Chapter One #4
She is, in all senses of the word, stunning. All the things I noticed about her earlier are even more true tonight. Her eyes are simply mesmerizing, drawing me in and wanting to know more. And the shade of red on her full lips gives me reason to pause. Don’t stare, I remind myself.
And then there’s the cleavage she wears proudly. These could be the most perfectly shaped tits I’ve ever seen! Her smooth, tanned skin along the top of her chest is the perfect complement to her flirty, white, boho dress. That’s the shit other guys don’t notice. Thanks to Ally and Andi, I recognize a boho dress when I see it. Her gorgeous boobs are even more prevalent than at lunch and continue to be my kryptonite. I could literally spend an afternoon licking honey or chocolate off of them. Or, if given the opportunity, the thought of giving her a “pearl necklace”
makes my loins tingle. Some guys like the ass, some like legs, but I am a boob guy. Always have been. And I don’t discriminate. Large or small, it doesn’t matter.
She catches me taking her in, and it doesn’t seem to bother her. She is confident and all woman.
“DJ, have you cruised before?”
I ask to shift my attention off her body.
“Yes, but first time on Pinnacle,”
she answers. “You?”
“I have several times,”
I reply with the challenge of keeping my profession ambiguous.
“So, DJ, do you have a favorite cruise line?”
I ask, hoping to deflect from me.
“You know that one where the cocktail sauce is served in a dish and not on shirts? That one,”
she playfully responds.
“Ouch, and here I thought we had moved past that event,”
I say hopefully.
“You’re dreaming if you think a cleaning bill and an expensive bottle of bubbly is going to get you off the hook,”
she says, smiling.
There’s something so intriguing yet so familiar about this woman. I just can’t put my finger on it. However, I do know with certainty what I would like to put my finger on.
“Good evening,”
I hear from behind me as the server approaches the table. “Are you staying for dinner, sir?”
“Yes, he is, Sabrina,”
DJ interjects.
“Would you care for a drink from the bar?”
she inquires.
Looking at the goddess across the table, I ask, “If it’s ok, I think I would like a glass of champagne?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“So, AJ, what do you do?”
she asks as she raises her glass of champagne .
Damn, I thought I had skirted this topic. Think, AJ, what do you do?
“Family business, logistics,”
I respond with confidence because, technically, it’s not a lie. We move people from place to place, port to port, you get the point.
“Interesting,”
she says, but I don’t believe her. No one thinks logistics is interesting.
“How about you?”
I ask, again trying to deflect.
“I sell cocktail sauce,”
she quips.
My laugh fills the space. She’s funny and quick-witted. More, please!
“That was funny!”
I acknowledge, toasting her with my fluted champagne glass.
She nods and says, “Well, thank you, sir.”
“I write. I’m a writer,”
she stumbles through. “But since we are both here on vacation, let’s not talk about work, ce va? ”
And she speaks French?! Fucking sexy as hell.
“ Oui, ce va. Je vous souhaite une croisiere agreable, ”
I say, testing her.
“Oh, I plan on having a very enjoyable cruise, thank you,”
she replies, passing with flying colors.
She’s on fire in both her conversational skills and her appearance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marcus approaching the table. Trouble. He can’t blow my cover! He’s moving too quickly for me to intercept him. I don’t know if he can even see DJ sitting in the chair across from me as the upholstered back comes up over her head.
“Hey A…J…”
He slows my name down to an awkward greeting when he sees I’m not alone. “Good evening,”
he quickly changes his tone.
“Good evening, Chef. This is my friend DJ.”
With a confused look at me and a smile at her, he says, “Welcome to Emilio’s. I’m Marcus, the executive chef on the ship.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,”
she replies.
He stays in character and explains, “We have a lot of wonderful entrees on the menu. If I were to make suggestions for pasta, the four-cheese lasagna is near perfection. For the fish tonight, go with the grilled sea bass, and if you feel like a steak, the filet with lobster tail will melt in your mouth.”
“So many choices. Chef, I do have one question: How is your cocktail sauce?”
she asks, smirking directly at me.
I want this woman!
I grin, and Marcus is slightly confused.
“A little spicy, but that quickly dissipates so that you’re not left with a burning sensation,”
he answers.
“Good, I like spicy,”
she declares, still looking at me.
Check, please!
Delaney
I have no idea what time it is.
What I do know is that we’re the last two people in the dining room and have been for a long time.
Seriously, everyone else has left.
I’m sure they want us to leave, but I’m not going anywhere.
Neither would you if you were sitting across the table from the smartest, funniest, and most genuine man you’ve ever met.
Oh, and he happens to be the hottest fucking guy on the planet! Mr.
Godiva, aka AJ, has officially become my cruise crush.
He sits across the table from me, eyes piercing my soul, his manicured hands folded, leaning forward, looking directly at me and occasionally my chest.
His hands are large.
I wonder what they would feel like gliding over my naked skin, my boobs, my ass.
His trimmed chest hair shows beneath the top of his white shirt.
His laugh makes me smile, and whatever cologne he’s wearing makes me want to jump across the table.
Seriously, I could recreate one of my best round-offs over the table and into his lap!
It’s also the little details.
His jacket molds to his shoulders and biceps, indicating it is clearly custom-made.
The cuff from his perfectly tailored shirt is adorned with little Chinese symbols, like initials, sewn in dark blue, that match the dark blue thread around each buttonhole.
He wears a beautiful, obviously expensive timepiece on his wrist that he hasn’t looked at once.
Not even a glance.
Oh yeah, and he speaks French! Very sexy! From all the context clues I’ve gathered, he comes from money, but he’s not arrogant or loud about it.
He is thoughtful, smart and educated, worldly and sophisticated, safe and familiar.
Comfortable.
But not in a big brother kind of way.
Comfortable in a way that makes me feel like I’ve known him my entire life, and nothing is off the table, including my thoughts of what I would like to do with him on this table.
He has been 100% engaged with me, my words, my opinions (and I certainly have those), and the minutes have turned into hours.
I suggested that since we were both on vacation, we shouldn’t talk about work and our professions, and he agreed, in French nonetheless.
It sounds silly, I know, but I don’t want anyone on the cruise to know my purpose for this trip.
I want to be able to make observations without the staff or passengers influencing my experience.
Keeping a low profile will allow me to have an authentic experience.
And I tend to avoid the topic of my Olympic participation when first meeting someone, especially if they don’t immediately recognize me.
There’s never an easy way to drop it into a conversation.
“Ya, and speaking of gold medals, I have one.”
Or, “Do you ever watch gymnastics?”
See what I mean? When it eventually comes up, there’s always an immediate shift in how I’m perceived.
In this situation, four hours have gone by, and at this point, what is the point? Our conversation has been way more interesting than me trying to squeeze in my Olympic resume.
The fact that AJ has given me no indication that he’s seen me on a Wheaties box at the grocery store allows me to be a girl flirting with a handsome stranger.
I know we ate a lot of food, all of it delicious, and don’t even get me started on the desserts.
The chef made us a special appetizer plate, not on the menu, with a selection of meats, cheeses, and a special pasta.
I went with the lasagna, and he went with the surf and turf.
I offered him a fork of my pasta, and he returned the gesture.
What the fuck am I doing? I just met this guy, and we’re already sharing food?
The chef came out and called AJ by his name.
I also noticed that when Sabrina asked for our room keys, he waved me off and handed them his card, his black card.
I have never seen a black key card before.
Seriously, how many times do you have to cruise to get that color and for the executive chef to know your name?
“Should we leave?” I ask.
“Up to you, but if you’re up for it, I know a place…”
he says, testing the waters.
I’m curious and always up for something new. “Okay,”
I respond without hesitation.
He stands and reaches around the table to help me with the large chair. It’s the first time standing in hours for both of us, and we’re a little stiff. That’s when his glorious scent hits me again, whoosh! I will never get tired of that. He stands taller than I remember, and his chest is something special. Strong, comforting, sexy.
We weave around the tables in the empty dining room. The room is empty, and it almost feels like we shouldn’t be here – like we could get in trouble if we get caught. But he walks with confidence, like he owns the place. It’s sexy.
He escorts me to an open-air bar on the 15 th floor. We were just sitting eleven floors below where we’re currently standing. We find seats in the comfortable, wicker chairs scattered along the railing. The lights from the ship reflect off the water as the waves crash against the ship below. The sky is clear, the salt air is warm, and I’m not ready for this night to be over.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
he turns and asks.
“Moscow Mule, please, or should I say the Kyiv Mule?”
I request as I try to be politically correct.
He nods, turns, orders, and looks back at me as another rush of tingles hits between my thighs. He’s been doing that all night. Just a simple look that conveys, “Hey, you’re beautiful, and I want to devour you.”
What am I going to do with this man? I mean, I know what I want to do, but honestly, it’s only night one.
Here’s the deal: I started gymnastics at a very early age and competed from age ten to twenty. There are a lot of things that I didn’t get to do as a “typical teenager.”
Again, I also got to do a lot of things “typical teenagers”
normally didn’t get to do, like meet the president, travel around Europe, or have their image plastered on a Wheaties box.
I was home-schooled and didn’t attend a traditional high school because of my training schedule and competitions. That meant no Friday night football games, no prom, no dating, no make-out sessions on the sofa, nope, none of it. When I went back to college after Rio, most of the guys just wanted to hook up with the Olympic Gold Medalist. I always had my guard up because I didn’t want some asshole taking pictures of me passed out naked in bed and posting it on his Insta page. Since then, I’ve remained cautious since I’m a spokesperson for several companies that have very detailed “personal conduct”
clauses in the contracts.
I’ve been in a couple of relationships and had my heart broken once. Shattered, actually. If I’m being honest, only itsy-bitsy tiny pieces were left behind. SparkNotes version, we were Olympic sweethearts who the press fell in love with. I thought we were serious and that he could be “the guy.”
We stayed together after Rio, me returning to college, and him moving to LA to begin a career in modeling and acting. We started strong with FaceTime, calls, and no fewer than thirty texts a day as we tried to navigate a long-distance relationship. But the texts became shorter and less frequent as his popularity grew.
We finally planned a weekend, and I flew to LA to reconnect and get our relationship back on track. Everything was set, and he said he would meet me at the airport. Spoiler alert! He didn’t show. I can still taste the bile in my mouth when I say it. I waited for three hours, texting and calling with no response. For those who have experienced anything close to this, you understand the full range of anxiety, fear, anger, confusion, humiliation, and sadness running through me. Finally, I received a text that he was on his way and his phone was off because he was in an audition for a major motion picture. I calmed myself down and gained my composure before his arrival.
We managed to get through the rough start, but honestly, something just didn’t feel right, like there was something off, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It all became clear that evening when we went out with some of his friends. One leaned over the table and asked him how his audition went yesterday. Yup, yesterday. Not today, yesterday. Immediately, our eyes connected, and he knew there was nothing he could say that would change my mind. I went back to his apartment, packed my bags, spent the night in a hotel, and flew home the next morning.
That was several years and many therapy sessions ago. I found out months after my visit that he had been seeing someone the whole time we were “together,”
and he ended up marrying her. Then she divorced him two months after she found him in bed with her sister! Karma! #asshole
Since then, I still haven’t found a guy that I could see myself falling in love with. The sex has been infrequent and marginal at best, never earth-shattering. I think they were just as inexperienced as me. I had my first O at twenty-two when I took my best friend’s advice and ordered a silver bullet. Seriously, every woman should have one in their nightstand.
I guess you could say that in my late twenties, I’m still playing catchup. I’m ready for life-altering sex with someone interested in going the distance. The idea of having a guy between my thighs excites me to no end. It’s just that so far, no one has known what they were doing. Anyway, whether he’s that guy or not, I’m really digging the gorgeous man walking toward me with my Kyiv Mule looking like a tall glass of “I want to fuck you.”
I’ve never had a one-night stand, but this guy is making a case for breaking that streak.
“Here you go,”
he says as he hands me my copper mug. “Okay, favorite place to travel?” he asks.
“Tough question. Domestically or internationally?” I ask.
“Both,”
he demands.
“Domestically, Two Lights State Park, Cape Elizabeth, Maine,”
I answer like I’m on a game show.
“That was fast. Why?”
he inquires.
“My family affectionately refers to this place as ‘The Rocks.’ It’s just outside Portland on the rocky coast of Maine. Everyone is familiar with Portland Headlight—that’s the one in most of the pictures. But Two Lights is just a couple of miles down the coast. It’s usually quiet except for the sounds of waves rolling over and crashing against the rocks. We went there when I was a kid. We played games, picnicked, and then took naps on the rock formations that fell into the Atlantic,”
I reminisce.
“Sounds like a special place,”
he says gently.
God, his eyes are killing me! So intense and intoxicating.
“When was the last time you were there?”
“It’s probably been three years, maybe four. Most people like going in the summer, but for me, it’s fall. There’s something special about the crisp fall weather, wearing a large, oversized sweater, the foliage, and a cup of hot clam chowdah and clam strips from the Lobster Shack that time of year.”
It occurs to me that I’ve never shared that with anyone before. I guess no one has ever asked. Hell, at this point, he could ask me for my Amazon password and my bank account number, and I probably wouldn’t hesitate. There’s just something so comfortable about this man. He’s genuinely interested in learning more about me. Not the gold medal gymnast, but me, just Delaney, and it feels exciting and scary all at the same time.
“And internationally?” he asks.
“That’s a tough one. There are so many. But if I were to really think about it, it would be…can I say two?”
I ask, pleading for an exception.
“Of course,”
he indulges my request.
“Okay, in Europe, it would be Italy, all of Italy,”
I answer, smiling. “I love Rome and eating gelato at the Trevi Fountain. I love walking through the ruins in Pompeii, and I’ve stayed in a farmhouse outside of Assisi.”
“Technically, that was three,”
he points out, still grinning. “It’s a great list. And your second?”
“It’s so hard, but I have really fallen in love with Vietnam. The beaches in Nha Trang and Phu Quoc are breathtaking. And the nightlife, energy, and food in Ho Chi Minh rival New York City. ”
“I love Ho Chi Minh, but I haven’t been to the beaches,”
he replies. “You get around. I mean…you travel a lot,”
he corrects himself, amusing both of us.
Not having a clue what time it is, I realize there’s no one left at the bar. All the other passengers went to bed, and we closed down our second location of the night. I yawn, and he catches me.
“Ah, it’s time for bed,” he says.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Looking at his watch for the first time, he is surprised and says, “3:18.”
“Holy shit!”
I reply. “Seriously, 3:18? I haven’t seen 3:18 a.m. in a decade!”
“I guess we should get going?”
he suggests.
“We have a sea day tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“Yes,”
he replies.
The ship is quiet as we are the only passengers on the deck. As we walk, it’s obvious that he knows the “sidewalk”
rule as he walks closer to the railing. We can see the smoke coming from the tall white stacks and hear the low rumblings from the engines below us. The warm ocean air feels good on my skin. The lounge chairs are stacked and secured. All the food stations are closed, even the soft-serve ice cream station. Crew members dressed in white overalls are spraying down the pool deck.
As we begin moving toward the elevators, my mind starts racing as to what now. There’s obviously a mutual attraction. I’m not ready for him to come to my cabin. It looks like Hurricane Delaney came through, and it’s been leveled. There's not a chance I’m taking him to my room, clean or not. And as much as I would pretty much let him do whatever he wants to my body, starting that at 3:18 a.m. is probably not the best idea.
“What floor?”
he asks when we get in the elevator.
“Ten, please,”
I reply, wondering what he’s going to do next since he didn’t press another floor.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you to your floor?”
“Sure,”
I reply. “But aren’t you on fifteen? You don’t need to ride the elevator down to ten with me.”
“I heard there’s good cocktail sauce on ten,”
he answers as the elevator descends.
Even at 3:18 a.m., the man is still witty and gorgeous. As the elevator doors open, he steps out with me.
I know I’m actually staying on Floor 9, but even though I just spent nearly nine hours with this guy, I’m not ready to give him my floor or room number. I guess I’m just being overly cautious, but I did just meet him tonight. In the words of Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman , “I’m a safety girl.”
“I hope this doesn’t sound too forward, but I had an incredible evening. Any chance I could convince you to join me for lunch tomorrow?”
Thank God! He takes all the awkward guesswork out of what’s next and is genuinely interested in seeing me again .
“Yes, absolutely, yes!”
I reply a little too eagerly.
He presses the button to go back up, and we both wait for the elevator. As the doors reopen, he looks back at me and says, “I’m an idiot for not mentioning this earlier, but you look stunning tonight.”
Brahhhhhh . This man!
I get back to my room, grab my journal, and pick up where I left off earlier this afternoon.
The terminal is clean, there are plenty of seats for passengers to wait for their boarding time, and there is a small drink station with several types of flavored water to choose from. The strawberry was sooo good!
Day 1/Day 2: So many thoughts and so tired. It’s 3:26 a.m. and I just returned to my cabin. Mr. Godiva returned at dinner, and I’ve been with him for the last nine hours! Dinner at Emilio’s was incredible. The whole note on a napkin, champagne, and the chef actually knowing AJ was quite an experience. The desserts were orgasmic, seriously, better than any sex I’ve ever had. The cannoli with strawberries and chocolate sauce dripped over it, I was done. AJ. AJ. AJ. That’s all I can think about. Going to bed.
For the record, through the entire evening, he didn’t touch me once. No hand on the small of my back as we walked together. No hand-holding. No goodnight hug. Nothing. Cautious? Don’t think so. Respectful? Yes. A gentleman? Yes. Whatever he is, he’s exciting to me. He’s left me counting the hours until I see him tomorrow.
Andrew
As I lay naked in bed, I can’t stop thinking about DJ.
Even at 3:30, according to the clock on my phone, I’m feeling the need to release some pent-up tension.
I feel my cock stir, thinking about her naked.
Thinking about her beautiful, full rack and sucking on her hard nipples, it doesn’t take long before I’m holding my stiff cock.
I imagine the feel of her thighs on my cheeks, my tongue on her clit, tasting her, and her coming on my face.
Running my hands over her, kissing her neck, exploring every inch of her.
Wondering what she looks like in the shower, water dripping off her tight body.
Pumping harder and faster, I find relief when I feel the warmth shoot across my stomach, as my body shudders thinking about her coming with me.
Lunch will not come as fast as I just.