely hear it; his heartbeat was so loud in his ears that he might as well be deaf to everything else in the world. The belt hit the floor. As clothing rustled behind him, he whined needily in the back of his throat.
Jason’s cockhead brushed across his left ass check; it was damp and all-too-ready, from the feel of things. Good. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait.
“Is this what you want?” Jason’s erection dragged down his crack, catching for a moment on his loosened hole before skipping down to kiss his balls.
Flynn nodded as best he could and groaned his assent.
“Sure ’bout that, mate? Can ye ’andle it?”
The smarmy accent almost sent him over the edge, but Jason was quick to fist the base of his erection and squeeze, staving off his release a while longer. “Yes,” Flynn finally bit out, sounding as if he had been mauled by a pride of lions.
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