Page 3 of Love On Deck
The cabin is pitch black. Without sight, Andrew’s other senses are on high alert. His skin prickles in anticipation. Connor’s cologne mixes with the heady scent of arousal. The low hum of the air circulation system competes with the soughing of their breathing. Andrew’s as hard as he’s ever been. Connor rolls his hips against Andrew in a fluid rhythm that reminds Andrew of the waves on the beach—a constant smooth advance and retreat. There’s no disguising either of their erections. The friction is heady even through four layers of clothing. Connor kisses down his neck to his collarbone, and suddenly Andrew’s hands slide down the door, while Connor’s fingers brush against his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. Flames ignite from each point of contact. He pushes the cotton-polyester blend Hawaiian shirt to the floor and goes to work on Andrew’s linen pants.
Andrew encounters the soft cotton covering the flat, firm wall of Connor’s abs. For someone so slim, he’s solidly built, and Andrew almost wishes for light. The sight of Connor’s body has got to be amazing, but the lack of any sort of illumination has added a layer of eroticism he doesn’t want to lose. Andrew tugs at the tee shirt, and heavy breathing punctuates the frantic removal of the rest of their clothes. The cool air soothes his heated body. “Bed,” he says softly.
Connor “mmm”s in agreement.
A hand around Andrew’s wrist guides him several steps into an open area of the cabin, and the rustle of bedclothes and the scrunch of the mattress taking Connor’s weight fills the darkness. Andrew’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he climbs onto it. The cool of the spread at his back counters the heat building between the two of them. He’s pushed to his back, and Connor straddles his hips, bringing their erections into alignment, and begins rocking his hips.
“Nnng…” Andrew bucks at the contact of dick on dick, the slide and catch of skin. Someone’s leaking pre-come, and it’s gotta be him. Well over five months have passed since there’s been anyone other than Rosie, and contact with another person feels better than it has any fucking right to. God, he wants to come. He arches into Connor, increasing contact, increasing pressure. “Please tell me you’ve got lube.”
Connor kisses him slowly, deeply, messily, and he’s close.
“Connor…” he breathes more than he actually says.
“Hmm…?”
“Make me come. Fuck. Please. Make me come.”
The bed dips on his left as Connor leans away. The brief withdrawal of heated skin-to-skin contact allows Andrew to take a step back from the edge. The bedside table drawer is whisper silent as it’s pulled open and is shut with a faint thud. Connor’s weight evens out. There’s a soft click and a “pfft” and then a slicky noise that Andrew knows exactly what is, and his dick strains in eagerness. A hand closes around his dick, and a guttural “fuck” passes his lips. Conner strokes Andrew’s aching cock with a firm grip. The reduced friction and the added silk of the lube bring him back to the precipice in a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” Andrew pants, want dancing along his skin. “I’m not going to last long at all.”
“Fuck my hand,” says Connor.
Andrew meets every downstroke of Connor’s hand with an upthrust of his hips. He fists the duvet for purchase. A litany of “fuck, yeah” and “oh, God” intersperse his pants and groans until his balls tighten and his muscles quiver. There’s a tingle at the base of his spine. A flash of light bursts behind his eyes. His body lets go. It’s fast, powerful, and messy. Connor eases him through the tail end of his orgasm, and Andrew sinks, boneless, into the mattress. His chest heaves as he works to catch his breath. The potent combination of sex, sweat, and Connor’s cologne saturates the air around them, and hell yeah. He hasn’t come as a result of someone else’s effort in months, and having someone to share the experience with feels so damned good.
Connor pads to the bathroom and brings back a warm washcloth. He cleans up the mess on Andrew’s abdomen and flings the cloth into the void before stretching out beside him, fingers tracing patterns on Andrew’s chest and stomach. “You all right?” Connor asks.
“Never better, to be honest,” Andrew says into the darkness. “Give me a minute, and I’ll return the favor. What do you want?”
“A blow job,” says Connor, his warm sweet breath ghosting across Andrew’s lips before he’s kissing him. Andrew isn’t disappointed, either in being kissed again or the request. It’s another languid kiss, slow, soft, deep. Andrew’s certainly not complaining. After his drought, it’s a nice change of pace even though he’ll probably never see this guy again.
The kiss ends and Andrew takes to his knees, while Connor rolls to his back. Andrew skims Connor’s body with his hands, trying to memorize the lean flesh as best he can.
“Wait. There’s something you should know…” Connor says, his voice going quiet.
Andrew stops touching. “All right.” He matches the solemnity of Connor’s tone and waits. What the hell could be so important right this very moment?
“I’m uncut.”
Two simple words. In and of themselves, they simply convey information. The timing and the tone tell a different tale. Andrew’s years of speaking with witnesses and clients allows him to hear the undercurrent of hostility laced with the merest hint of fear. Connor’s lack of circumcision must have been an issue with other partners more than once if he feels the need to lob the information into the moment like a hand grenade into a pond. Andrew honestly couldn’t give less of a shit, so he snorts and asks, “Does your dick work?”
“Of course it fucking works.” Connor’s relief is hidden beneath the sharpness, and Andrew smiles. “Then I couldn’t care less,” he says, reaching out again.
Chapter Two
Glancing at his watch, Connor groans. He’s late for brunch with Casey, Will, and Will’s best friend/best man. He hasn’t met the guy, but he sounds dull. Some sort of boring lawyer type.
Bodies and chatter fill the dining room, and Conner scans the large space for Casey. All he managed was half a workout—if that—and he still feels itchy and restless in his skin, despite the phenomenal sex last night. He can’t even follow his usual regimen of ballet and Pilates before baseball practice since he’s stuck on a boat for the next six days, and his muscles are protesting already. But there’s a track and a pool and a gym somewhere on board, and he’ll make good use of them after brunch. He’s going to have to find a makeshift studio somewhere on this ship though. Even after just one day without the control and discipline of ballet, there’s a heaviness and a lethargy in his limbs that he hates.
Casey’s blond head rises and she waves bright red nails at him. Will stands too. Connor navigates several large round tables and heads toward the plate-glass-windowed wall. Thick draperies frame the sparkling blue of the Gulf and the reflection of the sunlight off the water.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” says Casey.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, although he knows why she thinks so, considering his hair is sticking up all over the place from his makeshift workout. He accepts her hug and settles a kiss on her cheek before clasping Will on the shoulder. “Morning.”
“Morning,” says Will. He nods to the person across the table. “Connor, this is…”
Connor’s attention slides from Will, to—oh fucking shit. The guy he fucked last night. He fights back an outward reaction, but like a really good fastball over home plate, his heart’s gone from zero to ninety in a split second. When he’d seen the guy at the bar last night, looking relaxed and hot and amused by the woman hitting on him, the words “lawyer” and “Casey” and “Will” had not been words he’d have associated with the man.
