Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,78
futures.
Brandt was able to keep his balance as he followed Ciara into their stateroom. He could’ve reserved the Wainwright family yacht the Mary Catherine for the trip, but that meant driving down to the shipyard on the Chesapeake. The Mary Catherine was smaller, sleeker, but this one was better able to ride out a storm if they were to encounter rough seas—there still were another two months before the official end of hurricane season.
There were three decks of cabins and salons, with the crew occupying the lowest deck. The interior staterooms were luxurious—walnut, teak, a gleaming stainless-steel stair on the main aft deck and ebony-and-cherrywood tables bespoke elegance and grace as seen in the finest homes.
Ciara hung the Do Not Disturb tag on the doorknob, then closed the door and turned the security lock until she heard the soft click.
Brandt sat on the bed, watching her intently as she closed the distance between them. He extended his arms and she walked into his embrace, burying her face in his hair. He felt so good and smelled even better.
“I think I’d better close the curtains or the crew will get an impromptu peep show.”
She pulled the heavy fabric over the porthole, shutting out sunlight and endless miles of water. Turning back, Ciara met Brandt’s eyes as she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, then the tank top. Her shorts and panties followed, leaving her completely naked for his rapacious gaze.
She felt no fear or shame whenever she took her clothes off for Brandt, because it always felt so natural. Perhaps it was because within hours of meeting Brandt for the first time it had been she who’d gazed on his magnificent nude body. He may have been her patient, but he was also a man—a very attractive man who made her feel things she didn’t want to feel. Her fingers were steady as she unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off his broad shoulders. He pushed her hand away when she attempted to unsnap his khakis.
“I can do it.”
Ciara nodded. For weeks she had performed the task of helping him to dress and undress, so it’d become a habit. She knew Brandt didn’t like relying on her for what was a basic human function, but he’d endured it until he was able to reestablish a modicum of independence. She got into the bed, lying on her side and watching as he relieved himself of his pants and boxer briefs.
Brandt lay on his back and swung his legs into the bed, smiling when he executed the move without pain. Using the strength in his upper body, he turned on his right side, facing Ciara, and rested a hand over her breast. Her eyes fluttered, then closed.
His eyes ate her up, from the hair spread out on the pillow to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat and heaving breasts. He forced himself not to stare at the area below her waist, because he wanted to visually savor her for as long as he could without penetrating her. Once inside Ciara, Brandt experienced a loss of control and common sense.
Whenever he was buried in her moist heat he found himself swept up in a magical journey where he could see himself growing old with her, surrounded by their children and grandchildren. Even as a child he’d been a realist, never giving in to flights of fancy like some children who’d pretended they were superheroes. The only place where he’d achieved superhero status was on the gridiron. Blessed with quick reflexes, an accurate throwing arm and the uncanny strength to stave off being sacked, he’d become the Viking, a real-life flesh-and-blood superhero to the media and football fans.
He was close enough to Ciara to see the outlines of her contact lenses. “Thank you.”
A slight frown appeared between her eyes. “For what, Brandt?”
“For being here with me.”
She gave him a mysterious smile. “I should be the one thanking you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m supposed to be working, but you’re spoiling me.”
“You’re not working, Ciara. Remember, my mother terminated your services last night. You’re Brandt Wainwright’s girlfriend, and as such I’m going to try to do everything I can to spoil the hell out of you.”
“You don’t have to try,” she countered. “You’re doing it.” She was on a luxury yacht with a crew at her beck and call. She didn’t have to cook, do laundry or make her bed. All she had to do was get up, shower, dress and go up on deck to lie in the sun.