Marbella Nights

by Camille Oster

  Pulling her black boy-shorts down, he nuzzled into her heat. She was already wet and she tasted divine, bucking when he found her clit. Urging her thigh onto his shoulder, he gave himself better access, working his tongue over her little nub, hearing her breath get wilder.

  He pressed a finger into her warm wetness, then two, pumping up and down as his lips closed around her nub, sucking with just enough pressure. Her breathing turned to pants and moans and he felt her contracting around his fingers, loving that it was taking him all of two seconds to get her to come. Her moans turned to cries as she pressed herself to him, her thighs quivering with need.

  He was rock hard by the time he stood. Her eyes were hooded with pleasure as she leaned back, spent, on the wall in the hall. His turn.

  Grabbing her thighs, he hoisted her up, ramming his cock into her. She moaned with pleasure and he felt her tense around him right away. She could take a bit of rough, he noted with delight. He wasn’t hankering for rough as per normal, but he appreciated a bit of animalistic fervour at times. Pounding into her, he tried to make this last, but she was so warm and tight, it was impossible. “You on the pill?” he asked before he was too far gone. Please be on the pill, he begged silently, because he would hate to have to pull out now.

  “Yes,” she said, barely more than a croak. Hearing the go-ahead, he let himself go, every part of him tensing, preparing to come deep inside her. Grabbing her hips, he ground her to him, feeling utter bliss creep up on him, then slam into her with force. Her cries were wild and he felt her convulsions join with his. Round one complete.

  Chapter 7

  Adelaide dived into the dark water at the back of the boat. The water felt icy for a moment, her skin contracting with shock. Lungs burning when she surfaced and there was nothing to see but sea. Pushing herself, she swam away from the boat, whose lights shone like a beacon behind her. The water was still this time of morning, before the wind started picking up.

  This was the time they got to themselves, before the guests woke, when they had to be available until the last guest went to sleep, which was often in the small hours. They took turns to be on-call for the very last shift, which usually didn’t require much since the guests were beyond the niceties such as ice in their drinks. As long as there were bottles of alcohol available, they were usually quite happy to take care of themselves.

  Now, they had to clean up the mess, but Adelaide usually had a swim first—a moment to get away from the boat and all the demands, the barrage of bitching and forcing constant calm smiles.

  The sky was lighting up in a multitude of colours. The sun was on its way, gradually lightening the sky. Sometimes they ran into ships out here, but not today. They were heading towards San Tropez, where the guests would go onshore and eat somewhere, eager to see and be seen. San Tropez was a bit more old school, but it was a required spot to be seen in the summer season.

  Adelaide floated for a while, looking up at the sky, but there was something scary about taking her eyes off the boat as there was no chance for her if she truly did get separated. Sure, they would look for her, but it was a big sea and she would be nearly impossible to see. So easily, someone could screw up and she would be left behind, her screams unheard.

  With precise strokes, she headed back to the boat and made her way to the swimming platform just above the waterline. Adelaide pushed herself up onto it and drew one of her knees up, watching as the sun just crested the horizon.

  “It’s going to be hot today,” a voice said, making Adelaide startle. She hadn’t noticed anyone there. The acrid smell of smoke hit her, which meant this wasn’t one of the crew and from the accent, it wasn’t Alexi. That left the pretty boy—Quentin Cartright. His upper body appeared on the back barrier of the boat in the middle of the two curving staircases on the sides, leading down to the swimming ledge. His hair was a bit ruffled with sleep and he wore a thin t-shirt. He’d literally just risen out of bed and he looked gorgeous doing it. Slight growth showed along his cheeks and chin, and he absently stroked his fingers over it. A cigarette rested between his fingers, the smoke circling in the still air.

  “You’re up early,” Adelaide said, feeling a bit miffed because she wasn’t ready to put her game face on, or have a guest intruding on her sparse private time, but this was her job. “Do you require something, sir?”

  His gaze travelled over her. “Are you going to serve me in a bikini?”

  “I can change if you’re happy to wait.”

  He snorted slightly. “No, I don’t need anything.”

  With that, Adelaide didn’t quite know what to do. If not needed, her job was to not be seen, but she was sitting her in a bikini, in her private time. She really didn’t want to go hide downstairs yet.

  “Is the water warm?” he asked.

  She nodded, her lower leg still in the water. “It’s a bit chilly at first, but warms nicely.”

  Moving around, he came down one of the stairways and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a perfectly toned body and leaving him in only white shorts. He threw the shirt on the ledge and dived in, emerging with a heartening grunt. Adelaide knew the feeling, the cold shock of the water sending blood racing around the body.

  His lower body faded into the dark of the water, but his shoulders and chest were visible, and a workout was not completely unknown to him. He had a good body, an excellent one, in fact.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Adelaide.”

  “Adelaide from Australia. Let me guess. From Adelaide?”

  “New Zealand, actually.”

  He smiled—perfect teeth. “I can hear that now that you mention it. Slightly softer accent. Do you swim every day? With a body like that, you do something.”

  Adelaide blushed. She wasn’t a prude or anything, but this really wasn’t appropriate conversation between a steward and guest. He wasn’t speaking to her like a steward though; he was asking personal questions. There was no real harm in asking. This wasn’t strictly upstairs/downstairs. “I swim when we’re out. I do a bit of running otherwise.”

  “It shows.” He didn’t say it sleazily, just matter of fact. “So is this what you’ve always wanted to do, work on a boat? Or did you just fall into it?”

  “I just fell into it.”

  “Let me guess. Backpacking.”

  Adelaide shrugged. He was spot on, but there was a hint of derisiveness in his voice. “It’s a national pastime.” She stood up, feeling his eyes follow her. Swimming back to the boat, he pushed himself up on the platform, the muscles along his arm straining as he shifted himself to sitting. He stood, and was taller than her.

  Standing with her towel in her hand, Adelaide realised he didn’t have one. Two wet bodies and only one towel. “Here,” she said, holding it out to him, dreading having to walk through the boat in just a bikini.

  “It would be downright ungentlemanly of me to take your towel,” he grinned.

  “You’re a guest. I’m not,” she said, keeping her eyes down. She had no problem with the fact that she was a steward. As far as she was concerned, they were from completely different worlds—might as well be different species, and she wasn’t about to develop hang-ups about it. When the demarcation was strict, it was easier to deal with than when the demarcation was blurred.

  “I’ll trade you the towel for a coffee.” Back to the steward/guest relationship.

  “Of course,” she said and stepped back, wrapping the towel around her. She rushed away and down to her tiny cabin to squeeze into the shower for a super-quick hosing just to get the salt off. If she didn’t do it now, chances were she wouldn’t get to all day and she really didn’t want to be salty and itchy a full day.

  She dressed as fast as she could, donning her shorts and polo-shirt with the boat’s name embroidered in gold.

  Carlo was already in the kitchen cutting fruit for the breakfast service. “What do you need?” he asked hurriedly at the intruder into his domain.

  “Coffee for one of the gues
ts.”

  Carlo flicked his head slightly to the fancy Italian coffee machine and Adelaide pulled out the grind handle, tapping it on the waste bucket to refill with fresh espresso. He hadn’t specified what type of coffee, but as it was early, she made a café au lait. If it was wrong, she was happy to drink it.

  Placing it on a tray, she carefully moved up the stairs to the lower aft deck, where Quentin was now sitting with his shirt on. It stuck to his skin in places where the wetness had slicked the material to him. “Oh, excellent,” he said, taking the coffee off her with one hand.

  “The breakfast service will start upstairs in an hour,” she said. They would keep it there until all the guests surfaced, which usually wasn’t as early as this. Stepping back, she went to leave.

  “What are you going to do today when we’re in San Tropez?”

  Another personal question and Adelaide didn’t quite know what to say. She shrugged. “We’re pretty much up to speed, so there isn’t much we need to do. Just hang out, I guess.”

  “You won’t go sightseeing?”

  “I’ve been before.” They always went to San Tropez. “Mostly we just sit on deck and people watch. Carlo, the cook,” she pointed out as he would have no idea who was cooking for them all day long, “does some of his more experimental cooking. Then maybe drink a bottle of wine.”

  “Get sloshed, huh?”

  “Not sloshed exactly,” she smiled. “Still have to take care of you lot when you come back.”

  “And we’ll probably be sloshed.”

  “Probably. But don’t worry; I will be here to take care of you.”

  He smiled again. “Look forward to it.”

  Okay, that last exchange was just a bit weird, a bit promissory. She hoped she hadn’t come across suggestively, like she was hitting on him. Now she felt super awkward.

  What did it matter, she thought to herself when she walked downstairs again. He was just a guest. If he got the wrong impression, it was his problem. He would be gone in a few more days and she’d never have to deal with him again.

  Chapter 8

  Quentin watched the girl go, running his thumbnail along his lower lip. She was hot. Her body was amazing, all muscle and firm flesh. She so wasn’t his type. Not exactly innocent, but too innocent to be as jaded as many of the girls he knew. Maybe jaded wasn’t the word, but too knowledgeable on how the world worked—that your value was directly linked to your family’s bank account. Megan knew that, and she was an idiot. Girls like ‘Adelaide from New Zealand’ were on a completely different scale. Different morals, completely outside the social structure here—foreigners. He had nothing in common with a girl like Adelaide.

  “There you are,” Megan said, walking out on deck. “I wondered where you got to.” She looked especially skinny in the mornings, like her body was trying to starve itself at night. Her clothes hung off her and they were some expensive garb, designed to look exactly that way.

  “Just woke early. How are you today?” For all the things Megan lacked, he would never be cruel to her. She was beautiful on the inside, as well as the outside—it was just such a boring package—but he’d known her forever and she was the perfect back-up date. She was the perfect guest, and hostess, if required. Megan would make someone the perfect wife one day.

  “I’m good. Had a bit of trouble falling asleep with the movement of the ship, but I always do when I’m on water. You slept well though.”

  She’d sucked him off last night and it had been the perfect nightcap. He’d take it easy tonight, give her a perfect ride in return. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. “If you want to go for a swim, you should do so now before we take off. The water’s lovely.”

  “You had a dip.”

  “Yeah. I’ll come in with you if you want.”

  Megan’s face beamed. Life would be so simple if he could fall in love with Megan, but he knew beyond a doubt that he never would. She knew it, too. “I’ll just go put by a bikini on.”

  The restaurant was crowded that night. An eclectic crowd present, Hollywood stars, the obligatory rap super star, standard glitterati, etc. You had to have a name to get in here. Large, curved doors opened to the sea, with a large balcony running along the entire building. People mingled and champagne flowed. Expensive clothes covered surgically tightened bodies, along with the odd prostitute, with even better bodies. Everywhere the eye turned, there was something beautiful.

  They looked good, Quentin noted. Cheyenne wore a dark gold knit dress, which complemented her long, tanned legs. Megan wore a white halter dress, which matched better with Alexi in pale grey linen. Truthfully, they were all mismatched. Money perverted the natural order. If money and status didn’t exist, he would be with someone like Adelaide, hot and athletic, young and gorgeous. Megan would be a homemaker for some average lawyer or doctor—actually he could see her as a surgeon’s wife. Alexi, God knows, and Cheyenne—well, she was made to chase money, but he supposed she would be with some ridiculously hot, almost effeminised European guy, all hair and pout. Instead, here they all were, in a room full of mismatched people, except for the fact that they all really wanted to be here, part of this crowd.

  Sitting at their table and nursing a drink, he wondered what that cabin girl was doing back on the boat with her colleagues, probably eating more filling food than he was.

  “Quentin,” a voice interrupted him and Quentin looked up, spotting Tony Stolling, one of his father’s friends.

  “Tony,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. He had graduated from referring to him as Mr. Stolling, claiming his adulthood by presuming a first name basis. “How are you?” It always paid keeping in these guys’ good books. These were the guys who made the deals. “You know Alexi Sumneroff.”

  “Of course,” Tony said. “Excellent to meet you again. I hear your ventures in China are going well.”

  “As well as they can with the Chinese. It is a difficult market.”

  “Nothing worth the trouble is every easy.” Tony smiled, and Quentin realised Tony had come over here with the intent of speaking to Alexi. Quentin had been the introduction, but it was good to be the person who made connections—a power all its own. “Have you done any deals in Indonesia?”

  “You have to be in with the Asian Development Bank to crack the market. I have enough elsewhere,” Alexi said, his voice baritone in the ambient noise of people chatting around them.

  “Darling, you’re not talking business, are you?” Mrs. Stolling said, placing her diamond-encrusted hand on her husband’s arm. “Don’t be droll, Tony. Mr. Sumneroff,” she said, “so good to meet you again. You must come to dinner. Are you in town for a while?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “Next time you are here, you must come. I insist. Or see us in Paris. Quentin, I didn’t see you there. How is your mother?”

  “She’s well.”

  “Good. I should call her.”

  “I will let her know I ran into you.”

  Mrs. Stolling patted him on the shoulder like he was a small boy. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be on a first name basis with his mother’s contemporaries. With some of his mother’s friends, he would forever be an overgrown child, and now he felt conscious that Alexi would have just seen him being treated like one.

  Suddenly, he wished he was back in Marbella with his friends, blissfully unaware that they weren’t the masters of the universe they had always assumed themselves to be, the way they’d grown up thinking of themselves. The reality was harsher. They were kept boys, a reflection of their fathers’ money and status. He had all round been better off not knowing that, but eventually everyone grew up.

  Downing his whiskey, he ordered another one. They hadn’t eaten yet, but he was drinking more heavily than he’d intended, searching for something to numb the blinding uncertainty he now faced. He looked over at Megan, who was chatting with Mrs. Stolling, about something inane. She would just have to wait until the morning. He wasn’t going to be in peak condition late
r that night.

  Quentin stayed up past the time Alexi and Cheyenne retired. Megan had already gone to bed and Quentin was, in essence, avoiding her. While he hadn’t actually promised her anything, he felt like he had, but alcohol was blazing in his veins and he knew he was well pissed. He’d probably stumble around if he ventured to stand. All this and he still couldn’t escape the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Maybe that was the alcohol making him feel queasy, he thought to himself with a smile.

  He heard a rustle behind him. It could only be her—her of the sweet legs. “How was your wine?” he asked.

  “Good. Southern Italian red.”

  “Nice.”

  She shrugged. “It was okay.”

  “Bet you didn’t have as good a night as I did.”

  “I dare say.”

  “I dare say. Does anyone actually say that anymore?”

  “Only us colonials.”

  Quentin laughed, suddenly finding something not particularly funny rather hilarious. “I’m fucking starving. They charge you a fortune and feed you a mere spoonful. In fact, come to think of it, I may not have eaten anything at all.”

  “Do you want me to make you a sandwich?”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  “I’m actually paid to feed you,” she said, her arms crossed as she leaned on the glass door separating the deck and the lounge inside.

  “You know what I’d really feel like?” He waited, but she didn’t say anything. “A kebab. A down and dirty, fuck me in a back alley kebab.”

  She sighed. “I can get you a kebab if you want. Won’t be fucking you in a back allay, but I can get you a kebab.”

  “I would love you forever.”

  “As long as you love me enough to go to sleep after.”

  “Ouch. Harsh words.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said, “you better come. Can’t have you stumbling around and falling in the water while I’m gone.”