by Selena Kitt
"To your cabin, then, Captain?" She gave him a smile that melted his brain and apparently those of the two men in the compartment, who stared at her with slack jaws. "I believe my things were brought on board before my comrades departed?"
"This way, ma'am." He stepped back and allowed her to walk ahead, his eyes—and his men's no doubt—on the twin globes under her tight slacks. Did they teach that walk at KGB headquarters? If they did, the rest of the world had better watch out.
Chapter Two
Anya eyed the well-appointed quarters of the captain of the capitalist ship. Neat and tidy, it featured a bed with wool blankets folded at the foot, an adjoining bathroom with a shower, and, along one wall, a desk with an empty top, a pair of captain's chairs, and a small closet. Stripping off her gloves, she opened the fasteners of her parka with shaking hands and let it slip over her shoulders to the floor before looking around for somewhere to hang it. A series of hooks by the door held a single jacket, and she secured hers next to it, bracing her feet against a sudden roll of the deck. The seas had been rough all the way, but they seemed to be getting worse even on this more stable ship.
How irritating that the US vessel chugged along while their own had failed. Their superiors would be displeased, but, as the scientist passenger, she would not feel much of the weight of it. That is, unless she failed in her mission.
As she had failed in all the others up until now.
Her bags, both clothing and equipment, sat where the American sailor left them beside the bed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. While, in theory, the Soviet military was the most efficient in the world, their plans had changed suddenly, and it had not been beyond the pale for the men ordered to bring her things on board to have been redirected into trying to help their damaged ship head safely home.
Her English was good, she knew, but only because of a school friend who had left the US to return to his family's roots in Mother Russia—a defector. She couldn't imagine making such a move, but she understood the yen for her homeland. Friend, lover, Dom… Whatever he'd been, he now dwelled in Moscow with his new wife, a petite blonde Party member with ambitions that would take her husband far in the scientific community.
Boris had asked Anya to marry him first. She sometimes wondered if she'd been wrong to say no. The stocky, brooding man's dark-brown eyes had seemed to see into her soul where no one had ventured before. The gloomy day in late winter when they'd met in the university library would be forever engraved on her mind as the first day of her true life as a submissive. He'd slipped her into a corner of the philosophy section and bound her to a chair with his belt, bared her breasts, and left her there for an entire hour.
Anyone could have come along. Her heart had raced, breaths ragged, pussy dripping wet, and she'd been ready to follow him anywhere for more. Even now, his deep even voice with its American accent could bring her nipples to peaks and make her knees wobble as she fought the desire to drop to them and rest her cheek on his boot.
So nobody had been more surprised than Anya when she turned down his proposal. For the first time, her safeword tumbled from her lips—in one second ending years of devotion. Ending everything. Yes, she loved him, for everything he'd taught her, but she had no desire to be his wife. Apparently, she didn't love him in that way. And Marya, who he eventually did marry, did not share well.
Two years later, she'd not found another to submit to and she ached with loneliness and need. But it would be the right man or no man. She also wondered whether her assignments since then related to her refusal or to Marya's preference she spend her time as far away from Moscow as possible.
The image of the captain of the Northern Lights flashed though her mind. He couldn't be more different in appearance from her first Dom, a scholar with the associated pallor. Tall, lean, tanned. Moving about the deck of his ship with purpose and discipline, steps as steady as if he stood on dry land. But his voice. The accent.
It struck straight to her core, tightening everything inside her. Her nipples scraped against her high-necked white shirt just at the thought of him touching her. What a disaster.
He was not the one. She responded to the English, to his commanding manner. Those things reminded her of her first.
Except, he didn't at all.
She sank onto the side of the bed, eyes closing, picturing him entering the room and taking her in all the ways she wanted, needed. Perhaps her insistence on 'the one' was foolish? As a single woman, self-supporting, and contributing to the growth of the USSR, she had the right to take a lover. A single lover—was he single? He'd worn no ring on his ungloved hands. Right or left.
At Boris and Marya's wedding, there'd been an incident where her former lover extended the wrong hand and the small group present held their collective breath. Americans wore their rings on the left—Russians on the right. The official had frowned, and, for a moment, it appeared he might refuse to complete the ceremony. But a single wave from the bride—Party member—and the misstep was forgotten. Sometimes, even the smallest thing could cause waves.
The ship lifted, and she opened her eyes again and clutched the mattress on either side of her until it settled again into its forward progress into the Arctic. Soon, they'd be into the packed ice, shoving it aside on their way to find the subject of their journey.
A serpent, perhaps a sea dragon of legend—or, more likely, some sort of visual misinterpretation. But so far north, what could it be? Suddenly weary, she bent and removed her boots and slacks, to keep them from wrinkling, then lay back on the bed with its coarse wool blankets, tugged one folded at the foot over her, and rested her head on the single pillow. She breathed in the scent of bay rum and clean, masculine sweat. Again, nothing like Boris who wore strong cologne at all times, masking his own scent. Such a Russian name for an American. No wonder he'd defected. She smiled and turned onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. A nap would refresh her for a watch later. Despite the orders to keep a low profile, she wanted to be on deck when they hit the ice. He might be captain, but he wasn't in charge of the science on this trip.
Could a man exude such power if he weren't a Dom?
But he wasn't her Dom.
Maybe he could be… for just a few days…
* * *
He'd knocked, politely inquired, and then entered his cabin, concerned at the lack of a reply. The lady scientist lay curled on his bed with a blanket tangled around her calves and feet. He paused, knowing he should back out but hypnotized by the sight. She wore only a white blouse buttoned up to a high collar with colorful embroidery around her throat. Her underwear, which looked like it was made out of T-shirt material, clung to her rounded hips, outlining the twin globes of her bottom in a way that started his hand itching.
The sweet spot where her legs joined her ass was bared as the panties rose up to reveal the even sweeter bottom curves. And she lay in his bed, her cheek cradled in her hand on his pillow. Stray wisps of gold escaping from her braid formed a halo around her face.
Every part of him wanted to join her. To take her into his arms and hold her close until she woke, then show her what he was made of. To redden that ass with his handprints and make her his. To cuff her with tight steel to the leg of his bed and keep her there all the time, ready for him when he wanted her. Maybe in another century he could have done that. Oh, to be born in the right time!
She shivered, and he moved toward her, pulled the blanket up, and tucked the rough wool around her silky shoulders. A good Dom always cared about the wellbeing of his sub. Put her needs first. He wished he had softer bedding for her.
A rap on the doorframe. "Skipper?"
Mark stumbled back, and the woman on his bed sat up with a gasp.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
He began to answer and realized she was looking past him. Turning, he fixed a glare on the sailor in the doorway. "What?" he barked, determined to show no weakness to his crewman. The kid—Ferman or something like that—backed away, eyes wide.
"I… dinner is served, sir. The cook said to let the guest know."
At a choking sound from behind him, he glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see the reddened face of the lady scientist. Would a KGB operative blush like that? "I am aware of the time we eat, sailor. As you can see, I am already here to escort our guest to the officer's wardroom."
The young man, eyes wide, backed out the door. "Yes, yes sir." He lifted his hand in a salute and, the moment Mark returned it, fled down the corridor. He could do no more damage control than he already had. The word would be all over the ship about the captain standing over a woman in his bed. No doubt embellishments would have him fucking her by breakfast. Not a thing he could do except behave professionally toward their passenger and spend as little time with her as possible. Perhaps assign a junior officer to attend her when it became necessary for her to emerge from his cabin to do her job. But he wasn't positive about her spy status, and the thought of another man spending so much time with her assaulted his senses.
Spinning on a heel, he once again faced the occupant of his bunk. "If you would like a moment, I will wait outside and accompany you to the officer's wardroom for dinner. Unless you'd prefer a tray here?" And wouldn't that be a first—he'd never dined in the cabin himself. But it would accomplish the goal of keeping her out of sight longer.
He didn't want his men to get silly in the presence of a beautiful woman. In the waters they traversed, he couldn't afford a breach of discipline.
But the Northern Lights had no such issues. The vodka shared with the Russian sailors was a longtime tradition, and he had been given the word not to argue it. International relations were a delicate matter. Once the Russians vacated the decks, he'd had the remaining bottles gathered and disposed of. Not another drop of alcohol or any kind of drugs was to be found on his ship. He'd not have it.
And he could trust any of his men to treat their guest with respect. To take her arm and help her through a hatch. To stand by the rail and ensure her safety.
Like hell.
They were all away from home and their wives and girlfriends. The single woman on a ship could create problems if they had too much access to her.
The idea of any one of those oafs laying a hand on her raised his protective instincts and his ire. Perhaps he'd been away from home too long himself. While he didn't have anyone special in his life, he usually dropped by an underground club where he could find a sub to play with between deployments. Except this last time, when he'd been preparing to assume command of the Northern Lights.
That meant it had been a few months since he'd had the pleasure of a sub's company for an evening. And in the interest of military discipline, he had brought few of his toys on board—things only someone who shared his interests would even realize were sex toys. Still… his eyes lit on the many things he could use to make the woman in his bed scream in pleasure.
Or… better yet, he'd gag her to make sure nobody could hear when he made her come over and over, her juices dripping onto his lap.
"Captain?"
He blinked. The doctor held the blanket to her chest, eyeing him warily.
"If you'd kindly step outside, I can be ready in a minute or two. I am not properly dressed for dinner." Her porcelain cheeks flamed deeper as she said this. "My pants are over there." She nodded toward the chair, but was it possible she didn't know he'd seen her without?
Of course she didn't. She hadn't awoken until he'd already covered her. He struggled with the desire to tell her, to press the emotions that brought such a beautiful rosiness to her cheeks, her throat.
Such thoughts presented danger. Dr. Vanikova, prestigious scientist from the USSR, had done and said nothing to indicate any interest in him. They were both here to do a job for their respective governments and the scientific community. A misstep could lead not only to an international incident but to him losing the one job best suited to his interests, talents, and military and academic credentials.
With a nod, he backed into the passage. "I will wait for you. But please don't take too long; the rest of the officers cannot begin until we arrive." He reached for the door.
"I wouldn't dream of making them wait to eat their… what is it, hard crackers and beans with hot dogs?" She kicked the blanket back, and he caught a glimpse of long, silky legs before he yanked the door closed.
The minx. Flexing his hand at his side, he reflected that perhaps the US spanking the USSR held symbolic value, after all.
Chapter Three
Hot dogs and beans his ass. The Northern Lights was a USCG ship, and, as such, its galley cooks prided themselves on only the highest standards of cooking, particularly when they had a guest to show off for. That usually occurred in port where they had access to additional ingredients, but, even at sea, they had managed to create a meal he'd have enjoyed in almost any restaurant in the States.
Dr. Vanikova had appeared stunned, in fact, when the head cook in his whites appeared to flame the canned cherries over ice cream for dessert. The liquid he used came out of a cream pitcher, but if Mark had to guess, he'd have suspected a little of the vodka had been saved for the purpose.
She spooned up a bite of creamy ice cream topped with cherries nearly the color of her rosy lips, and definitely the color he'd like to see her bottom if he had her over his lap. She'd complimented the cook and his staff and sent the man beaming away, totally under her spell.
Each man at the long table had made an opportunity to introduce himself, and, as she leaned back and sighed, not an eye focused anywhere but on her. "Captain, is this the same meal the rest of your crew enjoyed this evening?"
He shook his head, wondering where she was going with her line of inquiry. "No, I doubt it."
"I knew it. You and your officers dine on steak and crispy fried potatoes and beautiful cherry desserts while the others have swill."
He spoke in a low, tight voice. "I can assure you that our crew enjoyed a well-prepared meal as well. But perhaps not exactly the same as ours." If he threw her over his lap right now, would anyone report the incident?
Probably.
Or maybe not. They were a loyal bunch.
The XO and other officers and cadets at the table studied their empty dessert plates as if they might suddenly burst into flame again.
"In the USSR, we all get the same thing. Everyone equal."
His ire rose. The ungrateful… "Ma'am… Doctor, my cooks prepared a meal to honor you as our guest."
She stared at him, eyes snapping blue fire. "We know all about America where the rich have everything and the poor nothing. The hard workers on this ship are lucky to get soup, tell the truth."
Shoving his chair back, he stood and towered over her. "Doctor, never let it be said I allowed a misconception to color international relations." He took her wrist and helped her to her feet, hoping none of the men realized how tightly he gripped her. "Please come with me."
Shifting his hold to her elbow, he guided her out of the room and through a series of passages and hatches. Despite his distraction, he took in all they passed, making mental notes on the slightest deviation from the shipshape order he expected. And they were slight. She stumbled along with him, finally grabbing a handrail and digging her feet in. "Captain!"
"We have to hurry if you are going to catch us starving our hard-working sailors."
"Fine." Jerking her arm free, she trotted ahead of him. "But you'll need to give me directions if you are going to run me like a horse on a lead."
Pony play! He watched her form. She might do well at the indoor track at the saddle club, all geared up with reins and a saddle… Odd; he'd never been into the kink, but suddenly the charm grew.
No… God, he needed to get his head out of his toy drawer. Dr. Vanikova was a distraction he could not afford.
He strode faster and came up beside her at the door to the crew mess. "I am taking you in there for just a moment. Please nod and smile when they all stand to welcome you, and we can discuss your f
indings after we are again in the passage. I don't like disturbing the men at their meal. They work hard and deserve their rest. Am I clear?"
She tilted her head toward him and met his gaze. "Of course, Captain."
Opening the door, he waved her in as every man in the room surged to his feet.
* * *
Anya jumped, startled despite the warning. So many young, handsome men, all focused on her. She experienced a moment of gratitude at having dined with the smaller number of officers, fearful she'd not have been able to eat a bite as the only woman in this room.
"Be seated, men. Just giving our guest a tour. Doctor Vanikova, this is the crew mess of Northern Lights."
They all settled back into their seats, picking up spoons and digging into mountains of vanilla ice cream with bananas, chocolate, and fruit toppings, nuts, and whipped cream.
Much larger than the wardroom, the crew's dining room held a number of the long tables, all places filled with diners in various uniforms, most the blue jeans and button-down blue shirts she'd seen so many of on deck. They lacked the comfortable built-in sofas she'd observed in the wardroom, and, instead of the wide, comfortable chairs, the men sat side-by-side on benches, but the room was warm and comfortable and the chatter that began again congenial.
"Hardly the bowels of the ship and swill, is it, Doctor?" Captain King murmured, then, in a louder voice, he singled out a man at the end of a row near them. "Seaman, I see you're having banana splits for dessert."
He bounded to his feet. "Yes, sir. In honor of our guest, we had a special meal tonight."
"Did you? Steak?"
"No, sir. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. Hot biscuits. An excellent meal, sir." He nodded toward Anya. "We are grateful for your visit, ma'am."
"Are you sure you didn't have gruel, sailor? Maybe swill?"
The young man frowned. "I don't think so, sir. Not that I know what those things are."
"For our guest's edification, what did you have for dinner last night?"
