9. Nick
Nick
Ishouldn’t have let Seth go.
I should have asked him to stay. Should have pulled him beneath the blankets and fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. Should have taken advantage of every last second we had together while we were docked.
But I let cowardice win. I spent more time missing him than sleeping that night, regretting the words I let die on my tongue as I watched him walk out the door. And now that we’re back out at sea, my bed is colder than it’s ever been.
I keep waiting for the sleep-deprivation to kick in and temper my libido, but so far, things are only getting worse.
Sitting in my chair is torture. I can’t get off my feet without remembering what Seth looked like on his knees.
Sometimes I have to listen to the weather updates two or three times before I catch every detail.
More than once, I’ve overshot our waypoints because I’m watching him on deck, and my dick chubs up every time I hear him speak over the radio. A barrage of filthy, sexy, private words coming back to me at the sound of his voice.
Eight days have passed since he snuck up to my cabin. I see him from the bridge all day and we’re in constant communication, but we spend hardly any time together. Seth is my primary relief captain. If I’m not at the helm, he generally is.
Coffee breaks are the only moments we’re alone. Five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes here and there. Lately he’s been stopping in more often than usual though. And against all medical guidelines for caffeine consumption, I’ve been drinking every cup he brings me.
When he knocks on the door jamb this evening, I can’t remember if it’s the fifth or sixth time since 0600.
I glance over my shoulder, taking in the windswept hair poking out from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt and trying to wrestle the mushy look off my face as he hands me a mug.
I take a sip, looking out at the ocean that I can smell on his skin. Nothing but dark, rolling swells as far as the eye can see.
“Thanks. Been too long since my last cup of coffee.”
“You told me to find a new excuse.” The navigation display illuminates his features, painting his smile bright white as he leans against the console beside me. “This seemed safer than cutting my hand open again.”
“How’s it looking?” I ask, finding a stable place to set my coffee and brushing a thumb over his bandage.
“You’d know better than I would.” He holds his hand out to me, palm up. “Speaking of finding excuses…”
I go to the cabinets, fishing out the first aid kit and patting the bench seat for him. “Crew safety is my number one job responsibility.”
He chuckles, and I do too. We both know there’s no reason for me to be cleaning and dressing his mostly-healed wound twice a day.
“I don’t recall you wrapping Perry’s leg when he gaffed himself last year,” he says as he sits next to me.
“His cut was nowhere near as deep.”
“Ah, so that’s why.”
“No other reason whatsoever.”
I take off my gloves and unravel the old bandaging, revealing the scabbed-over slash across Seth’s palm. His hand twitches as I apply antiseptic, lacing just the tips of our fingers together while it dries.
“It does look better,” I say. “Might have to find a new excuse myself.”
“Does that mean I can finally get off the fuckin’ hauler controls?”
“I don’t know. It could still re-open under enough strain.”
“Don’t think so. I put it through quite a bit of strain this morning.” He leans in closer, brown eyes mapping my reaction. “Takes a while for anything else to get me there, now that I know how good it feels with you.”
My face heats. I scramble for composure as my gaze drops to his dick, but instead of calling me out on it, he rotates his knee outward.
“It’s like you’re trying to single-handedly derail the business that’s been in my family for fifty years,” I say.
“I’m trying to flirt with you, Nicky. But nice to know it’s working.”
It’s working all right.
“Fine,” I backpedal. “You can resume operations as normal today, if you’re up for it.”
“I’ve been up for it. I could use some sweat therapy.”
“Nope. Not talking about sweat therapy with you right now.” I rip open a waterproof dressing and carefully apply it. “I’m barely able to do my job as it is.”
“Ah. So maybe we both need some sweat therapy then.” As soon as the bandage is down, he takes my chin in the crook of his forefinger. “Perry’s on watch at 2300, isn’t he?”
I fumble with the latch on the first aid kit, accidentally slamming it shut. “We can’t…”
“Is that a question or an order, Captain?” He brushes my lip with his thumb. “‘Cause it sounded like the first, and if that’s the case, then you know my answer is we can.”
“It’s an order.” I get up, putting some distance between us before I lay him down and kiss the sea salt off of him. “And I need you on deck. That’s an order, too.”
“Yes, sir. And where are you gonna order me to be at 2300?”
“To your cabin.” I’m trying for authoritative, but I nearly laugh at the persistently roguish tilt to his lips. “It’s not like there’s anywhere we could be alone, anyway.”
Personal space isn’t exactly a plentiful resource on the Suoja. A hundred feet isn’t as much distance as it seems when the whole ship is an echoey metal chamber built for durability, not privacy.
Seth lifts a shoulder. “There’s always the engine room.”
A terrible idea. It’s boiling hot down there.
But goddamn, would Seth look sexy as hell. Tan skin glowing with sweat, his body slick and bare against mine.
It’s loud.
That’s what earmuffs are for. Maybe we wouldn’t be able to hear each other, but no one else would either. We could let go. Completely.
It’s…
I want it. Fuck, I want him.
“Get on deck, Rittenburg,” I say, flustered.
Seth’s smile lines deepen. He hops up, checking out the windows before he brushes a kiss to my cheek. “See you at 2300 hours, Captain.”
I have no idea what possessed me to meet Seth down here. Whatever it is, I know it lives in my pants. Far, far away from my brain, which has not been getting nearly enough blood flow this last week.
The engine room is deep within the Suoja’s stern. Beneath the bridge, beneath the cabins and crew mess, past a cherry-red, industrial strength door.
Even before I loosen the dogs to break the watertight seal, the drone of the engine is penetrating. Loud enough to overpower the sound of my own self-reproach.
I grab a pair of earmuffs off the wall hooks and slip them on.
A narrow ladder leads straight down. The esophagus to the rumbling, claustrophobic gut of the ship. Sweltering heat envelops me as soon as I close the hatch. My skin thaws, sweat forming under my clothes like the instant condensation of a hot drink poured over ice.
Without the harsh light of the LED strips along the cramped aisles, it would be pitch-black. Instead, all I see when I look down is the engine—the same color as the door—blaring at the center of the room. Digesting fuel and spitting out fumes to keep the vessel chugging forward.
I’m so used to working on boats, and this boat in particular, I rarely think about the dangers down here. Maneuvering around the engine room is second nature. No more dangerous than working on deck or navigating a nasty storm.
But now, with Seth standing at the middle of it, I see hazards everywhere I look.
The propellor shaft and the rapidly spinning belts that could rip a man in by one scrap of loose clothing.
The scorching exhaust manifolds that could burn straight through to the dermis with a split second of contact.
A maze of hoses and painted steel pipes and fluid drips all ready to trip him.
Logically, I know he’s almost as accustomed to being down here as I am. Either one of us could replace a water pump blindfolded.
But he looks so vulnerable walking toward me. Tangled strands of wavy brown hair escaping the band of his earmuffs at all angles and sticking to the sweat on his forehead. Shirt rumpled and spattered with grease stains. Sweatpants coming untucked from his rubber boots.
He’s probably exhausted. What if he changed his mind about this, but he felt like he had to follow through?
What if he gets hurt because of me?
For a moment, when he leans in to kiss me, the doubts fall away and the noise is sucked out of the room. The hot, fume-tinged, ugly mechanics surrounding us all disappear, and I remember why I needed this.
His hands come up to cup the cushioned shells around my ears, and he smiles against my lips when he feels me instinctually lean into his touch.
One of those hands slips down, sliding beneath my sweater and wool undershirt to splay across needy, overheated skin.
I catch his wrist, well-aware talking is a waste of breath down here, earmuffs or not. So I shake my head. I can’t put him at risk.
Seth pulls back, grabbing my shoulders and rubbing in firm, repetitive circles.
Relax, he mouths, exaggerating the way his chin drops on the first syllable and the way his tongue rolls off the back of his teeth on the second. It’s okay.
I shake my head again. It’s not okay. Absolutely not. This is not a situation any responsible captain would partake in.
I point up in the direction I descended from, signaling that we need to head back up.
I think he mouths my name, next, but it’s hard to tell through the sexy, crooked smile on his face. And whatever he’s trying to tell me after that, I don’t see, because I turn right back around.
The problem is, he’s even more convincing when he’s not talking.
As soon as I grab a rung on the ladder, his fingers dig into my ass. Both hands squeezing both cheeks.
My gasp is lost to the engine noise, but nothing can hide the way my knees buckle when he leans in, lips sweeping over the side of my neck.
I’m going to climb up the ladder one step at a time, head back to my quarters, and rub one out. The sex can wait until we’re off this boat.
I’ve been patient for four years. There’s no reason I can’t survive a couple more weeks.