Page 9 of The Captain
Would you like a taste of my whiskey? It’s better than their wine.
She turned, her eyes locking on mine, a mix of surprise and something sharper, like she was deciding if I was worth the effort. Up close, she was stunning—skin flushed from the heat, lips full, eyes dark and stormy.
“You speak French?” she asked, switching to English, her accent curling around the words.
“I do,” I said, sticking to English but letting the French cadence linger. “And yeah, the wine here’s shit. The Jack’s reliable.”
She held my gaze, then reached over without asking, grabbed my glass, and poured it halfway full. She downed it in one go, no wince, just a slow exhale as the burn hit. Damn. This was a woman who could handle fire.
“Not bad,” she said, setting the glass down with a clink.
I chuckled, the sound rough. “High praise.”
She leaned closer, her voice dropping, and in French she said, “J’ai deux plans pour ce soir. D’abord, me saouler. Ensuite, avoir du sexe sauvage avec un homme qui ne se souciera pas si je pars avant le matin.”
I have two plans for tonight. First, get drunk. Second, have wild sex with a man who won’t care if I leave before morning.
The words hit like a shockwave, heat surging low in my gut. My tongue, looser than it should’ve been, ran away with me. In French, I said, “That works for me. I’ve got a meeting at six and I’m here to drown a bad day, too.”
She gave me another look, appraising, like she was peeling back my skin. Then she laughed—a throaty, real sound that cut through the bar’s noise and wrapped around me like smoke. That laugh was trouble, sparking something in me I hadn’t felt in too long. But just as quick, the thought ofherslammed into me—the shadow, the ache—and I reached for the bottle, pouring us both another round to chase it off.
We didn’t stop there. The bottle emptied slowly, our conversation jabbing back and forth, mostly in English now, but with a playful edge. She teased me about my swim—“A man who swims like a fish but gets plucked out by a helicopter? Pathetic,” she’d said in French. “Thatwasyou, wasn’t it?”
I nodded once, then fired back, “At least I’m not afraid of the water. You, saving dolphins like they’re your lost lover,” I replied.
She didn’t ask how I knew French. I didn’t ask why she wanted to get drunk and fucked. We just drank, the whiskey blurring the edges, her presence pulling me like a current. By the time the bottle was done, the bar spun faintly, and I slapped more cash on the wood—enough to cover it twice over.
She stood first, steady despite the booze. “I’ll pay for the cab,” she said.
Smart move. I nodded, following her out into the humid night. The marina lights danced on the water, boats creaking in their slips, the air thick with salt and promise.
We hailed a cab, sliding into the back, and she gave an address—somewhere on the edge of town. We didn’t touch, didn’t speak. She stared out the window, aloof, and I wondered if she’d changed her mind. It was past midnight, the city lights streaking by, and part of me thought maybe it was for the best. Let her go, drown the rest alone.
But she didn’t. The cab pulled up to a bungalow that looked ripped from a romance novel—white picket fence, porch swing,soft glow from a single light inside. She paid the driver, unlocked the door, and I followed. The door was barely latched when she turned, and we collided.
Her mouth was on mine, hungry, demanding, tasting of whiskey and ocean. I backed her against the wall, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She moaned into my kiss, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I hadn’t been with a woman in over a year, and my body roared to life, every nerve screaming. I yanked her tank top over her head, exposing her breasts—full, perfect, nipples hard and begging. I took one in my mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
“Fuck,” she cursed, arching into me, her accent making the word a blade.
I growled, switching to the other, my hand sliding down her stomach, unbuttoning her jeans. She shoved me back, eyes wild, and stripped them off, kicking them aside. No panties. Just her, bare and dripping, the scent of her arousal hitting like a drug.
I dropped to my knees, hooking one of her legs over my shoulder, and buried my face between her thighs. She tasted like sin—sweet and soaking wet. My tongue dove in, lapping at her folds, circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. She bucked against my mouth, hands fisting my hair, pulling hard.
“Harder,” she demanded in English, her voice raw.
I obliged, sucking her clit between my lips, flicking it relentlessly, my fingers sliding inside her—first one, then two, curling to hit that spot. She clenched around me, moans turning to cries, her body trembling. I didn’t stop, devouring her like I was starved, her juices coating my chin, thighs quivering around my head.
She came hard, shattering with a scream, her walls pulsing, flooding my mouth.
I stood, wiping my face, and she attacked—ripping my shirt off, nails raking down my chest, drawing blood. The pain fueled me, mixing with the heat.
She dropped to her knees, yanking my pants down, freeing my cock—hard, throbbing. She took me in her mouth without hesitation, deep, her throat relaxing as she swallowed me whole. Fuck. Her tongue swirled, lips tight, sucking like she wanted to ruin me. She added both hands to the mix and I gripped her hair, thrusting gently at first, then harder, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged but didn’t stop, eyes watering, looking up at me.
“You’re perfect,” I growled in English.
She pulled off with a pop, stroking me slick and fast. “Fuck me,” she said.
