Page 80 of Ship Happens
As I munch on strips of bacon in bed the morning after a night of being bossed around, I get it.
We’ve hardly slept, yet I’ve never felt more refreshed or at peace. The late-night hours were spent exploring this new and violent territory, and sleep seemed less important than chasing the next orgasm. I’m sore, but I’m satisfied in a way I’ve never known before.
“Was that the first time?” I ask Maverick as he swallows some orange juice.
His eyebrows rise. “First time . . . ?”
“Getting hard without getting hurt.”
“Yes. But it was also my first time taking charge like that. Maybe it’s the control I needed...”
I point at him with another strip of bacon. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Whatever psychological wound you have, it centers on needing either pain or control to achieve an erection. But hey, at least you have options now.”
“Not when I masturbate. What am I supposed to do, boss my dick around? I already choke the shit out of it.”
I nearly spit orange juice when I see how serious he is.
“Are you okay after last night?” he asks. “We didn’t really talk about any of that beforehand, and then we both crashed, so I didn’t exactly handle the aftercare very well either.”
I pin him with a deadpan stare. “Thank you for checking in, but I’d like to think that the explosive orgasms would have been a sign that I was great with it.”
“Is it . . . something you’d like to do again?”
Could his anxiety be any more adorable?
I push my plate aside and crawl closer to him. “It’s something I’d very much like to do again. Maybe even right now.”
He grips the back of my head and pulls my hair. “Say less.”
His mouth moves to my throat, where he nips the sensitive skin. My pussy is so sore already, but I can sit on an ice pack later. I need to make up for lost time—all the years spent denying myself the wonders of a skilled and rough lover.
Someone knocks on the door, and we stare at each other as a silent message passes between us:Let them knock. I pull his hand to my breast as his mouth dips to my collarbone.
Knock, knock, knock.
We quietly groan and put some space between us. As I smooth the wrinkles in my night shirt, he goes to the door. It creaks open, and Eve rushes into the room. Oblivious, she plops down on the bed and plucks a strip of bacon from my plate.
“Pork?” she asks as she sniffs the strip.
I nod, and she takes a bite.
“Sorry. I made the mistake of trying Chef’s special this morning.” She grimaces, then shoves the rest of the bacon strip into her mouth. “Needless to say, I’m fucking starving now. Work keeps me on a strict diet, so I only get to eat whatever I want on these retreats, and acid-tenderized federal agent ain’t it.”
“He served the guy I?—”
Eve nods at me and reaches for the toast on my plate. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I genuinely don’t, so I push the plate closer to her. “Knock yourself out.”
She grabs the little pot of jam and slathers some on the toast. “And yes, Chef Maurice served the guy you killed as our breakfast. When we asked if it’s even safe to eat meat that’s been soaking in fucking sulfuric acid, he assured us it was properly rinsed.”
“I wouldn’t have taken that chance either,” Maverick says.
Eve glances around. “Did you guys get a bottle of Bollinger? I want to make a mimosa.”
“You don’t want our Bollinger,” I say as I share a look with Maverick. “It’s tainted.”
“Shit, if y’all were in here doing the nasty with a bottle of vintage, you’ve been hanging around with Bennett too long. Food is for eating, not fucking.”
