Prelude (On My Knees Duet)

by Ella James

  “What?” His lips twitch as we stare each other down.

  I thought he might be new to fucking dudes. My eyes drop to his long erection as I sit up. Clearly, I was wrong. “Come here.”

  He moves closer, and I wrap one hand around his base, cup the other over his tip. His hand strokes my hair, fingers combing through it as I work him.

  He groans. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I’ll have to help you with this.” I squeeze his tip, and his eyelids sag as he smirks.

  Then he thrusts into my hand, fucking it for just a second before stepping away. He scoops up his boxer-briefs and shorts and strides back toward the cabin’s door. I follow him without a word, because my body’s still lit up from what he did to it. From how damn hard he made me come. I follow him because I’ve swallowed his hook. Who is he? What will he do to me next?

  He leads me past the kitchen, down the hall, and to a door on the left. It opens to a master bedroom with a king-sized bed. I note some plants beside the windows, a flatscreen on one wall. Then he’s opening another door, revealing a sleek bathroom.

  “Turn on the shower, Vance. Wait for me under the water.”

  I look over my shoulder at him. Something flickers through his features. He looks almost smug, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are strangely grave.

  I have the thought, as I step into the shower—the one he told me didn’t work—that I don’t know him. When I called the cruise line, I declined to give his yacht’s name. I didn’t know it, and he heard her ask; he didn’t offer it.

  I turn the shower’s nozzles on and look out through the door. He could be anyone. Sometimes that can be a good thing. In this moment, when I’m feeling dazed and heady from the work of his hands, it feels more like a liability—even as I know it’s one I’m going to accept.

  I stroke myself as I watch him strip off his shirt through the wavy glass. I feel almost shaky as he steps inside. The heat bulbs above us shine on his unclothed body, and realize I was wrong. We’re not an even match—because he’s sheer perfection. He’s a sculpture come to life.

  “Fuck, you’re—”

  “What?” His lips quirk at the corners.

  “Fucking flawless.”

  “Far from true, Vance. Now turn around and face the wall.” His voice is soft, but I do as he asks. My heart pounds with the knowledge that he’s right behind me. My cock twitches.

  “You like women,” he says softly. “And men.”

  “Everybody.” It sounds raspy.

  “Forever?”

  His voice is so flat and quiet that it takes me a second to realize it’s a question. Did I always like fucking the whole world?

  “Yeah.” The word catches as his hand cups my ass. “I went to art school. Fuck-fest.”

  His fingers nudge their way between the globes of my cheeks, and my erection stiffens.

  “Have you had a man here?” His finger makes its mark, but he exerts no pressure as he waits for my answer.

  I can’t seem to find my voice as his cock brushes my hip. I inhale. Shut my eyes. “Just once.”

  “So you’re a top.”

  His finger presses—slight—but having him there again nearly buckles my knees. “No,” I rasp. I reach out and touch the stone wall. He shifts his hand so his thumb is teasing there and his fingers are stroking toward my balls, making me pant.

  “I’m versatile.”

  “Depraved.” His free hand moves along my flank, the motion gentle.

  I inhale. “Do you like depraved?”

  His mouth finds my neck, kissing gently…then harder. His erection presses against my bottom. “What do you think?”

  Luke

  I’m in trouble. Something prescient in me must have known it the first moment I laid eyes on him. I’m not a rash man. Never violent. And yet, before we even spoke, I wounded him. I damaged him, and then I mended him. I want to do it again. Not want, need. I need to bury myself in him. I want it more than anything…but I don’t satiate myself.

  What I should do is weigh anchor and get him to his cruise-liner tonight. But my self-control has snapped, and I can’t seem to find the will to marshal it.

  We spend a long time in the shower—mostly me making him come. Every time he goes for my dick, I distract him in some new way. By the time I lead him, towel-wrapped and tired-eyed, from the shower to my bed, I’ve come only once in the steam—from stroking myself as I sucked him off. It’s a mark of pride for me that he was too lost in his pleasure to notice.

  I pull the covers back and lift a brow, directing him to lie down, which he does. He sprawls out on his back, peering up at me with heavy eyelids and a crooked smile. I like it. I like that he’s worn out from my mouth and fingers. He props one arm behind his head, and I lean my thighs against the bed’s side, running my gaze up and down him.

  I’m not looking at his face, but I can feel him watching me peruse his body. Good. For this one night, he’s mine to look at. When I allow my gaze to move over his features, I realize I don’t know him well enough to read the slight bend of his lips. But I think he looks…satisfied.

  I run my eyes over his chest and shoulders. I like how he’s sculpted but not super thick. He’s lean, a little lanky, but with enough definition that I can run my fingertips over the grooves of his abs. I could lie behind him and wrap an arm around him, inhale the scent of my shampoo in his soft hair.

  The mere thought of that makes my dick twitch. I distract myself by reaching out and drawing my fingertips along the tan line between his dark knees and the paleness of his thighs.

  I smirk, and he shifts his hips, rubbing a palm over his stiffening dick. “Laughing at my tan line, cap’n?”

  “And if I am?”

  I stretch out on the bed on my side, facing him, and run my fingertip along the V of his abs. Then, because I’m weak and he’s so beautiful, I spread my hand over his six-pack. His muscles twitch. I feel him inhale, and I struggle not to stroke downward. He’s hard and firm here. Under my palm, his skin is soft and hot. I smile as I trace the trail of hair that leads to where I’d like to go.

  “Treasure trail,” he murmurs.

  Oh, I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I cup his ever-present hard-on, shifting my position so it’s easier for me to trace the rim of his thick tip. I don’t plan to make him come again, but there’s a part of me—a wicked part—that wants to see him suffer the way I do.

  Smart guy—he can sense me toying with him. His hand closes around my wrist, and he tugs upward. “Lie beside me.” It’s a husky whisper.

  I glance up at him. There’s something in his eyes…a kind of glow. Contentedness, maybe it is. Even though I know I should get up and get us moving, I find that I can’t not oblige him.

  I shift so I’m lying right beside him, careful not to get too close—just close enough so I can see his lips quirk as I whisper, “This has been nice.”

  He laughs, his face breaking into a radiant grin. “Is that what you would call it?” His voice is soft. Amused.

  I give him a thin smile. “That’s what I said.”

  “I want you to top me.” His words are so quiet that I wonder for a minute whether I imagined them.

  He turns onto his side to face me. I shut my eyes. Beneath the towel I’ve got wrapped around my hips, I’m hard as steel. My balls ache with the weight of my craving. I shake my head and look down at the duvet.

  “What you’ve been doing to me—” His voice cracks on the words, and I can see his Adam’s apple as he swallows. His eyes find mine. “I want to do it to you, too. If you don’t want to fuck me, let me do what you did to me. It feels so good…what your fingers did.”

  “I know.”

  I can feel the air leave my lungs as I look into his eyes. They burn, desire bleeding from them. When he reaches for my shoulder, I roll away. Off the bed…into the hall. I feel him on my heels. In my mind, I give in when he catches my arm. But…he doesn’t.

  I walk into the kitchen alone, swill some scotc
h, and get us water, fruit, croissants, and cheese. When I return to the bedroom, I find him lying on his side, his scruffy cheek propped in his palm and his eyes trained on the door. When he doesn’t sit up for the food, I set the tray down on the duvet, climb carefully back onto the bed, and hold the water’s straw to his lips. Our eyes hold like magnets as he swallows.

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  He rubs his forehead. “Are you ever gonna tell me your name?”

  5

  Luke

  I smile—or try to—but I think it comes off smirky.

  “What do you have to hide?” My artist asks it like he’s goading me, and maybe he is.

  You have no idea.

  I have a swallow of our shared water and stretch out beside him again. I’m still mostly hard, but I can fight it if that’s the price that I have to pay to be near him a little longer.

  “What kind of work do you do?” He runs his fingers into his hair, still propping his cheek in his palm. “C’mon, you’ve gotta give me something.”

  “Oh, I think I have.”

  He laughs, reaching out to swipe at my pec. “How old are you, dude? Can you tell me that at least?”

  “How old are you?”

  He gives me a teasing smile. “Surprised you didn’t read it on your phone while I was bleeding in the water.”

  “Sorry.” I reach toward his head, my fingers curling as I try to keep from touching him. I have to swallow before I’m able to ask, “How’s it feeling?”

  “It’s okay.” He shuts his eyes for a few heartbeats. I’m surprised to find he looks a little pained. Then he opens them and searches my face. His handsome features are as soft as his voice when he says, “I’m twenty-five.”

  I guessed that right. “A twenty-five-year-old artist. What are you best at—what sort of art?”

  “I’m mostly a sculptor. But I do murals sometimes too.” His words are quiet, as if he’s telling me a secret—though of course he’s not.

  “The big stuff,” I tease.

  He snickers.

  “Are you any good?”

  “You’ll have to look and decide.” He holds my gaze as he sits partway up—to shove me. “You’re a dick, you know that?”

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep from shoving him back. “That’s not what I’m known for.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  I laugh. “Believe it.”

  “Then tell me what you do.” He lifts his chin a little. With his damp hair falling around his swarthy face, he looks like a pirate prince.

  “I’m…in the entertainment industry.”

  Fully upright now, he leans slightly toward me. “What do you do in the entertainment industry? Have I seen you in on TV?”

  My stomach drops. “Have you?” I manage.

  “I don’t think I know you.” His brows narrow.

  I grin—phony. “You don’t. I’m on the finance side.” It’s not untrue.

  He frowns. “Like for movies?”

  “Media and…other projects.”

  “That what bought this yacht?”

  “No.” I give him a truth. “My family has had money for a long time.” My ancestor was a railroad magnate, making his fortune alongside Cornelius Vanderbilt. I don’t dare share that fact, though. It’s far too revealing.

  He lifts a brow. “Must be nice.”

  “Not the case for you, I take it.”

  “Mom and I were poor as shit when I was a kid. She did everything she could for me. But we weren’t going to the yacht club.”

  “And now?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for someone who won’t give a fuckin’ name.” But he’s grinning as he shrugs. “I guess it’s pretty good. It has its ups and downs. Making a living off my stuff, though, so that’s something.” He reaches for the tray and takes a croissant, bites and chews. His eyes are on the duvet, then on my face. I wish I knew him well enough to know how he feels when he looks like this: blank-faced, with that little notch between his brows. “You come down here a lot?” He asks it almost cautiously.

  “Not really.”

  “Must be pretty busy with a job like that.”

  “I have a lot of people that depend on me.”

  I can’t keep this conversation going. Even now, I feel…evasive. Dishonest. Vance polishes off his croissant, and I turn away from him again. My heart beats wildly as I turn the bedside lamp off.

  Adrenaline trills through me. This was stupid. So, so stupid.

  For a long moment, it’s quiet in the darkened room. I wonder why I did this. Why here, and why now? There was opportunity, but there’s been opportunity before; I didn’t take it. Why did I lose my self-control with him?

  “I’m not getting a name, huh?” His voice is a rumble.

  I lie back against the pillows, pull the sheet over my legs. I feel ill thinking of what might happen if he finds out who I am. The second he steps off my yacht, he becomes the worst kind of risk to me.

  Thinking of yourself first, my conscience taunts.

  I turn onto my side, bury my face in the crook of my arm, trying to get my breath. I rub my fingers roughly over my scalp, and I feel him scoot closer. His chest brushes my back as he drapes a heavy arm around me. “Think I’m gonna call you Captain. You okay with that?”

  When I don’t answer, his fingers knead my shoulder…trace my spine. His hand is gentle. Careful.

  “I can’t stand an empty bed,” he murmurs. “You care if I stay in here with you tonight?”

  I swallow hard. I should care. But I shake my head. “You can.”

  His mouth brushes my nape, but I don’t move. When he nips at me, I press a hard palm over my erection, swallow a groan. After another beat of silence, he leans away, shifting onto his back.

  I can feel the cord of connection dangling between us. I could turn back toward him right now. Make up a name. I can’t tell the truth, but I could tell him something. Just enough so we could talk a while. It’s been years since I had anyone in my bed. I need it like air.

  And yet…I can’t make myself move.

  Some time later, when I think he’s sleeping, he scoots closer again. He wraps a squeezing arm around my chest and murmurs near my ear. “You know I’d let you any time, right? I’d let you fuck me in a heartbeat,” he says roughly.

  A bolt of lust moves through me, centered on my starving cock. Something stirs in my chest, thick and prickling. Want, I realize. Not just of his body.

  I can’t say that, though, can I? I can’t tell him a damn thing. I take the coward’s way out and feign sleep.

  Vance

  I don’t think he gets a second of shuteye. Every time I stir, I can tell he’s awake. Stubborn fucker won’t get up, though. He won’t turn around to face me, either. When I press my chest against his back and rest my forehead near his nape, he doesn’t scoot away or tell me to fuck off. He doesn’t lean into me either. Nothing.

  So I don’t sleep much either. I lie there relishing the warmth and bulk of him, pressing my ear to his back sometimes so I can hear his steady heartbeat, and I wonder who he is, where he came from. What sort of life has made him like this, where he won’t give himself what he needs? Or maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s more me doing the needing.

  Somewhere right around the time the little windows start to glow pale orange, he disappears into the bathroom. When I hear him turn the shower on, I steal out of bed. I open the bathroom door slowly, holding my breath as I step into the steam. He can turn away from me all fucking night, but he can’t ignore me when I step into his shower.

  Without even looking at me, he drops to his knees and blows me like it’s his damn job. After I come, he stands up and starts to wash me. Our eyes catch just once as he soaps my chest. Then he shuts his, clenching his jaw like he’s in pain. I try to kiss him, my sad captain, and he moves for the shower door.

  “I don’t think so.” I grab his arm. “I want mine.” My cock is p
ounding as I pin him up against the stone wall, smirking despite wanting to knock him around. He grabs my face, and we kiss till my lips throb—and my dick, too.

  I catch hold of his hips, sink into a crouch, and stroke his flank. I tease him with my mouth until he’s groaning. Then I full-on blow him. He comes fast and hard, jerking my hair so ruthlessly that it brings tears to my eyes.

  Afterward, we step onto the mat, and he half kneels and dries me. He helps me into his robe, leads me back to bed, and turns the TV on before he disappears, returning five or ten minutes later with a plate of pale blue petit fours. I smile at that, but he won’t look at me. It makes my throat and chest feel kind of weird and heavy.

  He has one of the petit fours before he gets up again, leaving the rest for me. I wonder about him again as I watch him dress. And I just know—I fucking know—he’s got some heavy shit weighing him down. He’s not being dismissive—at least not just dismissive. There’s this really dark vibe to him. It’s like nothing that I’ve ever felt before.

  I scrub my hands over my eyes. I want to shove him again, fuck with him and joke around until he tells me what’s the matter. But…I don’t. For reasons I can’t even explain to myself, I give him the space he obviously wants.

  When he disappears again and returns, telling me he’s made arrangements to dock at the nearest port of call, I’m not surprised—or shouldn’t be. This is how it goes, right? Find someone who piques your interest, that’s the surest way to know they’ll be off-limits for one reason or the next.

  In the light of day, dude wants us to act like strangers. I give it to him. We talk about sports as he fires up the yacht’s motors. On the way to the yacht club, he barely looks at me. I tell myself it’s whatever. This was a one-night stand. A pretty fucking good one, too.

  We wait in line for half an hour at the port before he’s cleared to dock. We talk about our favorite artists, favorite bands; I file away his answers (Dali and David Hockney, the Beatles). Just before we get a dock slot, he looks me in the eye and gives me a small, tight smile. It hits me right between the pecs.