Bonus Stories
A SEYCHELLE HONEYMOON - ROWAN no clothes on our honeymoon.”
Andrew bit my neck gently and sucked on the skin. I wrapped my legs around his waist and rocked my hips in retaliation.
“I walked to the next beach to buy the coconuts,” he whispered. “Didn’t want to shock our neighbors.”
“Tempt them, more like.”
“The only one I want to tempt is you.”
Drew reached for the lube on the bed, slicked-up his hand and wrapped it around my dick, stroking me off.
“Mission accomplished,” I moaned and pushed down that tiny scrap of lycra he was wearing.
I forgot all about swimsuits and coconuts and focused solely on making love to my husband.
An hour later, sweaty but oh so satisfied, we went for a quick dip in the ocean to cool down.
Afterwards, we sat on the beach under an umbrella, enjoying the fresh coconut water and a picnic.
The cottage had a fully stocked fridge, and I’d surprised my husband by making him breakfast. I was going to hire a chef for the week, but Andrew wanted total privacy, and it turned out, my husband had the right idea.
I wasn’t a great cook by any means, but I was learning.
I was used to eating out, or when I was traveling on my yacht, Now, Voyager , having someone cook for me.
But preparing a meal for my new husband gave me a kind of primal satisfaction.
I wanted to take care of Andrew the same way he took care of me.
Our relationship taught me that true love wasn’t just saying the words but living them in everyday gestures.
“This quiche is amazing,” Andrew stated as he took the final bite of the egg pie I’d baked. The pastry was ready-made, but everything else I did from scratch, and I was damn proud of it. “You’ve got hidden talents, Ro, but then I’m not surprised. You’re great at anything you set your mind to.”
He leaned in and gave me a claiming kiss, sharing not just his lips but a few tantalizing crumbs along with them.
“So, does this mean I can give up my day job?”
“Real estate mogul turned masterchef?” Andrew quipped and gave me a lazy smile and a wink that captured all my attention. “Maybe not just yet.”
I reached down and pinched his sexy arse.
“Enough eating. And talking,” I whispered. “We’ve got husbandly duties to perform.”
“Still making me work hard,” Andrew teased as he stretched out on the beach towel, leaning back to show off his already tanned body.
The sight of him made my breath catch and my cock fill.
I rolled over until I was on top of him, straddling his waist.
“That’s right. Only now it’s 24/7, 365 days a year, and all your vacation time too,” I chuckled.
“You drive a hard bargain,” Andrew quipped as he pulled me in tighter. “But I can work with that.”
“Forever?” I asked, punctuating my statement with a sultry kiss.
“And ever.”
THE CROCKPOT - GEORGE mapping routes, organizing staff, and triple checking the weather forecast.
As usual, I forgot all about dinner and got lost in my work.
That evening, I headed downstairs to the dining room to find the table set up for two, with pillar candles, white flowers, and a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc. Soft jazz music echoed from the built-in speakers.
We’d docked in the port of Cannes today and the crew were enjoying a night off.
There were no staff on site this evening. A rare moment of complete privacy.
When I glanced at the table again, I couldn’t help the smile that graced my face. It brought back sweet memories of my first dinner with Rafe. The evening that had changed my life forever.
I also noticed that the ship was wasn’t on fire and there were no black billows of smoke emanating from below deck, AKA the kitchen. Could it be that my husband had broken his bad stroke of culinary luck?
I started to uncork the wine when I heard the familiar sound of my husband’s laughter. Rafe came into view, a gorgeous smile on his face as he proudly carried the crockpot to the table.
“See! I did it. There’s no smoke alarms or sprinklers going off. It’s all good.”
“I’m impressed,” I replied as he set the pot on a trivet.
I pulled him into my arms and greeted him with a languid kiss. All thoughts of food vanished. Rafe was the only thing I wanted to devour.
“Let’s eat later,” I whispered as I gently nipped his neck, inhaling his sexy scent. “Much, much later.”
Rafe pulled back and grinned at me seductively. His smile was my total undoing. I would do anything, anything, for this man. He had me wrapped around his beautiful fingers and he knew it.
He pushed me down on a dining chair and straddled my lap. My excited cock was on board with this plan. I gripped his arse and pulled him in tighter.
“I want you to sit back and relax,” Rafe whispered as he nipped my earlobe. “And enjoy my dinner.”
“Is dinner a euphemism for your cock?”
Rafe laughed and kissed my neck. “No, sweetheart. Food first, sex later.”
My growl of frustration didn’t go unnoticed.
“I promise it’ll be worth it,” Rafe insisted. “I made beouf bourgignon.”
I sighed but conceded to my husband.
“You serve the food; I’ll pour the wine.”
Then I swatted his arse for teasing me.
Rafe slid off my lap and I got up and poured us each a glass of wine.
“How does it taste?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened the lid yet. The instructions said to put the ingredients in and to leave it covered while cooking. Something about maintaining the right level of heat.”
Once we’d enjoyed a few sips of wine, Rafe put his glass down and took the lid off the pot.
An acrid smell filled the room.
“This doesn’t look right,” he stated.
I leaned over and looked in the pot. “Did you put charcoal briquettes in the pot instead of the beef and veg?”
Rafe’s scowl had me fighting back a chuckle.
“Sorry, love.” I struggled not to laugh. “I think you forgot to add liquid. It looks exceedingly dry.”
Every piece of beef, if it was beef, was blackened and shriveled.
“I added a whole bottle of wine! I don’t understand.”
“How long were you supposed to cook it for?”
“Four hours,” Rafe paused. “But I left it on for ten. I wanted to make sure it was well done.”
“Well, it’s certainly that. What temperature did you cook it at?”
“I don’t know. I plugged it in and pressed start.”
“Did you read the manual?”
Rafe waved me off. “It was five hundred pages long, George. No one reads them.”
“I do.”
I was all about plans and charts and details, details, details. Rafe rolled his eyes.
“It shouldn’t matter what temperature,” he insisted. “Fucking Dylan. He told me it was foolproof.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say something sarcastic that would have me sleeping in the crew quarters for the foreseeable future.
“Shut up,” Rafe warned as he caught my expression.
I pulled my husband into my arms and kissed his sulky pout.
“I appreciate your efforts, and I love you for it. But I think this is the final proof that we should steer clear of cooking from now on. Come on, we’re going into town for dinner.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Rafe sighed and looked up at me. “Our favorite bistro?”
I shook my head. “Sushi.”
Rafe looked down at the remnants of dinner and then back at me.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”