20. The Race
20
THE RACE
MAL
“Oh no!” Prentice cried.
But there was something about her cry of alarm that made me look back at her. Was she . . . laughing?
“What do I do?” I called.
“Pull it in! Grab the sail. It’ll be wet—watch yourself. Just pile it on the foredeck. Good. Thanks, Mal.”
The other boats were drawing away. What the hell?
“What happened?” I asked.
“Pin gave way at the clasp. See the halyard up there?” She pointed to the top of the mast. “I’ll bet that looked amazing from the other boats.” Her words were expected. Her attitude totally confused me. If Johnston had sabotaged something on her boat, she ought to have been furious.
I would have joined her in that. Now I didn’t know what to think.
A motorboat puttered over. “Look,” Prentice said. “Johnston hired a photographer for his big race. Hi!”
“You okay?” the guy called.
Prentice grinned. “You can’t help. We’re in a race.”
“Oh. Right. Well, um?—”
“We’re okay. We’ll try to get the halyard down, and we’ll probably head back to the dock. I guess we’re out. You’d better get up there. Doesn’t Johnston want photos of his new spinnaker?”
“Yeah. Okay. Well, we’d better go. Um, bye.”
“Thanks for stopping!”
Their boat powered away and we sat still, rocking on the wake they left behind. I got the sail on the deck and faced Prentice.
“Why aren’t you angry? Johnston sabotaged your boat, didn’t he?”
Her generous mouth creased into a grin. “Not Johnston. Me.”
I almost fell as I stepped from the deck into the cockpit. Confusion made me unbalanced. “You? What the hell?”
“Yeah.” She nodded to the seat beside her, and I collapsed. “I was up half the night sawing away at that pin. I didn’t think it was going to go. It took the full weight of the wind before it snapped! Did you see it? Wild, huh?”
“Look,” I said, “I know I don’t know shit about boats. I don’t know my leeward from my windward. But why would you throw this race?”
She grinned and heeled the boat over, the wind catching in the sails that still remained. I grabbed at the sides, what she called the “gunnels” that were apparently spelled gunwales . “Because Johnston is a cheater and an asshole. Because I wanted him to get the fuck out of my way. Because now you and I can spend the day in that cove right there. The one we’ve been in before.”
She looked at me with a smile, and even in my confusion, my dick got hard. “We’re going to the cove?”
“We’re almost there now. Got any problems with that?”
I shook my head, my head filled with a sudden vision of her long legs wrapped around me. “But why did we enter the race in the first place? Didn’t you just lose ten thousand dollars?”
She shrugged. “Every penny of that will go to The Arts Council because when Johnston cheats and wins, I will publicly shame him into donating the whole amount. I might even make him double it as punishment for trying to intimidate me on the dock today.”
She looked like a warrior. She looked like a princess. No, a goddess.
“I would have stopped him if you hadn’t,” I said uselessly.
“I know.” Her smile was softer. Tender.
I felt my emotional reply right in the heart. Mine , I thought. This one is mine.
She slid the sailboat into the cove. As the wind died around us, she relied on momentum to carry us into the shadow of the bluff that soared overhead. At her direction, I threw the anchor overboard, and she dropped the sails.
I stepped carefully past the folds of canvas lying on the deck, the jib now lying on top of the wet spinnaker. I headed back to the cockpit, but she held up a hand.
“Stop,” she said. “I’d like to see you in daylight.”
“See me? I’m right here.”
She nodded at me. “Start with the shirt.”
I laughed. “Oh. That kind of see me.” I scanned the land around us. Thick trees rose up steep cliffs. Marshy, swampy areas were just past our anchor. No houses in sight. No hikers. No boaters.
When it came to taking off my clothes, I knew a few moves. Archer had been a bachelorette-party stripper for a while when I was in college, and he’d shown me a little. He’d demonstrated how he turned his back and bent over to tighten the pants over his ass. Then he’d watch the girl in question from between his spread legs. He could twerk, which I was willing to try on a regular old floor. But on a boat deck? A variable surface? Falling overboard would lessen the sexiness of the dance.
So I crossed my hands before me, grabbing the hem of my T-shirt. Then I tugged it off slowly, revealing stomach . . . chest . . . shoulders . . . and cleared my face until I was standing bare-chested before her. She applauded.
I didn’t have ideal ab definition—I didn’t spend my life working out like Archer did—but my chest was better. My shoulders were drummer-strong. I could stand half naked in daylight and still feel pretty good about myself.
“Now you,” I said, nodding to Prentice.
“I thought I was in charge.” She smiled.
“You are definitely the captain. You can be in charge if you like. I don’t mind. But how about you be in charge with your shirt off?”
She chuckled and fussed with the little row of buttons at her collar when it was perfectly clear that she could pull the top off without opening a single button.
“Like this,” I said, and crossed my arms at my waist again.
There were at least ten long feet of empty space between us, but the connection felt pretty strong to me.
“I could do that better if I stood.”
“So stand.”
She messed with the mainsail for a moment, draping it so she’d be mostly hidden from view if anyone sailed past the cove. Then she stood and crossed her arms at the waist.
“Now what?”
Like she didn’t know. But okay, I could coach her.
“Slowly lift enough to show me your stomach. Yeah. There—skin in daylight. Now a little higher. I can see the undersides of your breasts . . . and god, this makes me hard. Your bra. Barely holding you in. Is that satin?”
“Silk. Vanilla silk.”
“I’d like to feel that. Higher. And now off. And there you are. And here I am.”
She preened for me, holding her arms out like she was a gift, which she was.
“Do your pants,” she said, watching me with glowing eyes.
I shook my head. “Oh, skipper. Don’t you know? If I lower these pants now with my shoes still on?—”
She laughed, one hand trailing fingers over her own smooth stomach. Oh, for those fingers to climb a little higher. Or lower. Either. “Okay. Take off your shoes.”
“Do I have to stay up here? Can’t I come into the cockpit?”
“Oh, you’ll come. And there will be cock. But for now, stay up there. Use the mast for balance when you unlace your shoes.”
“Girl,” I said as I got rid of my sneakers, “you better have plenty of condoms, because I only have two.”
She’d taken the opportunity to get rid of her own deck shoes, to my delight. “We’re covered. I have a box.”
I growled. I didn’t mean to. The animal noise just rose from my testicles and came out of my throat.
“Now the pants?” she asked.
In response, I turned my back. I couldn’t do Archer’s forward bend, but she could look at my ass while I slowly lowered the zip over my thick cock and dropped the cloth down from my waist slowly.
Once my boxer briefs were on display, I paused and turned to look back over my shoulder at her. She was staring at me openmouthed, all pretense of who was in charge forgotten. She looked so luscious that I hooked my thumbs in my shorts and dragged them down too.
“Ah,” she said, and the sound was so involuntary, so pleased, that I grinned in satisfaction.
There was a brief moment when I thought my pants were going to slide overboard, but I caught them in time and held them in my hands as I turned to boldly face her.
“Oh, “ she said. “Is that for me? How gorgeous.”
The male anatomy is not gorgeous. A big, overeager cock and the strange, wrinkled bag of balls beneath were not art.
Prentice was art. The difference in beauty could not be more apparent.
“Now you,” I said hoarsely. “You naked in daylight. Shed that last layer.”
Prentice flicked open the waist of her pants and slid the fabric down the lyrical curve of her hips, picking up the panties as she went. She was shaved and perfect, and as those long, long, long legs came into view, her eyes closed. “You’re the most fun of anyone I’ve ever known.”
The words were at odds with the sensuality of the moment, but the sentiment felt right and true. “You are too,” I said sincerely, meaning it to my toes. Prentice inspired in me more joy than I’d ever known. More desire, more lust, more tenderness . . . more fun.
I couldn’t wait for her permission. I stepped from deck to cockpit in two long strides and had my arms around her before her eyes opened in surprise. “I couldn’t wait,” I admitted. “You are wearing nothing but a bra, and that’s too strong a magnet for any man.”
She smiled and drew my head down. “You feel so good against me.” Then she kissed me, her tongue caressing me as her body slid against mine.
I groaned and crushed her to me.
“This bra,” I murmured, “is beautiful. The silk is so soft.” I ghosted my fingers across her breasts. She sighed and shifted in my arms to give me unfettered access.
“Now that you’ve felt it,” she said, “you should take it off.”
“Yes, I should. Turn. Let me see.”
Laughing, she circled against me and I worked hard to focus my eyes on the tiny hook-and-eye closure. But once I’d released the clasp, I still held either end in one hand. With the other, I reached around to feel her hard nipples through the silk again. “So nice,” I said.
I traced the edge of her tips with one hand while I held the bra on with the other. She sighed and arched, and I slid my hand down her body until I found her wrist.
“Show me,” I whispered. “You do it.”
“Oh,” Prentice said, hesitation in her voice. “What you were doing was . . . just right . . .”
“Show me,” I urged. “Use these pretty fingers. Feel the satin?”
“Silk,” she corrected me. Her voice was faint, her breath coming in pants.
I slid my hand over hers and together, we cupped one beautiful breast. “You’re gorgeous,” I whispered.
“Oh,” she replied. I slid my hand down to her waist, and hers stayed cupping her breast. My throbbing cock leaped against her ass.
“Show me.”
I watched as her fingers slowly traced little circles over the silk.
“Like that?” I asked. I raised my hand again to match her movements on the other breast.
“Oh, Mal,” she breathed.
“Keep going. What else?”
Her fingers slid along the line where fabric met flesh. I matched her, watching eagerly over her shoulder. She fanned her fingers over the breast, brushing against the tip. I did too. She slid her fingers along the crease underneath, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I released the bra and we tugged it together from her shoulders. It fell to the cockpit at our feet.
“Now,” I said, one arm coming around her waist. “Now against the skin. Touch yourself, and I will too.”
“Mal,” she breathed. Her eyes were closed, her head resting against my shoulder. Together, we swept the curve of her breasts—softer, warmer, more exciting even than the silk—until we worked our way together up to her nipples.
Her touch was so light. Like feathers. I did what I could to match each movement. She was making her breath come faster.
And then she pinched her nipple, and my breath became pants. I did the same, and she moaned.
It was as much as I could have hoped for. And then the fingers of her free hand slipped around my wrist and she lowered my hand, pulling me down over her belly, over the smooth mound, and at last to the crease.
I was swamped by madness. I had just enough brain left to wonder if I was going to come against her back, just because she was using my finger to rub herself. I had to resist the impulse to bite the tender, tempting junction between her naked neck and her graceful shoulder.
“Keep going,” I ground out. “Show me what feels good. Do it.”
She held my forefinger between her much smaller finger and thumb, curling my finger into her until I could feel the heat and slickness of her. She wet my finger inside her and then drew my wrist back up to draw that slippery sweetness over her clitoris.
I was amazed by the firmness of the touch she wanted, but I had no objections. The urge to claim her, to push hard, to take with no mercy came from the base of my spine. She held my finger against her and showed me the speed and pressure she wanted.
And then her hand fell away, and I was in control of her body. She writhed against me, her panting breaths becoming whimpers. “Yes, Mal—oh god!”
“Do it!” I gritted out.
She took it as permission and ground her body against my hand, against our pinching fingers. She came as I held her in a shiver that started at her crotch and spread like a wave across her body. She cried out and clutched my arm as I cradled her breast, and I watched, awed, as her orgasm stretched on.
Then she whirled in my arms and caught my mouth in a powerful, deep kiss. “I can’t wait,” she gasped. “Hurry—oh, hurry. Come inside me. Use me, Mal. Please—do it now!”
My knees buckled at the thought, and she pushed me down on the cockpit bench. We were tangled in the fall of the mainsail, but it didn’t matter. I sat and she straddled.
I had to hold her hips, agonized at the delay. “Condom,” I gasped. “In my wallet. Where—there. In my pants.”
We struggled together to get me sheathed, and then she didn’t wait. Prentice speared herself on my cock, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from coming the minute her tight, hot wetness enclosed me.
“Oh, god,” she cried. “I can’t go slow. It’s too much. Oh god?—”
I lowered my chin to my chest and closed my eyes to hold my focus. She grabbed my hand and put it back on her breast; I pinched and caressed her automatically, concentrating on the feeling of her, the astonishing, gripping tightness as she pulled off me and slammed down again.
My spine was crackling with sparks. The connection from my sac to my brain was a solid core of sensation. The desire to let go, to fuck into her until I exploded, was overwhelming. And yet I wouldn’t give up this anticipation for all the world. To feel Prentice on top of me—to know she was using me to reach her own heights—I felt an almost holy sense of privilege.
I opened my eyes. My gaze went to my own hand, cupping her breast. To the long, smooth column of her neck, rising from graceful collarbones. To the lusciousness of her lips, open and panting in her need.
To the eyes that gazed into mine.
“Prentice,” I gasped. “You are a goddess.”
“Aghhh,” she replied, her second orgasm rippling from her belly up to where my hands held her, to the sapphire eyes she closed in rapture.
I let go, grabbing her hips and thrusting up into her. Liquid fire jetted from me, and I shouted wordlessly at the intensity of the release.
Her scream trailed off into exhausted laughter, and she collapsed against my chest.
“Oh my god,” she said, shaken by an aftershock that made me grit my teeth at the sensation. “That was awesome.”
I had enough energy to cradle her head against me and let my head fall back into the confusion of the mainsail’s canvas. “Awesome,” I agreed. Lassitude spread through my chest, down my back, into my ass, and down my legs.
“Aarrgghhhh,” she said as she lifted her hips off me. “I’ll get it this time.”
She slid the condom off me and found the garbage bag in the cabin. I’d never had someone do such a thing for me and found it touchingly kind. With heroic effort, I managed to shift on the bench, putting my back against the wall of the cabin. When she came back, I pulled her across my lap and cradled her against me. “Prentice,” I said, “I think I’m becoming addicted to you.”
She giggled. “I know what you mean.”
We rested companionably. From the peaceful silence, she eventually inhaled deeply.
And then she spoke.