Captain

by Lauren Rowe

  “In other words, a Virgo.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why not so much as a kiss? Haven’t you, you know, been on a date?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Wow. And you haven’t missed human contact?”

  “Of course, I have. A lot. But, you know, there are mechanical substitutes for boyfriends these days.”

  “Baby, there’s no substitute for the real thing.”

  She blushes. “True.”

  I lean forward. “Please don’t feel shy or embarrassed to talk to me. Revealing our vulnerabilities is the only way true intimacy can happen.”

  She looks absolutely floored. “‘True intimacy’? Not words I’d expect a tattooed dude in a bar to use.”

  “Well, I don’t live in the bar. Sometimes I walk the streets. Go to work. Go to the gym.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She places her palm on my forearm and my cock jolts at her unexpected touch. “Are you looking for ‘true intimacy,’ Ryan?”

  “Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “I’m done with the bullshit. I’m just so over it.” I look into her dark eyes. “To be perfectly honest, I’m looking for something real. I just haven’t found it yet.”

  Her eyes blaze. “So am I.”

  We stare at each other for a long beat, the heat between us palpable, my dick hard. I want this woman.

  “Please tell me what the fuck happened in your last relationship to make you check out from dating for so long,” I say. “I want to understand so I don’t do whatever the fuck that fucker did.”

  She shrugs. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Hmm. Is it highly embarrassing or only slightly embarrassing?”

  She purses her lips, considering. “Slightly.”

  “Okay, no biggie then. You can tell me that story now, and some other ‘highly embarrassing’ story when I take you out to dinner.”

  A glorious smile spreads across her face. “When are you taking me out to dinner?”

  “As soon as humanly possible. Tomorrow night?”

  “Great.”

  I’m smiling from ear-to-ear. “You like steak? Sushi? Italian? Indian?”

  “Surprise me. I’ve never been out on a date in Seattle. I’m at your mercy.”

  “I’ll take you to my all-time favorite place. And, after dinner, I’ll take you on a little tour of my city—I’ll show you all the cool spots—and, after that, I’ll take you to this little bakery with the best cupcakes in the city. They’ll blow your mind.”

  “Thank you. Wow. That sounds amazing.”

  There’s a long beat as we stare at each other, smiles plastered on our faces, heat wafting between us, our chests visibly rising and falling. Shit, I feel like my heart’s gonna explode. I want this woman. “I think we should do a shot, don’t you?” I say. “I suddenly feel like this is a celebration.”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” she replies, making me laugh. “What are we celebrating?”

  The start of something real, I think. But, of course, that’s not what I say. “How much fun it is to go out and meet new people, on occasion,” I say.

  She laughs. “Perfect.”

  I signal to the bartender. “Tim? Bring us some shots of tequila, sir. This gorgeous woman and I are celebrating.”

  Chapter 9

  Ryan

  Samantha puts down her empty shot glass, a devious smile on her face. “I tell you what,” she says. “I’ll tell you my ‘slightly embarrassing’ story if you tell me one of yours first, plus answer one question of mine with complete honesty.”

  “Why do you get a bonus question? It should be a tit-for-tat exchange.”

  “It’s basic supply and demand. I’ve got a monopoly on the information you want, so I’m naming my premium price.”

  “That’s price-fixing, Argentina—and, news flash, it’s illegal.”

  “In the U.S., maybe, but I’ve got dual citizenship.” She crosses her gorgeous legs and juts her spectacular chest at me. “You call it price-fixing, but where I come from, we call it ‘Wednesday night.’”

  Oh my God, she’s the sexiest woman alive. “This is highway robbery,” I say playfully, a huge smile plastered across my face.

  Samantha shrugs. “Okay, then, I guess we’ll just talk about the weather. Gosh, I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow night when you take me to dinner because I’m planning on wearing a dress with not a whole lot of fabric covering right here.” She places her palm on her spectacular chest, right below the cute little flight-attendant scarf tied around her neck.

  Oh my God, I want her. “And to think you started out tonight so demure and shy,” I say, my voice turning husky. “What the fuck happened to you? It turns out you’re an Argentinian shark underneath that pretty veneer. Good God, you’re more of a shark than most lawyers I know.”

  “So make me a counter-offer, then.”

  “Nah, I don’t need to make you a counter-offer, sweetheart—I agree to your terms. I would have agreed to anything. I was bluffing.”

  She giggles. “Good to know.”

  “But only because I’m so damned motivated to put you—I mean, excuse me, this deal—to bed.”

  She shoots me a look that could flash-melt an ice cube. “Yet again, it all comes back to your master plan.”

  “Always.”

  “So tell me your ‘slightly embarrassing’ story first,” she says. “Show me how it’s done.”

  I tell her the ‘slightly embarrassing’ story of the time my pants split down the front at prom (right after I’d been named prom king, as a matter of fact), as I attempted to perform a Saturday-Night-Fever-inspired splits-maneuver in celebration of my royal victory, and my dick popped out of my pants and dangled under the stage lights in front of the entire student body—and she laughs her beautiful ass off.

  “Oh my God. How were you only slightly embarrassed?” she asks. “I would have been traumatized for life.”

  “Bah. No biggie. Thankfully, by then, I’d been in enough locker rooms to know my dong had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.” I wink.

  She rolls her eyes. “And now we’re right back to you being a sex god.”

  “Always.”

  “How the heck did your dong pop out of your pants in the first place? You weren’t wearing underwear?”

  “Of course, not. A dude can’t wear underwear with leather pants.”

  “Oh my God. This story just keeps getting better and better. You wore leather pants to prom?”

  “I thought I looked like Lenny Kravitz—which is coincidental, seeing as how I had the exact same wardrobe malfunction Lenny did, just a decade before he did. I’m telling you, ten years later, Lenny totally stole my moves—in more ways than one, actually.”

  “Oh, yeah. I saw that photo of poor Lenny.” She smirks. “He had nothing to be embarrassed about, either.”

  “See how that works? Dudes with confidence let our dongs fly. No shame in our game.”

  She giggles. “Will you pretty-please bring a prom photo with you tomorrow night? I’m dying to see your leather pants. But, please, bring a shot from before the Big Dong Reveal—I have no desire to see your underage peen.”

  “It’s okay—it wouldn’t be kiddie porn. I’d just turned eighteen.”

  “No, thanks. I have no interest in teenage peen, whether it’s legal or not.”

  “I’m just teasing. I don’t actually have a dong-shot. Just a fully dressed prom photo which I’ll happily bring if you’ll promise to bring yours. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? (And we’ll also exchange prom photos).”

  “No-can-do. I went to an all-girl’s school, remember? We didn’t have a prom. In fact, I didn’t go to a single school dance after that one I told you about.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I didn’t get asked. But neither did any of my best friends, including Charlotte, so I didn’t feel like too big a loser.”

&n
bsp; “You went to school with Charlotte?”

  “Since second grade.”

  “Wow, how cool.” I look across the room at Charlotte to find her yucking it up at a boisterous table full of men and women.

  Samantha follows my gaze. “Looking at Charlotte now, it’s hard to believe she didn’t forcibly drag some guy to his own school’s dance.” She chuckles. “But, actually, Charlotte was a bit of a goody-two-shoes in high school.”

  “Were you?”

  “Oh, God, definitely. The worst.”

  “Was it a Catholic school?”

  “Yup. Uniforms and nuns. The whole nine yards.”

  I lean my elbow on the bar and flash her a huge smile. “So, did you wear a cute little plaid skirt like some kind of Argentinian Britney Spears?”

  “Yep. That was me. I danced down hallways in pigtails and plaid, singing ‘Oops, I Did It Again’ in Spanish. ‘Oops, Lo Hice Otra Vez.’”

  I chuckle. “Oh, man, my teenage self would have been obsessed with you. Of course, my teenage self wouldn’t have understood a damned word you were singing, but he wouldn’t have cared in the least.”

  “You don’t speak any Spanish?”

  “Not at all. Two years of high school Spanish and to this day I don’t know anything except black is negro, white is blanco, beer is cerveza, and bathroom is baño.”

  “Two years of Spanish and you’re that useless? For shame.”

  “It wasn’t my fault—I couldn’t focus. The Spanish teacher was ridiculously hot.” I laugh. “I just needed a tutor, that’s all. Oh my God, if you’d been at my high school... How do you say ‘rice’ in Spanish?”

  “Arroz.”

  “If you’d gone to my school, I’d have been all over you to be my Spanish tutor like blanco on arroz.”

  “Charm me all you like, Romeo, but I’m not buying it. You were Mr. Prom-King-Big-Man-on-Campus. If our paths had crossed, you’d have been way too distracted by all the cheerleaders and Extroverted Barbies throwing themselves at you to notice the quiet girl sitting in a corner with a book.”

  “Bullshit. Put you in a room with a million Extroverted Barbies and cheerleaders and anyone else, back in high school or today, and I’d go straight for you like blanco on arroz every time.”

  She shoots me an adorable smile that sets my soul on fire. Oh my God, I’m having a chemical reaction to this woman. I want to drag her out of here and rip off her clothes and kiss and lick and suck every square inch of her and then fuck her ’til she’s speaking in tongues.

  Samantha clears her throat. “Okay, so it’s time for you to answer my question. You said you’d answer one question of mine, remember?”

  I lean back on my stool. “Sure. Hit me.”

  “You promised total honesty.”

  I grab her hand. I can’t resist touching her anymore. “Baby, I know of no other way.”

  Chapter 10

  Ryan

  Samantha looks up at the ceiling, apparently gathering her thoughts. “Okay, my question—and remember, you promised to answer it honestly—is: what are you thinking right now?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Not what you were expecting?”

  “No.”

  She shrugs.

  “Oh boy.” I take a long sip of my drink and clear my throat. “See, the thing is, this is gonna be a hard question to answer because I’m thinking so many things, all at once.”

  “Okay, then tell me all the things.”

  “But, see, some of the stuff I’m thinking—a lot of it, actually—is extremely...”

  “What?”

  “Sexual.”

  She smirks. “Why do you think I asked the question, Sherlock?”

  My cock jolts. Whoa.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she says, her eyes burning like hot coals. “I’m a big girl. As long as you’re being completely honest, I wanna hear it. I don’t think you realize all the facial expressions you’ve been making. I’m dying to know what’s going on in your head.”

  Holy shit. This woman is rocking my fucking world. “Okay. Well, uh, to start with, I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit, this woman is rocking my fucking world.’”

  She smiles.

  “And I’m thinking, ‘She’s gorgeous and sexy and that body of hers is insanity.’” I pause, gauging her reaction. So far, so good. “I’m also thinking, if I’m being honest, ‘I’d give anything to see that smokin’ hot body of hers naked.’” I pause again. She still seems receptive. “And that thought immediately leads me to imagine you naked.” I pause again, assessing her reaction. Again, she looks highly receptive. “You seriously want me to keep going?”

  She nods. “Please.”

  My heart is racing. “And now that my brain’s got you buck naked, I’m thinking in great detail about what I’d like to do to you in that state.”

  She bites her lip but remains silent.

  The song overhead changes to “Use Somebody” by Kings of Leon. Not the song I mentioned to her before, but close enough to make me feel like the universe wants me to keep going. I scoot forward a bit more, until our legs are touching, and whisper, “I’m thinking I want to touch and lick and suck every inch of your naked skin—literally, every inch of it, without holding back, without inhibitions…” I pause to gauge her reaction again... and, yep, she’s giving me an enthusiastic green light. I interlace my fingers in hers, my heart racing. “God, I wanna know what you taste like. Baby, I wanna slurp you up. Suck on your tip. Have you sit on my face and penetrate you with my tongue as deep as it’ll go.”

  Her eyes widen in shock, but I don’t care. She asked me the question, and now I’m answering it.

  “Sweetheart, I wanna lick you right on that delicious bull’s-eye of yours, that one little spot that’ll make you growl like a fucking animal, until you’re writhing and screaming and wetter than you’ve ever been and making sounds you’ve never made before and literally screaming my name—and then, when you can’t stand it anymore—when I’m so hard I feel like I’m gonna die if I don’t get inside you—I wanna push myself inside you and send us both to fucking heaven.”

  She lets out a barely audible yelp.

  I stroke her fingers in mine. “But most of all, baby, I’m thinking, ‘Holy fuck, I’ve never felt this kind of intense, soul-stirring, boner-inducing connection with someone in my entire life.’”

  She lets out a shaky breath.

  “And not just ’cause of your physical appearance, but because you’re smart and witty and funny. Because I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”

  There’s a very long beat.

  Our eyes are locked.

  Her unbelievable chest is rising and falling sharply.

  My dick is rock hard.

  “And that’s pretty much everything I’m thinking,” I say. “For now. Oh, and I’m wondering why you haven’t been kissed in nine months. But I already told you that.”

  “Holy shit,” she says after a long beat.

  “Did any of that offend you?” I ask softly, my stomach clenching.

  She shakes her head.

  “You sure?”

  Samantha runs her fingertips across the sword tattoo on my forearm. “Whatever the female equivalent is of every damned word you just said, that’s what I’m thinking, too.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “Excellent.”

  Her fingertips float up my arm, this time tracing the pirate design there. “However,” she says, and my body instinctively tenses. “As unbelievably sexy as all that was to me—and please believe me, it was—I feel the need to make a few things crystal clear, just so I don’t mislead you.”

  I nod, my dick rock hard, my chest tight.

  “First, I have zero hang-ups when it comes to sex—I absolutely love it.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m a big fan of it myself.”

  “I gleaned that.” She smiles. “And I think that’s fantastic. Nothing wrong with that. But you need to know I don’t do no-strings sex. For me, sex is something
special reserved for an exclusive relationship. I’m not talking about a ring, don’t worry, I’m just saying I need to know we’re both committed to there being nobody else.” She trains her blazing eyes on mine. “The good news for you, however, is that when I finally feel ready to say yes, you can be certain I’ll give myself to you completely, no holding back.”

  My cock jolts. I can barely breathe. As crazy as it sounds, I’d promise this girl exclusivity right now and mean it, if it meant I could take her to my bed and fuck her tonight. In fact, fuck it, I’m tempted to tell her exactly that.

  Oh, wait.

  No.

  I can’t do that.

  Fuck my life.

  Olivia.

  Shit. Thanks to the bunny boiler, I can’t take Samantha to my bed tonight—I can’t even kiss her tonight, not when I woke up this morning in Olivia’s bed. Not when I still have Olivia’s kisses from earlier today on my lips and my break-up with her is mere hours old (and, arguably, maybe not even completely finalized?).

  “I like to take things slow,” Samantha continues. “I’m sorry, it’s just how I’m wired. I’m a cautious person by nature.”

  I clear my throat. “That’s fine with me.”

  Samantha scrutinizes my face. “You’re sure I haven’t scared you off?”

  “Not at all. Whenever the timing’s right, I have no doubt we’re gonna be the eighth wonder of the world.”

  She chuckles.

  “The slow boat to China, it is, sweetheart. But, um, just as a point of clarification: when you say you like to ‘take things slow,’ what’s the general timeframe you’re thinking about? Something along the lines of nine months or some fraction of that?”

  She laughs. “A fraction of that. Maybe one-ninth, at most?” She arches an eyebrow. “Would that be doable for you?”

  “Very,” I say, even though, admittedly, a month is probably the longest I’ve ever gone without sex in my adult life. But, hey, given what I feared Samantha might say about her timeline, a month sounds like falling off a log. “Just do me one favor, please,” I say. “For the love of God, tell me the ‘slightly embarrassing’ story of why the fuck you’ve gone nine months without so much as a kiss. Honestly, I’m dying to know.”