Below Deck

“Bottoms up, baby!” she cheers, reaching down and tipping my flask up to my mouth, forcing me to take a drink.

The rum Brooke packed burns a path down my throat, and I have to pull the flask away to cough a few times while she pats me on the back.

“That’s top shelf rum Ben stole for me! They keep it locked up for guests. No one chokes on top shelf rum!” she chastises.

I shake my head at her with a smile and take another smaller sip, the burn lessening with each swallow I drink. Brooke nods her head in approval and clinks our flasks together again.

“Let’s get drunk and screw. I mean, let’s get drunk and come up with a way to make Declan feel like an asshole and grovel at your feet, so you can forgive him and then eventually screw him,” she laughs.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that’s NEVER going to happen. There is nothing he could say to me that would make me forgive him.

“All I can think about is that Goddamn kiss. Every time I close my eyes I can taste you and smell you and feel you against me, and it’s driving me fucking insane.”

What was I saying earlier about how there’s nothing Declan could say to make me forgive him?

When Ben and Eddie picked us up from St. John and took us back to the ship, after yet another uncomfortable dinner where Allyson and Arianna occupied my dad’s entire focus and talked about nothing but how much money they’d spent all day, I locked myself in mine and Brooke’s room to take a shower and try to purge some of the rum from my pores. Still buzzed after my shower and finding a note on the bed from Brooke saying she went to find Ben, I threw on my pajamas of a tank top and a little pair of cotton shorts and attempted to sleep off all the rum I’d consumed.

With my head full of booze and an irritating man I couldn’t get out of my thoughts no matter how hard I tried, I gave up trying to sleep and went for a walk around the ship. I should have known he’d find me just like he had the other night, but I assumed he’d be working ten times harder to avoid me after what happened in the kitchen the night before.

“Did you hear what I said?” Declan asks in a low voice, my hands clenching tighter around the railing when I feel him move closer to me, the heat from his body practically burning a hole into my back.

“I heard you. And I don’t care,” I reply flippantly, finally turning around to face him and regretting it immediately.

I thought seeing Declan in his white polo shirt and khaki cargo shorts was off the charts hot, but nothing compares to him standing here in front of me in a pair of well-worn jeans that hang low on his hips and a tight, faded red t-shirt with the words “St. Thomas” written in script across his wide, sculpted chest.

He has both hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, pulling them down so low that I can see the white stripe of his boxer briefs that say “Calvin Klein” printed across it.

His eyes stare down at me, unblinking, and a muscle ticks in his jaw while he waits for me to say something else. Or maybe he’s trying to think of a reply to me telling him I don’t give a shit that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about our kiss. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t care. I also don’t care that the muscles of his arms are flexing, and I can tell he must be clenching his hands in his pockets. Nor do I care that his spiky hair is even more messy and looks like he’s been running his hands through it for hours out of irritation.

I also don’t care that he’s standing so close I can smell his stupid soap and his stupid spicy cologne. When he lets out a slow, frustrated breath, I can smell his minty toothpaste, and I want to stick my tongue in his mouth and lick it off his teeth.

Jesus God, what is wrong with me?

“Turn around,” he suddenly orders.

I look away from his throat, getting momentarily distracted by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, and stare up at him in confusion.

“Excuse me?”

He closes the few inches of distance between us until he’s in my space, crowding me and making it hard for me to breathe. He slowly pulls his hands out of his pockets and I hold my breath, wondering if he’s going to put them on me.

Instead, he leans towards me and rests his hands on either side of me on the railing, caging me in.

“I said, turn around. I can’t say what I need to say when you’re looking at me like that,” he tells me, his voice going lower, deeper, and flipping a switch between my legs that feels like a bolt of electricity just hit me.

“Looking at you like what?” I whisper, forcing myself not to grab onto handfuls of his shirt and drag his mouth down to mine.

“Like you can’t keep your hands off me,” he replies, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a smirk, exchanging my lust for the need to bring my knee up between his legs, even if what he said IS true.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve. I can’t believe you—”

“Mackenzie! Just turn the fuck around…please.” He cuts me off.

I would have ignored him and continued telling him where he could shove his orders, but there was something about the way he said please, so guttural and needy, that my body reacted without thinking.

Wetting my lips with my tongue to get rid of the dryness that occurred, not only from hearing the way he said please, but also hearing him say my name as well, he lets out a low groan as his eyes track the movement of my tongue before I slowly turn away from him.

I see his hands tighten on the railing on either side of me as I take my time, my shoulder sliding against his chest and my hip grazing across the hardness in his jeans as I turn back around to face the dark ocean stretched out beyond us. It makes me feel good that I have this effect on him when I thought he was immune to me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand here all night taking his orders. He’s got five seconds to explain himself or I’m ducking out from under his arms and going back to my room.