Reality Check

by Leslie Carroll

  Jack held me tightly. “I don’t know what it is about you. I’m so drawn to you. I’ve said this before; it must be something chemical.”

  I nuzzled his neck and gave his ear a little nibble. “The feeling is definitely mutual. And . . . I think . . . now that I finally know how it feels to make love with you, I’m not entirely sure that I’ll ever be able to get enough.” My grin must have been a mile wide. “Unfortunately, I have to go back home in about”—I looked at my watch—“thirty hours.”

  Jack sighed. “Then we’ll have to make the most of the time we have. So, if you wouldn’t mind getting up . . .”

  I rose and straightened my skirt, refastened my blouse. Jack restored himself and his clothing to a publicly acceptable state and took me in his arms for a kiss before we headed out into the sunlight again, our arms around one another’s waists as we headed for the parking lot.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Jack as we left Vizcaya.

  “Someplace where we can remain blissfully undisturbed,” he replied. “We’re going sailing.”

  21/

  The Siren’s Song

  Carefree. I think that’s the way I would have to describe the feeling . . . riding in Jack’s convertible with the top down, wearing my Jackie O–style sunglasses, with a salt breeze blowing off Biscayne Bay ratting my hair as we skirted the coast. I felt warm, fuzzy, cared for, and was falling in love. To our left loomed fancy, monolithic hotels, and to our right, posh marinas, pristinely maintained, studded the shoreline.

  Jack pulled into the gated driveway of the Bonaventura Marina and punched a code into the electronic sentry box. The arm rose to admit us and we hung a right turn into the parking lot. “They have a pretty decent restaurant here,” Jack told me, as he swung the Aston Martin into a space marked “reserved.” He turned off the engine and pointed to an outdoor café shaded by rush-covered rooftops and table umbrellas that gave the place a tiki hut feel. “They make a mean coconut shrimp with mango chutney. And as you might imagine, I’m pretty picky about other people’s cooking.”

  “You are trying to kill me,” I teased. “Either that or you really need to start taking ginkgo biloba supplements.”

  Jack slapped his palm against his forehead. “Goddammit, I did it again.” He took my hands in his and kissed them. “I’m sorry, Liz. I must have some sort of blind spot about shellfish and you. Well, they also make a terrific barbecued pork tenderloin open-face sandwich.” I saw him look at his watch, a fancy-looking thing with all sorts of dials on it. Probably a diver’s watch of some kind. “I’ve set the bezel to remind me when the tide is up, so we should shove off pretty soon. Do you mind if we get the food to go? I’ve also got plenty of provisions on board, if you just want to eat there.”

  Great sex always makes me hungry. I opted for the takeout.

  I figured Jack had some little, modest sailboat; I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. We walked to the furthest end of one of the docks, with Jack propelling me gently by the elbow, cautioning me to watch my step in my heels, so I didn’t get caught between the horizontally laid planks or trip over a stray line. A gull swooped over our heads with its lunch in its beak. We stopped in front of a gorgeous sailboat; it looked huge from where I stood.

  “Here she is,” Jack said proudly.

  I read the name. “Circe.”

  “She was the Circe when I bought her fifteen years ago and it’s bad luck to change the name of a boat, although since I’m a master chef, I had considered renaming her the Galley Slave.”

  “So this is your . . . ?”

  “My baby. My pride and joy. I spend as much time aboard her as I can. She’s a sixty-seven-footer, an original John Alden staysail schooner built in 1930.”

  “Request permission to come aboard, captain.”

  “Permission granted. But first of all, you’re not shod for sailing, so please take off those very sexy sandals before you hurt yourself and we end up spending another blissful night in an emergency room.”

  I gave him a dirty look, then sat on a white wooden step unit, unbuckled the straps, and removed the offending footwear.

  “Here, let me take those from you. Seriously, Liz, if you’re not used to running around boats, you could slip and turn your ankle . . . or worse. I love my teak deck, but I’m more concerned with your welfare.”

  I handed him my shoes, which he took in his left hand, offering me his right one for balance. “Step up, then step down,” he instructed, as I mounted the step unit that brought me level with the bulwark, then I gingerly stepped down onto the deck.

  Jack came aboard and stood close behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. I relaxed my head back into his chest. He pointed at the masts. “Oregon spars,” he said. “These are the original masts . . . over seven decades old.”

  Jack slid back the hatch leading below and suggested I descend the ladder ahead of him. I’m sure he got a great kick out of watching me from behind as I negotiated the narrow wooden steps. “The main salon,” he said indicating the central area in which we were standing. I was surprised at how spacious it seemed for a sailboat; I guess I’d expected it to be dark and cramped and not at all conducive to spending too much time below deck. Jack pointed at the double skylight, the source of much of the sunlight flooding into the cabin. Light also streamed in from the bronze portholes.

  My host placed our takeout orders on a counter in the galley and lifted the hook on one of the polished mahogany cabinets, unlocking it. “If you don’t do this,” Jack explained, pointing at the hasp, “the minute you hit rough seas, the cabinet doors will fly open and everything will spill out and roll all over the floor. Try cleaning up couscous or rice sometime.” He retrieved plates, flatware, and glasses, as well as burgundy linen napkins from a drawer near the sink.

  Once we’d eaten our lunch, we went back up to the deck and Jack showed me the ropes, so to speak. So that’s where that expression must come from. “If you’re going to be my first mate, you have to know the lingo,” he told me. “So when I call out to you to do something you won’t stand there looking at me like I’m speaking to you in Swedish.” He taught me how to take in the rubber fenders that protected the hull from banging into the dock and to cast off the spring line first, followed by the bow and stern lines, and then, as we headed away from the pier, how to raise and trim the sails. I felt like a pirate lass.

  We spent the entire afternoon on the water. It was wonderful—and gloriously romantic. My first experience sailing and I was hooked.

  As the sun began to set, Jack headed for a quiet inlet and dropped anchor just beyond its mouth. “The sea always makes me hungry,” he said, pulling me toward him. His kiss tasted of sun and salt. “What do you say to picking up where we left off back in the grotto at Vizcaya?”

  “The ‘love grotto,’ ” I giggled.

  “Why, Liz, you’re blushing.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” I admitted. “And from now on, whenever I read the phrase love grotto in some work of erotica, I will silently grin like an idiot and remember this afternoon. I’ve never been so . . . spontaneous before.”

  We descended from the cockpit down the ladder into the salon. I started to laugh, then suppressed it. “What? What’s up?” Jack asked me, smiling. “C’mon, Liz, you must be thinking of something dirty; the tops of your ears are turning bright red.”

  “It must be the sun,” I lied. “Okay, if you insist, I was thinking that the word ‘cockpit’ was . . . well . . . we were just laughing at ‘love grotto’ and a cock pit would be a love grotto, wouldn’t it?” My cheeks were burning up.

  “Liz, how can such a smart-mouthed copywriter blush when she talks dirty?” Jack riffled through my hair; it felt magnificent.

  “Because of you, that’s why. I think about what we were doing just a little while ago, and—”

  “—and it’s an appetizer compared to what we’re about to do.” Jack opened a door aft of the main cabin. “Voilà,” he said. “The master stateroom.”

>   Damn if it didn’t have a queen-sized bed.

  What a wonderful oasis of elegance and sensuality. The well-appointed wood paneled chamber with its low ceiling and soft lighting was lushly intimate. Jack took me in his arms and we edged toward the bed as one, sinking onto the mattress without letting our lips part. Fully clothed, we lay enfolded in one another’s embrace, our hips pressed together, continuing, deepening our kiss. Finally, Jack drew himself away from me. “What do you say we eliminate some of those garments,” he whispered. “As in, all of them.”

  My heart began to race. This would be the first time we’d hold, touch, make love completely unclothed. Soon I would know what it would be like to feel Jack’s skin touching mine. Would it feel warm? Cool? I sat up and began to unbutton my blouse, my fingers fumbling slightly. I realized I was nervous, even though we’d already been intimate. Would he like my body?

  “No, here, let me do that for you.” Jack stood facing me and one by one slowly undid each button. I looked at him somewhat expectantly. “Why rush?” he said. “We have all the time in the world.” He offered me his hands, and when I placed my palms in his, he pulled me to my feet and slid the blouse off my arms, tossing it onto a nearby armchair. Then he reached around my waist and unzipped my skirt, sending it slipping over my thighs, grazing my calves, until it pooled at my ankles. I stepped out of it with as much grace as I could manage, given the fact that I was nuzzling my face into Jack’s chest, inhaling his scent. His cool water fragrance now comingled with the aromas of the bay breezes, the sun, salt water, and sweat. Another moment later and my panties were on the floor; my Miracle Bra, unhooked, joined it. I stood entirely naked before the still-clad Jack. When he very gently touched my shoulders and seated me on the edge of the captain’s bed, I felt a tiny shiver of anticipation.

  I watched Jack as he undressed. He didn’t rush that either. He seemed to enjoy the pleasure I derived from watching him undress just for me. I loved the light golden brown of his skin, the perfectly symmetrical thatch of dark hair on his chest. I couldn’t wait to run my hands across its silkiness, to feel his strong, toned arms embrace me. Oh, what a lucky girl I was: This stunning, kind, fascinating man was my lover.

  Jack joined me on the bed, easing me onto my back. Our lips met again and his hand traveled the length of my inner thigh. He paused to let his hand rest briefly on the juncture of my legs, his fingers pressed against me, feeling my heat, my moistness. I wanted him to explore me there with his fingers, but Jack delayed my gratification, smoothing his hands along my belly and cupping my breasts. He traced circles around my aureoles, increasing his pressure when he felt my hips arch up, seeking his. Then his tongue replaced his hands as he nibbled, suckled, until I felt as though I might implode from the sheer intensity of the sensation.

  Our mouths joined once again, tongues exploring, never seeming to get enough. It thrilled me that Jack enjoyed kissing me as much as I adored kissing him. He brushed his lips against my cheek, then nuzzled my head to one side as he buried his face in my neck and behind my left ear, depositing soft kisses there that sent tingles up into my hairline.

  Jack’s mouth returned to mine and he began to travel down my body again with his lips and tongue. He gently parted my thighs and nestled between them, tasting me in long strokes, allowing the sensation to leave me wanting more, feeling my body quivering for him to satisfy my need; then he would touch me again. He slid his hands under my rear and lowered his face to me as though he were drinking from a goblet. He ceased teasing me with his tongue and began to take me with it. It felt freeing and wonderful to give myself to him. To be his. I lost track of the number of orgasms he gave me. I’m pretty sure I stopped counting after three. Then, when I could have sworn I was floating, blissed out, a few inches above the bed, Jack covered me with his body and entered me. Our rhythm matched, then overtook, the gentle roll and pitch of the sea beneath us as the current gently rocked the Circe’s hull.

  Making love at Vizcaya had been so exciting because it was the first time we were experiencing, exploring one another, and because of the danger and potential embarrassment involved in our being discovered. Our passion had outweighed the risk. That would always be special. But our lovemaking aboard the Circe was exquisitely beautiful. Jack was such a caring, attentive, and generous lover. He understood instinctively where I liked, needed, to be touched. And for the first time in my life I experienced a mutual orgasm. It was the most incredible, urgent, powerful, magical release.

  We lay entwined for a while, then Jack got up and left the stateroom, returning a few minutes later with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. Paper-thin slices of lemon floated in the carafe. He poured us each a glass, handed me mine, and sat back beside me on the bed. “I’m so hot,” I breathed.

  “Me too. Let’s remedy that, shall we?” Jack pushed open one side of the skylight above our heads. I hadn’t noticed how dark it had become. “I’ll be right back,” he said, kissing me on the lips before he left the stateroom.

  I heard his footsteps on the deck. “What are you doing out there?” I called up to him. “You’re butt-naked!”

  “Like someone’s going to see me?” Jack peered down at me through the half-open skylight. “I’m cooling us off,” he said. “Setting up an upside-down little headsail that will catch the night breeze and waft it straight down into our cabin.”

  While Jack worked up on the deck, I thought about what a celestial day I was having. Jack was just so . . . I don’t know . . . gentlemanly. Competent. Loving. All of the above.

  By the time Jack returned, his rigging was already producing a gentle breeze. He sat on the edge of the bed, dipped his index finger in his water glass and seductively traced my collarbone with a ribbon of cool wetness. I handed him my glass. “Thanks so much, Jack. I really needed that.”

  He smiled at me. “The sex or the water?”

  “Both.”

  “We’ve barely begun.”

  “Good. I’ve got the energy and the desire for a marathon. This is our first day as lovers. If we’ve had enough of each other already, this relationship is in big trouble!” I reached for him and pulled him toward me. “This afternoon—the sailing—was fantastic. I think I’m hooked for life. I kept imagining you were Captain Kidd or something. I have a confession to make, Jack. In the throes of adolescence, I had this recurring fantasy of being kidnapped by pirates and forced to be the captain’s sex slave. Totally un-p.c.”

  “Liz?” Jack’s voice was husky.

  I wondered if his reaction was a “yes,” a “no,” or a “maybe.” “Would you . . . can we . . . ?” I asked tentatively.

  Jack kissed me deeply. “Is that what you want, Liz?”

  I felt my pulse racing. “Jack, I’ve never, ever divulged this fantasy to anyone. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so . . . vulnerable. For all I know, you may think I’m some sort of pervert.” Embarrassed, I averted my gaze from his.

  He asked me again. “Is that what you want, Liz?”

  “Yes,” I answered softly. “But do you?”

  Jack opened the door to a wardrobe built into the wall of the stateroom and selected four silk neckties from a collapsible rack. He approached the bed and lit two candles, safely protected by deep globes of ruby-colored glass, then switched off the lamp.

  “Lie back,” Jack instructed gently. “In the center of the bed.”

  Jack took one of the neckties and deftly secured it around my right wrist with a slipknot, half-hitching the other end of the tie to the post above my right arm. He skirted the edge of the bed and fastened my left wrist in the same manner. “Open your legs, Liz,” he asked softly. I complied, unbelievably aroused, bending my knees slightly. Jack secured my ankles to the posts at the far end of the bed with the two remaining ties. He stood at the foot of the bed, dead center, watching me. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “Now. I get to do whatever I want with your body. And you get to squirm and wriggle and beg your captain f
or mercy.” He lowered himself on top of me and began to feast—first along my hairline, gently kissing my eyelids, exploring my mouth for what felt like a blissful eternity. His fingers traced my face from my temples to my chin with fluttering caresses; his hands plunged through my hair, sending tingles across my scalp. I begged him to kiss me again.

  “I wish I had more than one mouth to pleasure you with,” Jack said, in between love bites to my nipples.

  “I don’t know if I could take it,” I replied, arching my back in response to the intensity of his touch. He took me time after time with his tongue until I thought I was delirious. I longed to put my arms around Jack and hold him close, but I couldn’t. I was caught between my romantic desire to clasp him to me and the increasing carnality the temporary captivity inspired. Each held its own special brand of passion.

  Jack straddled my body, placing himself between my breasts, cupping them toward one another, pillows for his hardness, close enough to my mouth so that I reached for him with my tongue. He adjusted his position so I could more easily pleasure him, and slipped a damask-covered neckroll behind my head for support.

  I loved being able to gratify him by taking him in my mouth, teasing, stroking with my tongue. Deprived of the use of my hands, I had to become even more creative. Jack seemed quite ecstatic with the results. When I felt him nearly ready to explode in my mouth, he switched positions and penetrated me, parting my legs wider than their tethered manner already rendered them. I wanted to bring my legs up and over his back, urging him closer, deeper, but the deprivation was somehow delicious in an altogether different way.

  “You are so beautiful, Liz,” Jack breathed.

  We seemed to be developing a talent for having mutual, simultaneous orgasms. Jack rested on top of me, his head on my chest. “I’m listening to your heart,” he said, as I inhaled the scent of his thick, dark hair.