If I ever felt like it, I mean.
Finch has known nothing but that privilege his whole life. For him, this is just another getaway.
Well. Not quite. A honeymoon has its own special meaning, after all. He’s working sunscreen down my abs towards the band of my shorts, and the wide turnup of his lips lets me know exactly what he’s thinking about.
I grab his wrist. “I told you,” I say in a low voice. “No sex.”
He pouts. He’s spent most of his time here so far pouting at me. “Why so protective of your manhood these days? That first night we met you couldn’t wait to get it in my mouth.”
“Keep your voice down,” I say sharply. I can’t see anyone around, but I can’t fight the habit of years of caution.
We’re alone on the yacht apart from the crew: the captain; Nunzio the boat manager; his wife the chef, some kitchen hands, a couple of maids, and a bunch of surly-looking deckhands. So really, we’re not alone at all. And this is Tino Morelli’s yacht. I have to believe Tino put us on it for a reason. Whether that reason is benign or malign, I have yet to figure out.
But Finch doesn’t seem to get it, or doesn’t care. I guess he’s got nothing else to lose. He’s a prisoner, although he doesn’t act like it. In fact, he acts exactly like what I’m starting to think he is: a petulant, spoiled, hedonistic little twink. For whom I put my life on the line.
He straddles me now, and I have oddly conflicting urges to push him off and pull him closer. There’s something about him that brings out the animal in me, makes me want to toss away all my hard-won self-control. I lost control on the plane, grabbing him by the neck and threatening him, and I’m ashamed of myself for that. But all it did was make him horny.
Kid knows his fashion, I’ll give him that. He’s the only one who didn’t take my word for it that my fucking suit was Armani; or at least, he’s the only one who’s ever had the guts to call me out on it. Right now those white booty shorts are showing more than they cover. I swear I could see the vein running up his cock if I looked close enough, and half his bush for that matter, the waist is cut so low.
“I love your fur,” he purrs, raking his fingers through the hair on my chest. He rocks back and forth on top of me while he massages sunscreen over my shoulders, rubbing his taint along my dick. I reach up to grab his hips, and I mean to push him off, but instead I find myself pulling him closer, so he can grind down harder on me. “That’s right, baby,” he whispers. I can see his cock shifting under the sheer white spandex, filling out, a wet spot starting to build and spread at the tip.
“Stop,” I say, but my hands urge his hips on.
“Tino wanted this to be a real marriage,” he says to me, leaning close to my ear and talking low and sweet. “That means we should consummate it. Why are you so vehemently against it?” He reaches down to rub his dick, spreading his stickiness around the white shorts and then raising his fingers to his mouth to taste his own pre-cum.
See, I can’t make up my mind about him. Half the time he’s some drugged-out airhead trying to get his rocks off, then he goes and uses a word like vehemently and reminds me he has a brain. He’s just been doing his best to kill it off with drugs for the last five years. I hate to admit it, but my new husband is one of the few people I can’t just see through at a glance. He’s…complicated. Most men are windows. This one’s a maze full of mirrors, dead ends and trapdoors.
For one thing, he didn’t say another word to me for the rest of that plane journey, although he insisted on crawling into my lap again for landing. Even the hostess frowned about that, although she scrambled away with one glance from me. It was dumb of him to do, but I know why he was doing it.
It was to comfort me.
Of course, now I’ve flown once, I’ll be fine next time. I just like to know exactly what to expect. The thing about Finch is, he’s eternally unexpected. After we landed, still without a word to me, he pulled out a sponge bag from his carry-on and showed me it was stuffed full of pills: blue, purple, green, all the colors of the rainbow. Then he handed it to the hostess with a wink. “Enjoy, Jessica,” he said. “Some of the finest shit New York has to offer.”
She looked thrilled.
Then more silence in the limo to the dock. The first word he said, in fact, was “Nice,” when he saw the Maddalena. That seemed to break the seal, and he chattered during the whole tour of the boat by the yacht’s captain.
“You’re talking to me again?” I asked him, when we were left to settle in to the master suite. More champagne waited for us, along with tropical fruits and Italian cheeses. There were roses everywhere, the air sick with their scent.
Finch cast his eyes downward in a parody of modesty. “You prefer me quiet,” he said in a mock whisper. Then he looked me square in the face. “I’ll quit drugs for you, baby, and I’ll keep my mouth shut, but you can’t deny me your body. It’s my right, anyway—as your husband.”
“You’ll sleep in the—” I began, making for the connecting door that I knew from Tino went through to a smaller suite.
But Finch grabbed at me and tugged me to him. “I want you,” he said seriously. “I’ve wanted you for five years, baby, don’t you know that?”
“Listen to what I’m
