Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
We shake.
Shudder.
Someone pounds a fist on the glass.
Someone else smacks the wall.
Two fists end up in separate portions of my hair while tongues tirelessly take turns overpowering mine, sealing the agreement we’ve come to.
Tied to the two of them and only the two of them for a couple weeks?
That I can do.
It’s foamies to hard top boards type of easy.
It’s what happens when our wave inevitably has to crash back into the shore that I feel may have me needing to call for a rescue.
Chapter 10
Salay
“Whoooaaa,” Zero adoringly swoons to my left, “you really can drive a boat.”
“I can drive a lot more than that, Little One.”
“¿Y por qué me resulta eso tan sexy?” Garcia wolfishly purrs on my right.
“Because everything I do is sexy, Old Man.”
At that he grunts in disapproval.
Loves to be called Master.
Hates to be called old.
Sucks to suck.
I’m gonna do both.
Why?
No.
The question is why not?
Why not make him earn the right for me to call him that in bed?
Why not remind him that that’s where his “I am man, do what man say” shit ends?
Why not make sure he understands the chick he calls princess in the sheets is not the same one who can sail, pilot, or drive a water vehicle?
Don’t get me wrong.
Sex with him – with them – has been stern down the best sex of my entire life, which really says some shit because I’ve had a lot of sex.
In a lot places.
And with a lot of people.
Again.
The question isn’t why.
It’s why not.
Traveling the world…exploring its shores…why not explore its people?
Especially naked.
My point being – and there is one – is that while sex with them is fucking incredible, it hasn’t – and won’t – give me a lobotomy rendering an entire new personality.
“You sure we’re not lost?” Zero nervously questions, tropical flamingo print torso casually leaning over as if he’s able to read the navigation system.
“I’m sure that shirt you’re wearing will act like a beacon if we are,” I teasingly poke back, attention oscillating between the view ahead and the coordinates I’ve been given.
“You don’t like my shirt?!”
“The people who made that shirt don’t even like it.”
“Garcia does!”
“He’d like it more on the floor,” absentmindedly leaves my lips.
“Sí.” He folds his muscular arms across his taut, white, pressed linen bearing chest. “Right next to that bra you’re wearing.”
“Bikini.”
“The people who made that top wouldn’t even call it that.”
This.
This is the man that I’ve always had a thing for.
Too bad for me he’s basically the human form of what happened when the Titanic hit an iceberg.
Destruction.
Calamity.
Death.
I mean people were having a helluva good time before shit started to sink, which really just further tracks with my analogy.
Sex, laughs, and surfs up are where we are.
Thinking we can survive anything more, anything past these treasure hunting weeks is when disaster will strike.
Garcia gets that.
Garcia lives that.
He always has.
Even before…whatever this is.
He’s a man who likes to have a fuck or a fling and be available the next morning to do it all over again with the barista who hands him his café con leche.
Our adorable, little sunshine and stingrays on the other hand?
I honestly don’t think he understands the principle of temporary outside of the computer file for it.
Or maybe he does.
Maybe he just can’t when it comes to the man of his dreams.
And that brings me to the most important point of them all.
Life is easier when you don’t have that type of particular person in your life.
Let alone two.
“You know that’s alotta judgment coming out of someone who’s clearly missing his modeling audition for Ralph Lauren,” turning the yacht slightly starboard is attached to me adding, “the Golden Years collection.”
The amused, displeased grunt escaping him is overshadowed by Zero cheekily stating, “Oh, I thought it was for the Nautical or Nice line.”
Gradually decreasing our speed precedes a slow, enthusiastic nod of approval. “Dad humor out of the child on board.” I effortlessly begin shifting us so that we are drifting instead of actively moving. “Poseidon approves of this message.”
Light laughs leave Little One. “What makes you say that?”
“The waters are calm.” Backing away from the helm is attached to my next retort. “Hence, why we can safely float here while I go diving.”
“You’re not…” Garcia cringes as he realizes he isn’t familiar with the correct terminology, “parked?”
“You mean anchored?”
“We’re not anchored?!” Zero croaks, clearly in distress. “Shouldn’t you be fucking anchored?! Isn’t that like page one of Captain coding or something?!”
“Do you not know how to anchor?” Garcia tips the brim of his oversized hat a little higher to ensure I see his glare. “¿Es por eso que no lo somos?”
“First off, I want it known that I find you asking me in English and Spanish to be exceedingly condescending.”
He does his best not to smirk.
“And second, this,” my finger waves itself back and forth between them, “is exactly why I don’t salvage with shoresies.”