19. Dustin
Dustin
The sun sets so early in winter. By the time I get out of the menswear shop—several hundred dollars lighter, I might add—the street lights illuminate the bustling sidewalk. But damn, I have to admit I look good . I basically told the sales guy that I had no idea what I was doing, and he asked me all the questions in the world, but by the time I was handing over my debit card? I was happy. I am happy. The sage green two-piece suit with a crisp white shirt fits me perfectly.
And I can't wait to see what Brooke thinks about it.
I've still got about two hours before the ship sets off, so I head back to the apartment for a little bit of last-second grooming and showering and beard-trimming. I rake my fingers through the shaggy growth. It turns out I've forgotten to keep the beard up to my usual standards. I blame Brooke for that, of course. She seems to like it when the hair is soft and blunted.
However, I'm not going to this dinner cruise as Brooke's date—as much as I would love that, we can't—and I need to project a professional image on behalf of Atmosphere as a whole. Professionalism. Professionalism. Professionalism. That has to be my mantra for the evening.
The words repeat in my mind as I nod to the doorman, ride the elevator up, and prepare myself for the night. The beard trim takes the longest. It's always a little difficult to get the lines perfectly straight by myself. Maybe I should have invited Brooke over? I shake my head. Too late now.
As I hop into the shower, my mind drifts back to her, no matter how many times I try to stay focused. I wonder what she'll wear? That purple dress that nearly brought me to my knees? No, probably not—much too sexy for a work event.
But a man can dream, right?
Just as I gently pat in my moisturizer (it's good for men, too! Gentlemen, take note!), my phone vibrates against the bathroom counter.
Brooke
Should we meet before the boat? Or would that be too suspicious?
Oh, that's a good question. I assume everyone will be showing up at about the same time, so it might not be that suspect if we roll up together. On the other hand, though, depending on what she's wearing? I might decide that actually, fuck the party, I need to be inside her immediately . And if we're already with a bunch of people, that might tamp down any misguided urges.
Let's meet at boarding. I can't wait to see you.
She sends back the saluting emoji, and I crack a smile.
One night. One night of pure professionalism. It can't be that hard, right?
Wrong. Oh my god, I'm so wrong. From the instant I saw her at the pier, I knew I fucked up. I had my suspicions when I could see her legs peeking out from under her coat, but when she took it off? And I saw that tantalizing dress?
I'm so fucked. I'm more fucked than I've ever been. My mind is fully, completely focused on Brooke . Even now, as I'm sitting and smiling blithely while the CEOs of Atmosphere and DropTop make long-winded speeches about collaboration and aligning goals and value-focused deliverables? I can't retain a single word. I politely clap when everyone else does. I chuckle when one of them makes a ham-fisted joke about welcoming DropTop aboard.
My eyes stay laser-focused on Brooke the whole time. Every time she leans over and whispers something to Darrell, they try to contain their giggles. And I try to contain myself as I watch her breasts jiggle and practically spill out of the dress's neckline—seriously, what is that kind of dress? Was it custom-made to have me straining against my suit pants? Is it the Dustin Annihilator 9000?
Just as I think about her dress for the millionth time, she flicks her gaze over to me and stuns me with a loving smile. To anyone else in the room, it would seem innocuous. Just friendly colleagues being happy on a boat. But for me? That smile is dangerous. I shift in my seat as I flush a deep red. It's the same smile she gives me after I pound her into the mattress. It's the same smile she gives me after riding my cock into oblivion.
I break our shared gaze and inspect the city skyline out the window. We're not far from land, but there's no possible way I could ask the captain—do dinner cruises have captains?—to turn the fuck around so I can go eat my girlfriend's pussy. Even if this wasn't a work event, that would be decidedly un-kosher.
Fuck, I need the speeches to be done. This is a big ship, surprisingly large and luxe—surely there's a secluded area we could sneak off to? The brig, perhaps? Do dinner cruise ships have brigs?
I discreetly pull out my phone and tap out a text to Brooke.