Hooked (WET, #1)

by K. C. Falls

  I clicked on one of the generic white pages listings for Ft. Lauderdale and noted the relatives listed: Jackson Wolf, Francesca Wolf, Clarissa Wolf.

  Jackson turned out to be the most interesting one. There was a boatload of information about the hotel chain mogul and his empire. Born in 1952. That would make him the right age to be Morgan's father. I scrolled through a few articles outlining the senior Wolf's many accomplishments, philanthropic endowments and miscellaneous appearances at this or that social function. One article talked about his interest in protecting the ocean's resources and made mention of his boat, El Lobo.

  "Ah, Daddy's boat, the hand-me-down." I thought. I was starting to put together a mental picture of Morgan Wolf as a rather do-nothing rich kid sailing around the world at his father's expense. So much the better. It was a convenient box to put him in.

  I had been raised to respect hard work, not silver spoons in undeserving, if beautiful mouths. I was thankful for a reason not to find him irresistible. I needed a reason after just having his naked self take my libido on a little trip to the stars. Damn, he was smokin’.

  Chapter 4—Morgan

  After I left the kitchen my cock deflated rapidly. The bastard was way too quick to respond to the sight of Lara standing there in the pale light. I had wondered what her body looked like under those shapeless chef's togs and now I knew. I figured she'd be slim so her curves took me, and my boy, by surprise. The tiny little top rode high above a waist that looked like it would easily fit in the span of my hands and made the curve of her hips seem like a juicy, swollen pear. I was amazed that someone so tiny could look so ripe. I knew I stared for too long, but it was impossible to tear my eyes away.

  Her breasts had an ever so gentle slope down to her tight puckered nipples. I could make out the dark outlines of her areolas under the nearly sheer fabric straining over generous globes that begged for a couple of hands to wrap around them. I'd almost forgotten what a nature-made tit looked like. Most of the women I knew looked like they'd literally had half of a perfect cantaloupe sutured into their chest.

  The miniscule triangle covering her pussy told me she was rockin’ a natural vibe. I could see the dark shadow under it. Actual pubic hair was almost never a feature of the women I knew. Every so often there'd be a landing strip or an itty bitty triangle. One chick had had a little heart-shaped patch that struck me as awfully innocent for the slut that she was. I'd always told myself I liked the bald pussy thing, but somehow the thought of burying my face into a sweet little bush sent the blood rushing to my dick.

  I popped open one of the bottles I had managed to hold onto and drained it dry. Closing my eyes only made the image of Lara clearer. My hand wandered down to my cock. It was twitching again as I recalled the image of her standing nearly naked and within my reach.

  I gave myself permission. Head against the pillow and hand between my thighs I played a mind-movie starring a brown-eyed girl.

  Her pink rosebud of a mouth shone in the pale light. She had licked her lips, readying them to slide over the head of my cock. I watched as she ran her tongue around the head flicking the ridge, driving me wild to be inside her. She was teasing me, torturing me slowly as she popped the swollen end in and out of her mouth.

  A small hand worked the base of my shaft, up and down with a little twisting motion that made me swell even more. When she reached under my erection to take my balls into her hand, they undulated inside the sack. She rolled them softly around with strong fingers and I felt the sharp edges of her nails lightly graze the skin behind them.

  Finally she took me deeply into her mouth, sucking hard on my length and taking more of me inside her than I could have imagined. The humming sounds of her pleasure as she worked me in and out vibrated on the rigid flesh and I arched my hips, fucking her face and locking my eyes on her tawny gaze. I moaned a deep growl when she quickened the pace and I felt the brink of orgasm approach. She sensed it and moved away from me. She was drawing my pleasure out; taking me to the edge and pulling me back.

  I watched her rise slightly and position my cock between her breasts. Taut nipples tangled in the dark curls at the base, pink against black. Squeezing the creamy globes around my shaft, she enveloped me in her soft flesh. I was so engorged that the head was nearly purple against her perfect paleness. I watched as I disappeared again and again into the channel of bliss she made for my pleasure. The sight ignited me.

  Pearly drops were starting to leak from my head and she used them to lubricate her chest, painting the soft sides of her beautiful mounds with my fluid. She looked up at me and smiled like an angelic devil before she plunged me back into her warmth.

  I was ready to fuck her. I ached to be inside her and feel the wet heat of her pussy. Sensing the time was right, she pulled herself further up my body and impaled herself on my shaft. There was no preamble. She bucked against me, riding me hard and fast, grinding her clit into the bone when she had me as deep as he could go.

  Time left the room. My eyes clamped shut and I listened to the sound of her cries as she approached her climax. When her body began to pull at my cock from deep inside and her thrusts became short and sharp, I knew release. I felt her swallow the great jets of my explosion with each wave of her orgasm. I growled my pleasure as she drank me in.

  I pulled hard on myself and milked my cock until jets of hot, sticky semen shot up and splattered back against my belly. I couldn't remember the last time I'd jerked off. There were so many willing recipients for my come that it was rarely necessary. I had no illusions that it was because of my dashing good looks alone. I never underestimated the sex appeal of money. It was irrelevant that I actually had very little money, the important thing was that women thought I did.

  I got up and sponged the sticky cream from my body and couldn't help but feel a little sheepish. It was the same adolescent feeling of having done something forbidden. It actually felt better than the last few encounters I'd had with a flesh and blood woman. There was no one in my bed requiring small talk. There would be no awkward moment of departure.

  There was only a lovely fantasy. I relaxed and drifted off peacefully with a picture perfect image in my head. Softness surrounded me, misty and warm.

  It seemed I'd been asleep just minutes when I woke in a drenching, cold sweat.

  I sucked in great gulps of air as my consciousness struggled to right itself. The dream was as vivid as they always were. Over the years, the variations became less and less predictable as my subconscious added more and more experiences to the material it had to work with.

  As a child, the dream was almost always the same but just as terrifying. The kind hands, the soft brown eyes, the hair, always trundled into a tidy bun. The white uniform. The silent protest and the helpless submission.

  Only this time, the sweet face tending my fabricated illness was Lara's. It angered me that the angel of my waking fantasy dissolved into a life-sucking memory out of my surreal childhood.

  Dreams can seem amazingly real; at least mine have always been so. As a kid, my dreams weren't always awful. Sometimes they'd take me far away to homes with wide green lawns where bikes and balls were strewn in every corner. Those were the times I'd hated waking up. I'd conjure golden retrievers begging at the table and tuxedo cats lounging on sunny windowsills. My sister was always there, only she was never the sickly, pale Clari. In boyish flights of fancy my sister was as sturdy as the big imaginary oak where she would swing and yelp with delight as I spun her around on an old truck tire. In the dark world of my nights, she ran through summer sun and winter snow, golden and glowing with the God-given energy of a healthy kid.

  Endless hours of television and an enviable library of books helped me populate my subconscious with families fighting over drumsticks at Sunday tables, playing board games together on pizza night and, most bizarrely of all, camping in great mountain forests. Funny, when I finally got the chance to sleep under the stars, the reality didn't even come close to the fantasy.

  The v
iolet blue of first light meant I thankfully didn't have to fight for sleep anymore. I threw on a pair of shorts, brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face. I studied the stubble on my chin and wondered if I should clean myself up for Phoebe and 'the girls'. When I decided that those chicks would probably be into fashionable scruff, I picked up my razor and returned my face to baby-bottom smoothness. I was ornery and put out that Phoebe had forced herself on me again.

  Women have always told me I'm handsome. Some have called me beautiful. Funny, but when I looked at myself—past the exterior—I never saw a good looking man. I always saw a weak little boy. My skin is tan and my muscles are strong, but there's a pale kid underneath with skinny arms. The kid's never far from the next fever, the next headache, the next rash. The kid doesn't catch big fish 'cause he's never well enough to go that far from shore. The kid doesn't have any friends because he might catch something from them. The only friend he has is a dark-haired little girl who's just as pale and just as frightened as he is.

  Chapter 5—Lara

  I wasn't prepared when Morgan popped into the kitchen at seven-thirty the next morning. I hadn't slept at all after our encounter in the kitchen. And I was still more than a little shaken up by the memory of his naked body a few feet away from me. Putting that sight out of my immediate thoughts was on my list of goals for the morning. Stowing away the provisions was my priority. I expected a parade of deliveries I hoped would arrive in time for us to make way on time. The distraction of my stubborn horniness was not going to help me work more efficiently.

  I was on my knees in the pantry rearranging some dry goods to make room for incoming supplies. Considering the positively nuclear effect his presence had on me, I'm surprised I didn't sense him before he spoke.

  "Good morning, Chef."

  My head hit the shelf above me with a resounding thwack at the sound of his voice.

  "Good morning, Mr. Wolf." I rubbed the back of my skull. I was sure to have a knot there soon.

  He reached down to help me to my feet. He took both of my hands in his and I wound up standing close enough to him to smell his just-showered morning scent and feel the heat of his body. The masculine lines of his face had been sharpened by a clean shave. I had the urge to lean right into him. He emanated an energy that pulled on me somewhere deep in the hidden corners of my psyche. My whole body knew him.

  He took a step backward as if in retreat. Maybe he sensed my reaction.

  "I'd like a couple of poached eggs on wheat toast. Coffee. O.J. and whatever fruit you've got that looks good." If he was at all embarrassed about being naked in front of me just hours before it didn't register on his face. He flashed his brilliant teeth at me as if a little voice had just whispered "you're supposed to smile now" in his ear. His canine teeth were quite prominent and they gave his mouth a slightly feral look.

  He didn't give me a chance to answer. He just turned and left much like he had in the wee small hours. Under his crisp white shorts was an ass that I could only manage to think of as 'biteable'. I stared after him as the door made smaller and smaller swings. Swoosh, swoosh, swoos, swoo, swo, sw, s. When it finally came to a stop I unfroze and went to peek through the small window into the dining room. I stood on my tiptoes and watched him. He was seated at the table with his back to me reading something on his tablet. His bare feet rested on another chair. Like his hands, his feet were long and graceful. There were white stripes where flip-flop straps had kept the sun away. I found that oddly sexy.

  Dark hair curled over his collar in shiny spirals that seemed to beg to be wrapped around my fingers. The pale lemon-colored shirt he wore accentuated the deep tan of his arms. I would come to recognize the shirt as his 'uniform'. I knew the brand. It was the shirt every angler or anyone who wanted to look like a serious fisherman wore. I'd seen them in a dozen colors on hundreds of men. Somehow, none of them ever made the utilitarian garment look quite as fine. Somewhere, a Columbia ad was missing a model.

  I gave myself a mental shake. Was there something completely screwed up in me that caused me to be stupidly and instantly attracted to all the wrong kinds of men? Because certainly there was nothing about Morgan Wolf's behavior or demeanor that suggested he even recognized me as an actual human being. I had already dismissed the hard-on as a bizarre reaction to a surprise situation. No, I was just a cook who happened to be able to recognize a Renoir when I saw one. Big deal.

  My idiotic and completely unrequited crush on my former asshole chef had apparently taught me nothing. Nor had my disastrous liaisons with the only two 'boyfriends' I had ever had. I had almost come to the conclusion that I was better off utterly single and celibate. Almost. I knew enough to know I hadn't quite 'gotten' the whole picture. I had promised myself after Nathan that the next time I would choose wisely. I'd find someone who was safer and more down to earth. That's how Jake happened. Then I actually took a step backward with the restaurant crush. That one put me just slightly above 'too stupid to live'.

  I told myself that it was perfectly natural to be somewhat overwhelmed by my new hot boss. My experience didn't include a lot of men like Morgan Wolf. In fact my experience didn't include a lot of men period.

  Nathan, damn him, had been my first. I dated a few guys in high school but they always struck me as way too focused on the destination rather than the journey. It wasn't prudishness on my part. I would have gladly had sex with a guy I felt connected. But I simply didn't feel it.

  Nathan had been a year ahead of me in culinary school. He'd dropped out of college to pursue his dream of being a chef and struck me as very dedicated and intense. He had carefully cultivated a rough style that I mistook for an anti-hero kind of charm. At nineteen, I thought I was way, way too old to be a virgin. After Nathan and I had dated for a while I made up my mind that I needed to get it over with.

  When the time came, I wanted to back out but he pressured me. He made me feel so guilty that I went through with it, hating myself for being so weak and later hating him for pushing me. I idiotically thought that the act of sex would miraculously elevate a so-so relationship to love. Instead, when he rolled off my body the first time, all I felt was an urgent need to bathe.

  I never could make up my mind if what Nathan had done to me was date rape. No, he hadn't drugged me. Instead he used shame and a pissy attitude to get what he wanted.

  We stayed a half-hearted couple until he graduated. He took it for granted that I'd be available and like a fool, I was. The sex was never great, the friendship wasn't and love never happened. When he moved along I was happy to see him go. It was the end of a bad romance.

  I thought I'd be able to work my way back to some kind of self respect when I met Jake.

  Jake was the epitome of a nice guy. He was a good friend and there was a lot of mutual respect. We didn't argue. Ever. My family adored him. While most of the guys in the program were fighting to mark their territories, Jake stood out like a steady sore thumb. He was jovial, intelligent and boring. It took me almost a year to figure out that I wanted more than nice.

  With Jake, the physical part of the relationship was almost an afterthought. The earth did not move. It almost felt like a mutual obligation. We had this 'thing'. Adults who have a 'thing' have sex. We were mediocre between the sheets. Lukewarm at best. We parted with the same lack of drama that imbued the whole relationship. It added a nice measure of disappointment to what my parents already felt about my choices in life.

  After that, I spent some much needed time alone. When I landed the Topanga gig I suppose my healthy young hormones were looking for somebody to rage for. That I chose Chef Asshole proved to me that I could indeed manage three strikes in a row. Licking my wounds and moving on was part of hopefully getting back in the game.

  But not with Morgan Wolf. Okay, so the man made every nerve in my body stand straight up and say 'howdy!' That's what beautiful naked men are supposed to do to healthy young women. It was a freak encounter.

  I rubbed the knot on my head. It wasn't
about the man himself. It was about having my boss surprise me: first naked in the night and now silently. Yes, that was it. That's what rendered me speechless and slightly out of breath. Silly me.

  I was actually laughing out loud at myself when Captain Richard came in with Angelo, the steward who was assigned as my helper.

  "You're in a good mood this morning." Richard put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze. "I see the Boss didn't cut you any slack." He left his arm in place just a hair longer than he needed to. "Nice to finally have a sunny face in the kitchen after the Honduran troll."

  "Care for some breakfast? I'm cooking eggs so if you want some . . ."

  "Nah, I brought a bag of breakfast sandwiches and donuts and threw them in the crew mess. I figured you'd have enough to do this morning without feeding us." He flashed me a sweet smile. Richard was a man who'd be hard not to like. Richard was the kind of man I should have been attracted to.

  "Thanks. I'm going to be swamped."

  The first delivery from the seafood purveyor arrived just as the water for the eggs started to boil. The meat guy was right behind him. Thankfully, Angelo was as efficient as he was strong. I would have preferred to put the orders away myself, but it wasn't the right time to screw up something as simple as a couple of poached eggs on toast.

  Richard helped himself to a cup of coffee and poured another one. "I'll take this out. He takes it black." He sipped the steaming brew. "And strong just like this. Good call."

  It was a lucky guess. The waitresses at the restaurant had handled that duty. Not being much of a coffee drinker, I wasn't quite sure how much to measure into the machine. Maybe I was attaching too much importance to getting every detail right. But I was relieved that the first thing of mine he tasted would suit him all the same.

  "Good coffee, Chef. You're already an improvement over Rodrigo." Angelo had manhandled the protein orders into the cooler in record time. The guy was a machine. He watched me watching the water on the stove and sipped from his mug.