Chapter 15 April
April
“Idon’t know, Nicky,” I say, peeling the label off my ginger ale. “He’s my boss, and literally my own personal orgasm dispenser. I don’t think I’m in danger of catching feelings.”
Nicky gives me a look. “Right. Because calling someone your orgasm dispenser is a totally normal, emotionally neutral phrase.”
I grin into my sleeve, even as my stomach twists.
We’re on the couch in my apartment, some reality show playing low on the TV, but neither of us watching it.
She’s got one leg tucked under her, arms crossed, and she hasn’t touched her wine that’s sitting on the coffee table.
She’s been suspicious of me for weeks now, and I can’t blame her.
“How often are you guys…?” she asks, brows lifting.
“Often.”
“Define often.”
“Every few days. Sometimes every day. Sometimes more.”
“Jesus.”
I shrug.
“Okay, but how much do you actually know about him?” she asks. “Like, beyond the six-pack and the way he says your name and his huge…bank account.”
I shrug. “He has a penthouse in—”
“April.”
“I know that he likes expensive wine, hates lateness, and refuses to eat before noon on weekdays. He’s extremely punctual, very private, doesn’t smile unless he means it, and he has a cock that could ruin lives.”
Nicky squeals with cringy delight. “I—okay. Alright. That’s all very helpful, thank you.”
I grin, but saying it out loud feels…wrong.
Like I’m trying too hard to make this funny, or to make it seem like it’s nothing.
I’ve pushed everything I’ve felt the past few weeks into a box labeled harmless sex stuff so I don’t have to think too hard about why I keep waiting for his texts.
Why I feel that weird, fluttery ache in my chest when he makes a bad joke and looks pleased with himself.
Why I can’t stop hearing his voice in my head when I close my eyes.
It’s not feelings. It’s just endorphins.
Hormones. Luteal phase. Probably. I open my mouth to say something else, but my phone vibrates.
Anthony Voss:
Come over.
My heart jumps a little at the sight of his name on my screen, and I stare at it for a second. I’m a little shocked at how demanding he is being right now, but I also like it.
“Is that—”
“Yeah,” I say, thumbs already moving.
Me:
Not in the mood
Anthony Voss:
Not an option, princess.
I roll my eyes.
Me:
Pretty sure I signed a contract, not gave you a leash
Anthony Voss:
Disagree. You owe me at least one orgasm. I’ve been keeping score.
I stifle a laugh into my sleeve.
“God, you’re obsessed,” Nicky mutters.
Me:
I have a friend over. Try again later, maybe I can pencil you in.
There’s a long pause where I try to defend myself to Nicky. But then my phone buzzes in my hand.
Anthony Voss:
Fine. New plan.
Come sailing with me.
Me:
Come again?
Anthony Voss:
I will if you let me.
Me:
Smooth. What do you mean “sailing?”
Anthony Voss:
Are you unaware of what a boat is, princess?
Let me put this in simpler terms for the woman with a master’s in communication.
Ship. Ocean. Sunshine. Water. Sunglasses. Bathing suits. You, on my lap, hopefully.
I cover my grin with the neckline of my shirt.
Anthony Voss:
It’s a very normal thing people do. And it’s unseasonably warm today. Let’s take advantage of it.
Unless you’re afraid of water…?
Me:
I’m afraid of sharks
Anthony Voss:
I’m scarier than sharks, and you let me fuck you multiple times a week.
Me:
You’ve got a point.
Anthony Voss:
Is that a yes?
Nicky watches me over the rim of her glass. “What? What is he saying?”
I bite at my thumbnail. “He’s invited me to go sailing,” I say, letting a little confusion into my voice.
“Wait, like a date?”
“I have no idea.” Another message pops up with an address and a note that assumes I’ll be there in an hour.
“Is he bringing champagne and oysters and calling you darling?”
“God, I hope not,” I snort, staring at the message. “He does call me princess, though.”
Her eyes roll so hard I can’t see her irises. “Of course he does.”
“I think I’ve got to go,” I say, and my stomach is already flipping in anticipation. “Might be being kidnapped by my boss.”
Nicky groans dramatically and falls back into the cushions. “Fine.”
————
The boat is ridiculous. It’s massive. Sleek. Gleaming white, with sharp lines and polished wood. The name is stenciled in an elegant black font at the stern: The Voss. Of course he named his boat, The Voss.
When I climb aboard, Anthony is already there, barefoot in navy linen pants and a thin grey shirt. He looks so casually comfortable and calm. The wind tousles his silver hair, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, hands braced casually against the rail. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
“I thought you weren’t in the mood,” he says as I step up onto the deck.
“I’m not,” I reply. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t die of loneliness.”
He snorts. “Touching.”
The boat pulls away from the dock, slow and smooth.
We glide out into open water, and the city shrinks behind us.
The air is surprisingly warm and smells like salt and sunscreen.
There’s something woodsy and clean beneath it too…
it’s him. He smells delicious. I take a seat on a lounger beneath the sun, letting my dress billow in the breeze, and try to relax. It’s peaceful.
Anthony doesn’t bark orders at the crew.
Instead, he lounges back on a cushioned bench beside me and watches the horizon like he’s remembering how to breathe, his phone in hand like it usually is, his scowl softening for once.
He pours me a sparkling water without asking and bats away my request for something alcoholic, but offers me fruit.
He makes some sarcastic comment about being “on vacation from my scowl” for the day. I laugh. More than once.
Time passes strangely. I brought a book because I had no idea what his plans were, and I spend most of it reading while he types away at a laptop he pulled out from his bag.
We just exist…together. It’s easy and calm, and it’s odd.
It doesn’t feel tense like it can in the office or heated like it can in the bedroom. It just is.
An hour or so into our sail, I break the silence when I can’t stop staring at him. “You’re not nearly this tolerable in Manhattan.” He quirks a brow, slowly pulling his gaze from the screen. “Didn’t know you considered me tolerable in any location.”
I snort. “Don’t ruin it.”
He watches me for a moment, his smirk softening into something almost charming. “There’s something you should know,” he says softly, a bit more serious now. “Since Karen’s putting her nose in places it doesn’t belong.”
I blink. “Okay. Hit me with it.”
“My ex-wife was Karen’s sister.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “She died six years ago in a helicopter crash.”
The words land heavy, sitting like a stone in my chest. “Oh. I’m—I’m sorry—”
“She was with her lover,” he adds, but his voice is flat and even as he leans back in his seat. “The man she was in the process of leaving me for. The one she’d been seeing behind my back for two years. So don’t be sorry.”
Oh god. I swallow, suddenly wildly uncomfortable in my lounger. “She was cheating on you?”
He nods once. “Yes. The crash was in the papers, but we managed to keep the rest quiet.”
“Jesus.”
“I’d already asked for a divorce,” he continues, jaw flexing as he forces an unnatural shrug.
“But she didn’t want it. Her place at Voss and Bartley hinged on her marriage to me, and she didn’t want to give that up.
Karen didn’t want her to either. She blamed me for the whole thing, said I humiliated the family.
Ironic, considering how it ended, and considering she tried to fucking sleep with me the night her sister died. ”
I stare at him in complete shock, no idea what to say, so I don’t say anything at all, just let the silence stretch. I can’t fix that. I can’t even try.
“I don’t do relationships,” he adds, quieter now. “That’s why.”
“Right,” I breathe. “Makes sense.”
The sun is sinking, and neither of us knows what to say after that.
————
Later, in the lower deck cabin, he kisses me like he’s trying to forget, or maybe like he’s trying to remember.
Maybe I’m something solid he can cling to in a world that keeps shifting beneath him.
Then, it’s like we’re back in the room he’d given me on Edward Island, everything soft, everything charged.
It’s not careful or calculated like it’s been. It’s hungry and wild. His hands grip my hips, hauling me into his lap on the bed in one rough motion. The boat gently rocks in a calming manner, but what’s happening between us is anything but.
“Off, God, off.” His words are frayed and urgent, while his fingers already begin yanking at the hem of my dress.
Something tears, and I hear the buttons on his shirt ping against the wooden floor.
His mouth finds my throat like he’s chasing my pulse and wants to devour me whole.
This isn’t our usual fucking. No, he’s trying to ruin me.
He sinks his teeth into my collarbone and pulls me closer, and I rock against the hard ridge of his cock through his pants. My breath coming out in shaky bursts.
“Anthony—”
“Tell me you want me.” His voice is ragged; his eyes are locked on mine.
I could tease him and make him work for it. But he’s looking at me like he’s starving, burning every thought from my head. “I want you,” I rasp.
The first time is against the wall, his hands leaving little bruises on my thighs as he lifts me, drives into me.
He muffles my cries with his mouth. The second time is on the floor, me on my knees, his fingers knotted in my hair, his groan vibrating through my spine.
The third is tangled in the sheets of the bed, my legs hooked over his shoulders, his mouth worshipping me between my thighs until I sob his name over and over. And the fourth—
“Again,” he growls, flipping me onto my stomach, his body covering mine, his teeth nipping at the tip of my ear. I can’t. But I do.
Because this—this heat of him, the way he touches me, the sound of my name from his lips, hurts in ways I can’t name. But God, I don’t want it to stop. I never want him to stop.
————
When I wake, I’m warm and our bodies are tangled together.
It’s warm skin and silk that smells like the ocean and him.
The sun shines brightly through the windows, and I can feel an arm tighten around my midsection.
My breathing stops. We fell asleep together.
I turn my head just enough to look over my shoulder and see his sleepy grey eyes staring back at me.
His head is propped on one hand, his hair sleep-mussed.
“Hey,” he says gently.
“…Hi,” I breathe.
He huffs a breath. “This is the first time I’ve woken up with someone in a long time.”
I roll to face him slightly, grinning just enough to show I’m smug about that. “Should I sue you?”
His brows raise. “For what, exactly?”
“Breach of contract. Emotional damages,” I deadpan, smirking, and press my forehead into his chest like it’s easy. “You’re blurring the lines.”
He snorts. “You’re the one who fell asleep, April.”
“You’re the one who didn’t leave,” I fire back, my words muffled.
He holds his breath for a second, then two, then slowly lets it out. I can’t tell if his heart picked up speed or if it was always that fast. “Yeah,” he says.
Just yeah. And I don’t know what to make of that.