It's Sunday, and not just any Sunday. Today's snog is part of the Victoria and Kev's Snog by the Sea blog hop, in celebration of their upcoming Smut by the Sea event next weekend. You could will a pair of tickets to this fabulous event, if you're in the UK. If you're somewhere else, don't despair - there's a big mystery erotic book pack as an international prize.
Every comment you leave, on any of the Snogs by the Sea, will count as an entry toward the blog hop grand prize. In addition, comment on my snog and you're entered to win a copy of Nasty Business, the book from which it's taken.
Now, on with the snog!
It’s a glorious day. The sun is hotter and closer than it ever is in England. There’s a smart breeze that whips my hair around my face and leaves me strangely breathless. Like champagne, Rick had said, and I can feel it, tingling bubbles bursting in my chest, singing through my veins.
We don’t speak. There is no need, and in any case, the wind would carry our words away. There is the splash of the waves against our bow, the wailing of gulls, the snap of the canvas as the wind shifts directions. Catalina Island is a low-lying shadow on the horizon ahead. The coast has disappeared behind us, though a yellowish band of smog marks its presence.
Rick and I are alone in the middle of the sea. I feel strangely relaxed, though the lust that he always inspires is humming in my limbs. I steal another glance at him, tanned, confident, in control. It’s difficult to reconcile this with my memories of him squirming beneath me as I reamed his poor virgin arsehole.
He must feel the weight of my gaze, for he looks up at me and our eyes lock. He grins that annoying, delightful grin of his, full of arrogance and mischief. Fearful anticipation shivers up my spine.
He hooks a loop of rope over the tiller. “I thought perhaps we might stop here for a while,” he says softly. Before I completely digest his intentions, he has lowered and secured the sails. The Stella Maris drifts, rocking gently in the swells. I am suddenly afraid, realizing that I am isolated and alone with this man who is, as I know very well, dangerous. A taker of risks. Looking around us, I see other sails, but they are too distant to call to, to far away to see anything other than the pennants on our masts.
“Now, Ruby,” he whispers as he takes me in his arms, “you are at my mercy.”
Despite his words his kiss is gentle, almost worshipful. When he touches me I comprehend how badly I have been longing for this. I melt into him, open myself to his tongue and his fingers, which find their way unerringly to the aching chasm between my thighs. Yes, please, I beg silently, grinding myself down on his invading hand. He slides the other hand under my tank top and gives my nipple a harsh twist, muffling my cries with his mouth.
Everything is heat and wetness, the sun, my sex, his lips at the hollow of my throat, his tongue teasing my earlobe. His breath is hot in my ear.
“Let me take you, Ruby. Let me bind you. Let go, for once, fully and completely, and allow me to show you who you really are, who you can be.”
I break away, panting, search his face. There is no mockery in his velvet eyes, no arrogance, only pure and burning desire. My knees are rubber. I want him, want what he’s offering, even though I am afraid.
“Trust me, Ruby,” he murmurs in my ear, “as I trusted you.”
The blood is hot in my cheeks. All my visions return, my secret shameful imaginings of my own ravishment. He knows, he sees. I cannot speak, but I nod my assent.
He is a practiced sailor. He removes my few clothes and lashes me with my back to the main mast with seaman-like precision. He wraps the ropes around me, under my arms and then across my chest, so my swollen breasts jut out between the two lashings and my nipples brazenly beg for attention. Several lengths of rope circle the mast and my waist. The braided hemp rasps against my skin. It should be painful, but somehow at this moment, every sensation is pleasure.