by Macy Beckett
Allie stretched her spine and made a noise of contentment, blinking awake and squinting against the early-morning light. She rested her chin on his chest and flashed a smile that warmed his heart.
“Mornin’.” She started to say something more but gasped and tore her gaze to the alarm clock. “Oh, no!” Muscles tensing, she moved to launch out of bed.
“Hold up there, sugar.” Marc threaded his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him, spoon-style. “Where’s the fire?”
“But my breakfast pastries,” she objected. “I should have started them hours ago.”
“I’m sure your staff is on top of it.”
He could feel her answering smile in the way she melted into his embrace. “You’re just saying that because you want to be on top of me.”
“Not true.” He reached around and cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple until it pebbled beneath his touch. When she released a soft moan, he nibbled her shoulder and thrust against her glorious backside. “I think I’ll take you from behind this time.”
“You’re so bad,” she whispered, pulling aside her hair to give him better access to her neck. He sucked the sensitive skin there and reached between her legs, pleased to find her more than ready for him. “So very bad,” she breathed, opening for his fingers.
“Mmm, and you like that, don’t you?”
He didn’t need a reply; her body answered for her.
Marc closed his eyes and focused on spreading the slippery heat over her folds. Occasionally, he dipped a finger inside to find more lubrication. And there was always more. He loved this evidence of how badly she wanted him—the feel of her, absurdly slick, made him so hard it hurt. To ease the ache, he pushed his erection between the dampened passage of her upper thighs, stroking the outside of her hidden entrance. His breath hitched at the wet friction, his body begging him to ease in where she was blazing hot and tight as a fist. But as much as he wanted to indulge in bare contact, Marc had never left himself unprotected, and he didn’t intend to start now.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, shifting onto his back to grab a condom from the nightstand. After rolling it down the length of his shaft, he settled behind Allie and slipped into her with liquid ease.
They shared a long groan. “God,” she swore, gyrating in time with each lazy pump of his hips. “You feel so good I almost can’t stand it.”
Chest rumbling with male pride, he wrapped both arms around her, holding tight as he drove into her again and again. Allie covered his hands with one of hers and whispered in broken Creole while reaching down to touch herself where they joined.
Marc watched over her shoulder and went half delirious at the sight of her circling fingers. He wanted to make it last, but when her inner muscles contracted in orgasm, she milked a climax out of him that he felt clear to the pit of his soul. Gritting his teeth, he thrust upward one last time and spilled inside her.
They lay there, sweaty and satisfied, their flesh glued together in a way that made it all the more difficult to part from her.
“Damn,” he said, still panting for air. “Every time we do this I think it can’t possibly get any better, but it does. What’s your secret?”
Allie drew his palm to her mouth and placed a kiss there. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
He laughed. “If we keep up this pace, you’ll be the death of me anyway.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she suggested, “We can slow down anytime you want, baby.”
Right, like that was going to happen. She made him hornier than a parolee on release day. He’d made love to her six times in the last nine hours, and it still wasn’t enough. Even now, a tingling of blood flow to his jock warned he’d grow hard again if he didn’t pull out—which he needed to do so they could bathe and get dressed.
Probably a bad idea to suggest they shower together. Soaping up Allie’s wet, naked body would surely lead to more naughty shenanigans.
Yeah, definitely a bad idea . . .
“C’mon.” Grinning, he gestured toward her bathroom. “Let’s get cleaned up. I know a fun way to conserve water.”
• • •
When Marc finally reached the pilothouse, he threw open the door and nearly collided with Pawpaw, who speared him with an icy glare. The scrunching of the old guy’s brows said he had a bone to pick with Marc, but he stewed silently in the corner while the second-in-command delivered a brief report. Afterward, Marc thanked his backup pilot and dismissed him for a day’s rest.
The door had barely closed behind the man when Pawpaw lit into Marc.
“Where the hell have you been, boy?”
One hand on the wheel, Marc sipped his coffee and suppressed the urge to snap at his grandfather. “I got a late start this mornin’ is all. No reason to get your britches in a twist.”
“Late start?” Pawpaw stammered. “We’ve been tryin’ to track you down all night!”
That sounded bad. Marc’s stomach tightened, and he took his eyes off the river just long enough to face his granddaddy, whose typically tawny cheeks had darkened to the shade of a summer raspberry. “Why? What happened last night?”
Pawpaw laughed without humor. “What didn’t happen?”
“You going to tell me or not?”
“Where should I start?” asked the man, lowering his saggy bottom onto a folding chair and clearly enjoying Marc’s unease. “How ’bout with the theater show? One of the actors in the second performance broke a leg—literally. Poor bastard slipped on a Twinkie wrapper, of all things, and went down harder than a prize heifer.”
Cringing, Marc drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “He okay?”
Pawpaw lifted a shoulder. “Guess so. The EMT said it looked like a clean break.”
“The EMT?” As far as Marc knew, there were no medics on board. Just the staff nurse, who treated stomach bugs and the occasional scrape. “Where’d you dig up one of those?”
“I didn’t. We stopped around midnight.”
“Stopped the boat?” Marc damn near dropped his coffee. “You docked the Belle last night?” And I didn’t notice?
Pawpaw raised one bushy brow and leaned forward in his chair. “Twice.”
“And nobody bothered to tell me?”
“Not for lack of tryin’,” Pawpaw said, shaming Marc with a bitter glare. “You wouldn’t answer your phone.”
Marc set his coffee on the console and patted himself down, searching for his cell but coming up empty-handed.
“Lookin’ for this?” Pawpaw pulled the cell from his shirt pocket and handed it over. “Found it on the casino floor . . . in a patch of dried Coca-Cola.”
Avoiding his granddaddy’s eyes, Marc took the sticky device and shoved it in his jacket pocket.
“When I went to your suite,” Pawpaw continued, “you weren’t there. We tore the boat apart looking for you, ’specially the second time.”
Marc returned his gaze to the water, barely seeing a thing as guilt clawed a jagged trail into his skull. He was captain of the boat—directly responsible for the Belle and every soul aboard. How could he be so irresponsible as to go off the grid all night? And how was it possible they’d docked twice and he’d never noticed?
He knew the answer, just didn’t want to admit it. He hadn’t detected the stops because Allie’s bed was rocking, even when the boat wasn’t. Making love with her felt so incredible he probably wouldn’t have known if the boat were on fire.
Marc cleared his throat and refocused on the controls, slowing the throttle to bring the old girl down to six knots. Unfocused as he was right now, he probably shouldn’t be piloting at all. “What happened the second time?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Domestic dispute,” Pawpaw said, hooking his fingers in sarcastic air quotes. “That’s what the cops called it, anyhow.”
&nbs
p; Marc pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me the law was aboard my boat?”
“Naw,” Pawpaw said. “Beau stepped up and handled it. He carried the perp down the ramp and the officers stayed on the dock.”
“What’d the guy do?”
Pawpaw snorted in amusement. “Crotchety son of a bitch nearly took off my head with a wine bottle.”
“He attacked you?”
“Sure as I’m sittin’ here. His wife sent me one-a-them dirty text messages and he—”
Marc whipped his head around. “You were sexting with a guest?”
“Hey,” he said, pushing both palms forward, “I didn’t encourage her. I was just minding my own business when her old man came at me swingin’ a 1982 Merlot.”
“Oh, yeah?” Marc smelled bullshit. In his younger days, Pawpaw had made a reputation for himself as the bayou’s number-one backdoor man. “Then how’d she get your number?”
Pawpaw’s gaze dropped to the floor. “That ain’t the point.”
“God help us,” Marc muttered under his breath. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still afloat.”
“It all worked out for the best,” Pawpaw said with a dismissive wave. “Once they left, I had the maids turn down the room so the folks from 116 could have it.”
Marc hated to ask. “What happened in 116?”
“Pipe burst in the head.” A low whistle puffed Pawpaw’s cheeks. “When the maintenance crew came, they found a dead opossum in the toilet.”
“Fan-damn-tastic.” Marc noted the sonar equipment was on the fritz, too. “That’s all we need—a critter invasion.”
“If it ain’t one thing, it’s another,” the old man mused.
No doubt. And it didn’t escape Marc’s notice that the figurative downpour had occurred precisely when he’d taken Allie Mauvais to bed. He tried telling himself it was a coincidence, but it felt like a lie.
The stakes seemed to escalate with each touch. An after-prom kiss had earned him a boxer-full of blisters. The first time he’d crossed Allie’s path since high school, half his cleaning crew had been deported and his pastry chef had contracted German measles. He’d given Allie an orgasm, and the bed next door had burst into flames. Now after a night of lovemaking, all hell had broken loose.
What would happen next?
Marc was afraid to think about it, because he wasn’t ready to stop seeing Allie. Not even close. He’d always known one night with her wouldn’t be enough, and sure as dawn, he’d be back in her arms tonight.
But regardless, he needed to keep his priorities straight. The Belle came first, not Allie . . . even if he did love making her come. In the end, she was just a woman, flesh and bone, and his time with her was fleeting. The Belle would be here long after Marc was gone, serving a new generation of Dumonts. He had to keep her thriving.
“So where were you last night?” Pawpaw asked. When Marc ignored the question and resumed sipping his coffee, the old guy scoffed and added, “Whoever she was, I hope she was worth it.”
Marc grinned above the rim of his Styrofoam cup.
She was.
• • •
He spent the rest of the day perched behind the wheel, staring out the front window at the mighty Mississippi but seeing Allie’s face reflected in each wave and shadow. Every wooden creak and groan of steel transported him back to last night when she’d moaned his name in a litany of pleasure. Even the warm jasmine breeze tormented him with reminders of her scent.
He hadn’t caught a glimpse of Allie all day, and yet there was no escaping her.
Touches of her presence were everywhere—in the abandoned gris-gris bag on a hallway table outside his suite; in the ramekin of crème brûlée on the lunch tray Worm had delivered to the pilothouse. Marc had never been a fan of that particular dessert, considered it nothing more than glorified pudding, but the buttery custard and crisp caramelized topping Allie had created were so delicious he’d sent Worm back to the galley to fetch seconds.
Whether in bed or in the kitchen, one taste of Allie’s sweetness was never enough.
Marc checked his watch, wondering what she was doing right now. The dinner shift had ended hours ago, so she was probably in her room getting ready to catch up on all the sleep he’d denied her last night. His mouth pulled into a frown. He wanted to see her, but he didn’t know what the proper protocol was for their “relationship.” He’d promised not to nail other women while he was sleeping with Allie, but that didn’t make them a couple. Or at least he didn’t think so. Allie wasn’t his girlfriend, was she?
Hell, he didn’t know. This was foreign to him.
He pulled his cell phone from the control panel and tapped a hasty text. What are you up to? Would love to see you later, then shook his head and inwardly chided himself. No, that sounded needy. Plus, he shouldn’t be putting any form of the L-word into Allie’s head. The last thing he needed was for her to get the wrong idea and assume their arrangement went any deeper than simple lust. He deleted the message and shoved his phone into his pocket, deciding to let her make the first move.
As long as she made a move soon.
About an hour later, when he’d resorted to pinching himself in order to stay awake, two quick knocks sounded from the pilothouse door, and the object of Marc’s obsession peeked her curly head inside, giving him a smile that made his heart leap into his throat while a swarm of moths took flight in his belly.
Lord help him, his brother was right. Marc was whipped like a rented mule.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to play it cool. “This is a nice surprise.”
Allie nudged her way inside and shut the door with her hip, then held up a steaming cup of coffee and a few cookies on a napkin. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I figured you could use some sustenance.”
“You read my mind.” Caffeine, sugar, and a heaping dose of Allie Mauvais were exactly what he needed. His mouth watered, partly from the scent of roasted coffee beans and chocolate chips and partly from the candied perfume clinging to her throat. “Thanks, hon.”
She handed him the offerings and pointed at the folding chair by the wall. “Want some company? I can stay for a while and help keep you awake.” The dirty thoughts collecting inside Marc’s head must have shown in his eyes, because she pushed forward both palms and clarified, “No hanky-panky while you’re at the wheel, Captain. All I’m offering is a little lively conversation.”
He laughed and brought the coffee to his lips. The dark roast was rich and heady, sweetened with something that reminded him of pumpkin pie. Damn, she even made good coffee. Was there anything she couldn’t do?
“No worries,” he said. “I’d never slack off at the helm.”
She lowered herself onto to the rickety chair and studied him for a moment. “I know you wouldn’t. The Belle is your whole world.” There wasn’t an ounce of resentment in her words. When Marc turned to regard her lovely face, he saw a glimmer of respect shining there.
“She is,” he agreed. “That doesn’t bother you?” Over the years, most women he’d tangled with had complained that he’d spent too much time on the Belle and not enough in their beds. He wondered why Allie felt differently.
She shook her head. “Not at all.”
“Why?”
A slow smile lifted her cheeks and her eyes softened as if she wanted to give him a hug. It looked a lot like empathy, which caught him off guard. “Because I know the real reason you’ve invested your heart and soul and all your money in this boat.”
He lifted a questioning brow.
“It’s about family,” she said simply. “As long as the Belle stays in business, everyone you love is here—Alex and Nicky, little Worm, Ella-Claire, and your pawpaw. Even Beau.”
While he processed that, she went on.
“Plus, you had an . . .” She trailed off, searching for the right
word. “ . . . An unusual childhood. You didn’t grow up in the same house with your brothers—some of you didn’t even go to the same school—so your only chance to be together was on the Belle. She’s the single thread that ties together the most important people in your life.”
Marc stared out the front window and considered Allie’s words. He’d never thought about it that way, but he supposed she had a point. If it weren’t for summers slaving aboard this boat, he’d never have seen his brothers. The one time they’d tried to organize a family barbecue, Worm’s mama had “accidentally” stabbed their daddy in the thigh with a wooden kabob skewer. After that, they gave up on yearly reunions.
He might consider his brothers idiots, but they were his idiots, and he liked having them around—even Beau, despite the fact that he busted Marc’s chops on a daily basis. The only Dumont missing on board was their daddy, and until now, Marc hadn’t realized how quiet the boat seemed without the man barking orders at them. Almost too quiet.
“So,” Allie continued, “by making the boat your priority, you’re putting your family first. How could anyone fault you for that?”
“Believe me,” Marc grumbled, “plenty of women have tried.”
“Then they didn’t know you at all.”
He grabbed a cookie and threw her a teasing glance. “And you do?”
With a shrug, she crossed her long legs at the ankles and folded both arms behind her head. “Better than you think.”
Marc laughed and dug into his cookie, but deep down he figured she was right. Her observations about the Belle had proved Allie understood him better than he understood himself.
Truth be told, that scared him a little.
He didn’t want her to get under his skin or inside his head and take up residence there. Allie was more than a red-hot lover. She was quickly becoming a friend too, and if he allowed their connection to grow stronger, it would sting all the more when everything fell apart. Which it would. People weren’t meant to mate for life—the divorce rate clinched it.
