Chapter 41 Cheating
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Cheating
HENRY
We’d been sailing steadily north in international waters for two sunny, delightful, somewhat-torturous days.
Delightful because the weather was utterly incredible for May. I’d found myself abandoning my computer and the new features I was developing for Tickle and heading to the upper deck, where Ri alternated between basking in the sun and lolling about on the shady outdoor lounge.
Torturous because Ri was basking in the sun and lolling about in a bikini. The tiny thing was practically begging to be untied and peeled from her perfect body. I longed to see the tan lines those tiny straps would leave on her skin. Longed to run my tongue along them.
“I wish I could use the swim spa,” she sighed, rousing me from my dirty thoughts. She reached for the bottle of sunscreen on the table and propped her legs up, smearing the white cream down her toned calf. “I was just getting into a routine again with my training.”
“Why—” I cleared my raspy throat— “Why can’t you?”
“Josie says it’s too dangerous while we’re cruising.” She moved her palm up, massaging sunscreen into her thighs. My jaw went slack. And when she parted her legs to smear the cream along her inner thighs, I stood abruptly and marched to the bow.
My pants were too tight, and my head was filled with a plethora of bad ideas. Bad ideas about breaking the rules again … and again, and again.
I needed to think about something else.
“Have you changed your mind about the Olympics?” I asked, keeping my back to her, hiding my very physical reaction.
“I still think they’ll always remain a dream.” Was her voice closer? Oh God, was she coming over here, smelling like warm summery skin while I was battling a monstrous erection?
“But I was talking to Levi … you remember, the rower we met that first time at the pool? I’ve seen him and his partner a few times now.”
I nodded jerkily. Her voice was very close now.
“And he suggested the Masters Games. Can you please get my back?”
I stiffened, slowly turning. She was facing away from me, thank God. But the sight of her, with nothing but a thin Lycra tie between me and her bare back, was doing nothing to reduce the blood flow to my groin.
She pulled her mane of honey hair to the side, exposing the elegant column of her neck. My mouth went dry. With hands that shook, I took the bottle of sunscreen from her, squirted some into my palm, and rubbed them together to warm the lotion. No one enjoyed the shock of cold cream on their skin.
My brain conjured up an image of her skin rising into goosebumps, her perfect pink nipples puckering from the sudden chill.
I bit back a groan and began massaging the cream into her shoulders, which seemed like the safest place to start. She let out a tiny squeak, tilting her head to the side. Her bikini ties swayed with the movement, practically begging me to tug them loose.
My hands slowly slid lower, between her shoulder blades. Her skin was like silk beneath my palms.
“Don’t forget to go under the strap, Henry,” she mumbled. “That’s where I always burn if I’m not careful.”
Swallowing heavily, I did as I was told, tucking my fingers under the tiny scrap of fabric.
“This would make fantastic Tickle content,” I mumbled, dazed, and aroused, and slowly dipping my hands lower, towards the little dimples in her lower back that rested just above her perfect—
“I got rid of my Tickle account,” she admitted. “I mean, if you meant that as a suggestion.”
“I know.”
She stepped away from me before my hand reached the waistband of her low cut bikini bottoms. “Of course you know,” she teased, the grin that lit up her face not quite meeting her wary eyes. “You’re my stalker, after all.”
I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “I will say, I miss learning Romanian from your nail painting videos.”
She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “If you want to learn Romanian, Hubby, all you need to do is ask.”
I gave in, stepping closer, reaching out to snap the lid of her sunscreen bottle shut.
“Sunt multe lucruri pe care a? vrea s? le ?nv?? de la tine, so?ie,” I murmured. There are many things I’d like to learn from you, wife.
Her pink lips parted on a tiny gasp. “Like what?” she breathed.
I stepped closer again, closing the gap between us. I opened my mouth to say something filthy, and out of character, and so absolutely true it hurt. Something along the lines of, like what it feels like to fuck you, right here on the deck of my yacht, with the sun blazing down on our naked bodies.
“Excuse me, Henry,” Josie interrupted, and I blinked, my eyes sliding away from my pretty, panting wife, towards the captain.
“Is this important?” I barked.
She nodded, her face set. “We need to secure the vessel. There’s a storm coming.”
Ri tucked her knees up to her chin on the lounge and stared pensively out the window. Slate clouds rolled closer, the wind had already picked up, and the swell was beginning to sway the Girl on Fire.
“We aren’t going to sink, are we?” she asked, her fingers digging into the leather.
“Of course not!” I set our dinner—a simple grazing board with cheese, cold meat, fruit and crackers—on the coffee table.
“You heard Josie earlier when she briefed us; it’s only a mild storm, she’s sailed through far worse than this front before.
And the tech on the Girl on Fire is state of the art when it comes to handling inclement weather. ”
I found her knee and squeezed. She wound her fingers through mine, a spectre of her usual, beautiful smile flitting at the edges of her mouth.
“The worst that might happen is this platter spilling on the floor,” I added, reaching for a piece of prosciutto. “So, we should probably eat up before the storm reaches us.”
She leaned over, plucking an olive from the platter and popping it into her mouth. I watched her chew with longing playing a tune on my ribcage. I wanted that mouth all to myself.
And everything else that was attached to it.
“I suppose we’ll probably sleep through the worst of it,” she said softly, untethering her hand from mine to smear some cheese on a rice cracker.
“That’s the spirit,” I cajoled, unwilling to remove my hand from her knee despite it being almost impossible for me to eat one-handed. As if she sensed this, she quirked an eyebrow.
“What’s your favourite cheese, Hubby?”
I gestured to the wedge of cheddar. “I’m boring, I know.”
She collected a Jatz and sliced expertly into the cheddar. “There’s nothing boring about cheddar. When I was growing up, it was like a delicacy.” She handed me the biscuit. “We eat a lot of cheese in Romania, but Telemea was always what we were served. Cheddar was a special treat.”
She made herself a replica of mine and bit into it.
“Telemea?” I asked.
“It’s sort of like Feta—a very salty cheese.
My uncle’s partial to it. The cook used to make cheese pies in the dozens and freeze them, because if my uncle couldn’t get his hands on one when he had a craving …
” She looked away, gnawing on her lip. “Well … I’ve already told you the kinds of things he would do to people who displeased him. ”
Anger surged inside me, boiling up from my stomach like lava at the thought of how terrifying her childhood would have been having to stay on the good side of a monster like Bogdan ‘Lupucojoc’ Rusnac. I swallowed it back and changed the subject.
“Tell me more about this Masters Games plan of yours.”
Thankfully, this seemed to distract her, and she launched into a monologue, explaining how she wouldn’t need Australian citizenship to compete. Her eyes brightened as she talked, and ate, and talked some more.
I loved the sound of her voice. Her accent.
I loved …
“And didn’t I tell you that I was already considered ‘too old’ for swimming? Most sports in the Masters have a minimum age of thirty. Guess what the minimum is for swimming?”
“Eighteen.”
“Yes! How did you know?” she asked, nibbling on a date.
A sheepish grin pulled at my lips. “I might have already done some research into other competitive swimming avenues.”
“Such a stalker,” she teased, just as the boat lifted over a wave, and rain started pelting the windows. She stiffened under my hand, her head whipping to look out at the blackened sky.
“I hate storms,” she muttered, her voice wavering.
“I know.”
That made her turn to me, face pale, but curious. “You do?”
“It’s somewhat obvious from your body language.”
“You’ve made a study of my body language?” she asked.
“Catnip, I can’t seem to take my eyes off you whenever you’re in my vicinity … I’ve had no choice.” I squeezed her knee, warm under the hand that hadn’t left it since I sat down with her. Her eyes dropped to it, lashes fluttering against her cheek as she blinked.
“I feel like you’re cheating.”
I frowned. “Cheating? I don’t understand.”
She huffed out a dark laugh. “You’re the one who set the ‘platonic-in-private’ rule, but when you say things like that, in that blunt, honest way of yours … it feels anything but platonic to me.”
My heart vibrated in my chest. “I … I apologise. I promise there was no intent to … I don’t have any expectations—”
“I know you don’t,” she muttered, shifting her knee so my hand fell away. “And that’s the problem.”
With those confusing words, she stood, collected the empty plate and headed for the kitchen without looking back. I was left with a fluttering stomach, and an aching chest, my palm cold from the lack of her skin next to mine.