Make Me Wet: An Older Man Younger Woman Steamy Cruise Romance

by Adele Hart

  I run my nose up the seam of her sex and inhale. My cock throbs painfully against my thigh. The heat of my tongue has her lifting to meet each stroke. She is hot and needy and her impatience to get ready has taken a backseat to her desire.

  “I love you, Libby.” I lick and stroke her until her words of love turn into sounds of pleasure.

  “I…I…I,” she groans. I know she loves me because ever since that day she stood beside me at the altar in glass slippers and a gown, she has never missed a moment to tell me.

  I flatten my tongue against her and pull it against her sensitive flesh. Her legs quiver and her hips rise. “Ready, baby?”

  She doesn’t offer words, she grips my hair and pulls me against her sex where I suck her hardened nub into my mouth and make her soar.

  Seconds later, I am inside her and it is the most perfect place to be.

  I have a fleet of ships. I have wealth beyond reason. I have everything a man could ever want, but it is worthless without her.

  Life is funny. A young woman boarded a ship as her sister’s plus one and became the only one for me. She doesn’t swim, she doesn’t even like the water, but she never misses a chance to beg me to make her wet.

  A lot has changed for me. I’m a husband and soon-to-be a father. And most importantly, I’m a fan of romance. I live the fairytale every day of my life. Jude Deveraux has nothing on Asa and Libby Cross.

  Epilogue Two

  Libby - One year later

  We stand on the pier next to the bow of our newest ship called Destiny’s Cross, named after our daughter. I hold our little pink bundle of joy while my husband tosses the bottle of champagne against the bow as a blessing.

  Justice and her husband are there because Alex Christos is the captain. My sister has become a seafaring wife and writes her travel blog from every port they enter. I look down at the baby bump she sports and smile. Soon she will know the joys of motherhood, too.

  “You ready, sweetheart?” Asa asks.

  We are traveling on the maiden voyage through the Greek Isles. Our life is like an endless honeymoon.

  “What room do we have on this ship?”

  He gives me his sexy smile and says, “8150. Why mess up a good thing?” It turns out that suite 8150 on every Cross Cruise is the owner’s retreat. Not even my sister is afforded that luxury. Asa spoils me. He treats me like a queen, proving that anything is possible.

  Life is funny. An older man boarded a ship and bought me a drink. He gave me my first orgasm and offered me a life I couldn’t imagine possible. By all accounts he was a pirate who turned into a prince. He sailed the seas and enjoyed its riches until I walked his plank and made him mine.

  Choose Me-Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  Erica

  My new boss stands rigid beside me, the cords of his neck stretch tight enough to pop. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Sharing.” First day on the job and I am already in trouble. I bolt to a standing position and hand the box of wings to Kai’s mother.

  “Don’t feed them, they’re like stray cats, if you feed them they’ll never leave.” Larry Feeble stands at the back door of the bar and shoos the mother and her little boy away. Little Kai looks over his shoulder, his lips are circled in ketchup, and his eyes are vacant. “I don’t give you an employee meal so you can waste it.” Acrid smoke slipped between Larry’s tobacco-stained teeth.

  I bite my lips closed to silence the response bubbling in my throat. There is no point in arguing. Men like Larry have no idea what it’s like to be hungry.

  I lift my chin and release my lips into a smile. It is the kind of smile that shouts, you’re an asshole on the inside, but when paired with a tilt of the head, it comes across as genuine gratitude. “Thanks for the meal.”

  Kai is no more than five-years-old, but if his life doesn’t change soon, he’ll have to master that look to survive. The world is tough enough as it is, the poor kid doesn’t need to face it hungry.

  Larry’s beer belly indicates that he’s never been hungry a day in his life.

  “I found a nametag for you to wear.” He reaches below the roll of fat and into the soiled pocket of his jeans to pull out a plastic tag. The name Betty is written across it in bold, black letters.

  “Betty?” I’ve been called many things in my life, but Betty was never one of them. “As in Paige?”

  “This is a theme bar, sweetheart. You wear the wig. You wear the outfit. You wear the name.” He tosses his cigarette to the ground and stamps it out with his dime-store flip-flops. “Break’s over.”

  It is nearing eight o’clock, the time Alana says things start hopping. When I reenter the bar, I find her stocking the liquor shelf with glasses, and bottles of tequila, and whiskey.

  “You look great in dark hair.” She reaches up and tucks a stray hair back into the wig she loaned me. Hell, the whole outfit is borrowed. Everything from the siren red lipstick down to the pretty little heels that pinch my toes are hers. She supplied everything, even the job. “How’d you get all your hair into that wig?”

  “Apparently, I didn’t.” I run my fingers around the netted edge to make sure there are no other escapees. “But what I did get into the cap is held up with a dozen or so bobby pins that are digging into my scalp. Maybe I should cut my hair?”

  She gasps, “Don’t ever say that. You’re like Samson with that hair. Cutting it off would ruin your luck.”

  “You’re right.” I shake my head and laugh. “Without bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”

  She plops her round tray on the bar in front of me. “I need two light beers and three shots of Jack.” She grabs a wad of napkins and stocks her tray. “Are you going be okay tonight?”

  Beer and shots are easy, it’s the mixed drinks I worry about. I studied a bartender’s guide all week to learn the most commonly requested drinks, and since this is a forty’s themed bar, I studied up on cocktails like the Sidecar and the Manhattan—favorites from that era. “I got it, and if I don’t, I’ll use this.” I pull my phone from the side pocket of the ridiculous red polka dot dress. “Did you know there’s a mixology app?”

  Alana shrugs. “Doesn’t surprise me. There seems to be an app for everything.”

  “If only that was true. I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in now.” I can think of a few apps that could come in handy. An asshole detector app would be beneficial. One, that when placed in front of a man and activated, would scan his brain for attributes like sincerity, sense of humor, compassion. Hell, even scanning for brain activity could be useful. What about an app that rates bedroom skills? Manners? Intentions? There is a lot a girl can learn from the right app.

  Alana looks around the room of testosterone mixed with a bit of estrogen. “I was talking about them.” She nods toward the room full of military guys.

  I pull the tap and fill two frosted mugs. Pouring beer is an art form that requires the perfect amount of foam. I read that men are particular about the amount of head they receive. No surprise there.

  “I don’t have to like them, I have to serve them.”

  “You can’t judge all men by the misdeeds of a few.” Alana adjusts her breasts and pastes on a smile before she turns and heads toward the group of men standing by the jukebox. V-Day is perfectly located outside the gates of Hickam Air Force Base and Pearl Harbor, now a joint base. I thought that mixing the two services would be like kenneling a dog with a cat, but it seems to work out for everybody, especially Larry. He supplies the booze. The bases supply the soldiers and sailors. They supply the cash. Everyone is happy.

  Off to the right, a group of sailors approach the bar. I don’t know if it is a sixth sense or what, but it is easy for me to tell the difference between services. Maybe it’s the gleam in their eyes or … it could be the anchor tattoo most of them sport. Sailors are rugged—grittier than flyboys. “What’s it going to be, boys?” I fold my arms under my chest and lift the girls, making them appear ready to topple over the low-cut n
eckline. Alana swears the way to an overflowing pocketbook starts with overflowing cleavage. By the bug-eye look of my newest patrons I have to agree.

  “Tequila. Keep ‘em coming.” Four shot glasses line the counter in front the men. I carefully fill each to the mark so Larry doesn’t complain to me that I’m giving his bar away for free.

  He hovered over me for the first hour of my shift. That was until Alana handed him a near empty scotch bottle and told him it was under control. He disappeared into his office only to reappear at the end of my break.

  My thoughts go back to Kai and his mother, Jillian. Where will they stay tonight? What will they eat tomorrow? My stomach growls at the thought of food. One wing and a fry don’t fill me up, but I’m not at risk of starvation.

  “Smile,” Alana says. She is back with her tray and her next order. I look over her shoulder. The last pool table is now occupied by new arrivals—Air Force guys, if my guess is right. I swear they all went to the same barber—some guy that trims their hair one strand at a time to get the perfect look. Never too long. Never too short. Just above the collar, but still within regulation. Damn sexy if you like guys in uniform. Not me, I swore them off for life.

  Next to the new arrivals stand a group of wallflower women, they lean against the jukebox waiting to be noticed. My eyes skirt the room and then come back to my best friend.

  “Sorry.” I clear my head with a shake. “Deep in thought.” The presence of women means my bartending skills will be put to the test. Girls don’t order drinks straight up, they order drinks with cutesy names and a ton of ingredients. Alana asks for Two Screaming Orgasms and a Sex On The Beach. I’ve never had either in the figurative or literal sense. Hope springs eternal. I pull the vodka and peach schnapps from the shelf and grab the cranberry and orange juice from the refrigerator.

  “Did you get the utility thing figured out?” She plucks maraschino cherry from a nearby container and pops it into her mouth. The guy at the end of the bar watches with rapt attention while she rolls and twirls it between her lips. It disappears, and in its place, comes out a stem tied into a knot. He bites his lip and tosses her a five-dollar bill. Note to self … work on that skill.

  “I did that thing where I wrote a check to the gas and electric company, and then I put them in the wrong envelopes on purpose before I mailed them. I figure that should give me a week or so to come up with a plan or learn to love candied cherries.” I nod toward the guy at the end who seems to be waiting for round two. “They’ll either think I’m an idiot, or they’ll catch on to me since I did the same thing a few months ago.”

  “I think you’re a genius.”

  I garnish the frou frou drinks with cherries, which excites Mr. Fiver on the end. I’m pretty sure if one of those wallflower girls has even a tenth of Alana’s oral skills, she’ll be set for the night.

  Chapter Two

  Cade

  There are only two reasons a man would come to a bar like V-Day. One is to get drunk, the other is to get laid. Every guy inside will give you a hundred reasons for being here. Justifications range from meeting with buddies, to liking the food, but not one of them will tell you the truth.

  With its flashing, pink neon V, sitting prominently on the rooftop, next to the nose of a plane buried wing-deep in a mock up hangar, the place screams sex. Men don’t come here for the burgers, they come here for whiskey and women, in that order.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness as my ears tune into the sounds of big band music coming from the jukebox in the corner. The smell of chicken wings and sweet perfume float through the air.

  This hangout is never a disappointment. There is a bar and a bevy of beauties, which makes achieving the top two objectives not only possible, but probable on any given night.

  “Cade, over here.” Blake yells from the corner. Mike, Josh, and Dan stand nearby chalking up their cues. A pile of twenties sits on the green felt of the pool table waiting for the DD to be chosen. Most call that person the designated driver, but that’s not how we roll. We call the chosen one the designated dick because that’s what he needs to be to survive. It is his job to stay sober, pay the bill, and make sure everyone lives through the night.

  The practice started after Blake got wasted and disappeared for a day. The base was notified when he was found lying passed out and naked on Waikiki beach. Needless to say, his call sign changed from Badger to Streak.

  “I refuse to be the DD tonight.” I toss two twenties on the felt and pull the single sheet of paper from my back pocket.

  “It’s official,” I wave my divorce paper around like a victory banner—one little piece of paper that was more of a starting point than a finishing line. I have a new beginning, a new life, a new vision for myself. I slap the folded sheet onto the pool table feeling like I’ve been pardoned. “I’m single,” I shout.

  Several women crane their necks to see who’s yelling. I shake my head. Note to self, stay away from the right side of the room. That’s where the Hickam Harem leans against the wall to scout out new recruits. They are much like the Puget Debs from An Officer and a Gentleman—women who are looking for a man to save them. I am no one’s savior.

  “It’s about damn time.” Blake shoves a mug of beer into my hand and raises his glass in a toast. “To a weekend of drinking and debauchery.”

  This side of the room rings out in robust affirmation. Dan racks the balls while I take in the surrounding scene. The place is crawling with women. It is a regular smorgasbord. Short, tall, blonde, brunette, young, old, plain, and tatted. There is even a girl sporting a mane of spiky green hair, but she isn’t for me. My attention goes straight to the bar where Betty Boop leans over the counter. Her breasts spill from the top of her red polka dot dress like an offering. She’s new.

  “I’ll be back.” I turn to walk away when Blake reaches out and stops me.

  “Where the hell are you going? You just got here.” He is my co-pilot and always has my back, except that one drunken night in Las Vegas when I saddled myself to Satan. That night Blake was glued to the craps table while Diane and I said I do in front of Elvis and a handful of strangers.

  “I’m on a mission with two objectives—get drunk—get laid.”

  His eyes follow my line of vision straight to the woman who is pouring a pitcher of beer from the tap. “Good luck with that one. She has that I’ve-got-your-number look to her. The one that says, ‘I’ve seen it all, move along.’”

  “She doesn’t have my number—not yet. But she will before the night is over. I’ll have her on speed dial and in my bed.”

  At the mention of a challenge everyone gathers around.

  “Fifty bucks says you’ll fail.” Blake tugs his tattered wallet from his pocket and pulls out several bills. The others follow suit. Mike collects the money, and the bet is on. Before the night is over, I better have that bartender in my bed, or I’ll be out two hundred bucks. Anything less than success and these guys will change my call sign from Hawk to Squawk.

  “Watch and learn.” I toss back the rest of my beer and walk to the bar with the empty mug. The worn wood creaks and groans as I slide onto the barstool and watch the woman serve the men at the far end. She carefully rims four shot glasses with lime and salt and then pours a round of tequila shots for each. By the glasses that are piling up, they are already on their second or third round. Let’s hope alcohol makes them happy—not stupid.

  “Drink up, boys.”

  The guy at the end of the bar hands her a twenty-dollar bill that she tucks between her beautiful breasts.

  Her smile is brilliant, full red lips designed to bring a man to his knees. She turns my way and my heart stutters. She is fierce in the way she approaches me—trouble is written all over that shimmering smile, but I don’t flinch, I got the call sign Hawk because I’m a predator, not prey.

  “What’s it going to be?” She leans forward giving me a birds-eye view of her recently acquired Andrew Jackson. I pull my gaze from her breasts, letting my eyes rake ove
r her body. Up close she is perfection. Her curves are candy to my simple male mind. She is pretty enough to paint on the side of my plane if that was still allowed.

  I push my mug toward her. “I’ll start with another beer.” I could throw down the gauntlet right away and ask for her number, but I’m not interested in a quick crash and burn. My money and my reputation are at stake, so I add, “and your name.”

  She points to the nametag pinned below her breast. “Betty.”

  “No way.”

  “You’re right, but it’s who I am tonight. Regular beer or light?” My mug disappears under the counter. A frosted one appears in its place.

  “Do I look like a light man to you?”

  She lifts her eyes and purses her lips.

  “No, you look rather regular.” With a tilt of the tap she pulls the perfect beer. I love a woman who knows exactly how much head a man needs.

  “Betty,” my voice drips with sex appeal, “I’m anything but regular.”

  She gives me a non-committal shrug and walks away.

  “Any luck?” Blake stands beside me with an empty pitcher.

  “Leave me alone. You can’t rush these things.”

  “You’ve got until closing time.” He raises the pitcher and nods toward lovely Betty. She cuts her conversation short with Alana, who is also pin-up pretty, but not really my type. Blake obsesses over the girl while she pretends he doesn’t exist. However, when he isn’t looking, Alana’s eyes devour him. It is a game of cat and mouse. Blake is the mouse and obviously, Alana likes to play with her food.

  I can’t blame her. The chase is half the fun—but only half. I enjoy a challenge.

  “Same thing?” she asks Blake.

  “Up to the top, sweets.” He pulls a wad of twenties from his pocket and pays for the beer. “Can you set my friend straight? He thinks he can pick you up, but I can see that you’re the discerning type, so he hasn’t got a chance. Can you let him down quick and easy so he can come back and lose a bunch of money to me at the pool table?”