Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

Andrew

The relentless sun beats down on the teak deck of the Sea Serenade, and I can feel its warmth seeping into my skin. As captain of this floating palace, I steer through the waves with a practiced hand, feeling the yacht respond to my slightest touch. It's another day in paradise, another day of making sure my guests bask in luxury while they sail the azure waters.

"Anchor's set, Captain," my first mate calls out, snapping me back from the horizon to the here and now.

"Thanks, Liam," I reply, giving him a nod before my gaze drifts over the group of sunbathers lounging like Greek gods and goddesses. That's when I see her.

She's sprawled elegantly on a chaise longue, her golden hair fanning out, her eyes hidden behind designer shades. What color are they? Blue as the ocean before or green as emeralds?

The sight of her hits me hard, like a rogue wave, unexpected and powerful.

I'm not usually one to pore over the guest log, but for this girl? I make an exception. Flipping through the pages under the pretense of routine checks, I find her name etched in neat cursive.

Sandy Whitmore.

The name dances in my head, as intoxicating as the salty sea air.

Later, hunched over my laptop in the privacy of my cabin, I do what any red-blooded male would do—I Google her. Turns out, she's not just any heiress. Just in her early twenties, she's sailing royalty, her family name synonymous with yachts that are more art than vessel. And art's her game too, a patron with an eye for beauty that could probably see straight through my rugged facade—if she cared to look.

I close the laptop and let a sigh escape me.

She's eons out of my league.

But something about her pulls me like the tide, and I can't help myself. I spend the next couple of days watching her from a distance, noting how she moves with a grace that matches the swell of the sea. She laughs easily, tossing her head back in a way that makes her hair catch the sunlight — a sight that's painfully beautiful.

My nights are sleepless.

And as I lay there and try to go to sleep, all I can think of is how Sandy looked on the deck earlier in her little bikini and oversized sunglasses. That million dollar smile she was smiling.

How I wish it was for me and only me.

My cock grows hard in my shorts.

I try to ignore it, but then I feel a wet spot leaking through the fabric and curse.

Fuck, I'm precumming so much just thinking about her and I haven't even touched myself yet.

I lay there a moment longer, trying to get control of myself, and then…

Fuck it.

I pull my aching cock from my shorts and start to stroke it.

I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take hold. The gentle sway of the yacht syncs with the rhythm of my hand, and it's like we're moving together—Sandy and I, riding the waves. Her image burns bright behind my lids, those striking green eyes filled with secrets and promises.

The sound of the sea outside blends with the quiet moans that escape my lips as I imagine her soft, warm body against mine, her hands exploring me with the same curiosity she reserves for her beloved art.

"Sandy," I whisper her name like a prayer, or maybe a curse—because what she's doing to me should be sinful.

In my mind, I see her straddling me right here in this cabin, her slender fingers pushing against my chest as she rides me slowly. The thought alone is enough to drive me wild. Her hair cascades around us like golden silk, shielding us from the world. Her hips move in slow circles, grinding down onto me in a torturous rhythm that has my hands gripping her waist tight enough to leave marks.

God, I want to taste every inch of her—those soft lips, her creamy thighs, the salt on her skin that speaks of the ocean we both love so much. As my hand moves faster over my length, I picture her head thrown back in ecstasy, calling out my name on a breath that's half-moan, half-whisper.

The heat builds at the base of my spine. I'm close now—so damn close. My other hand balls into the sheets, clutching them with the same desperation that I want to clutch her body.

With a few more hard strokes accompanied by the vivid image of Sandy coming undone beneath me, pleasure spikes sharply through me. My release hits hard and fast. I spill into my hand with a ragged groan, her name still on my lips.

Afterward, as I lay spent and breathless in the dim light of my cabin, reality seeps back in. She's an heiress. I'm just a yacht captain. But even as doubt clouds my post-orgasmic high, there's a stubborn spark of hope that refuses to die.

Sandy looked at me like I was more than just some guy steering a boat—like maybe I could be someone to her.

I clean up with a quick sense of purpose not entirely related to hygiene. It's resolve forming—resolve to see where this could go. Maybe nothing will come of it. Maybe it'll crash and burn like a shipwreck against rocky shores. But hell, if I'm not going to find out.

Days bleed into one another, each as sun-soaked and salt-licked as the last. I watch her—the way she glides across my deck with the grace of a siren, the curve of her smile when the wind toys with her hair. Sandy Whitmore is an enigma wrapped in silk sarongs and designer sunglasses, and damn if she isn't the most intriguing puzzle I've come across in a long while.

"Captain," my first mate calls out, but I'm already on my feet, propelled by some invisible force that seems to tug me towards her.

"Go handle the wheel," I bark more sharply than intended, my heart knocking against my ribs like it wants out. This is it.

I stride over, each step calculated to seem casual, effortless. She's alone for once, leaning on the railing, gazing out at the horizon where the sky kisses the sea. It's now or never.

"Enjoying the view, Miss Whitmore?" My voice is rough around the edges, like the coastal cliffs back home.

She turns, those green eyes locking onto mine, and something flutters in my chest. "It's beautiful," she replies, "but I find myself more fascinated by the vessel."

"Ah, she's a beauty, isn't she? The Sea Serenade has quite the history." I lean against the rail beside her, offering a piece of my world.

"Indeed. She reminds me of a painting—vibrant, full of life, yet serene." Her gaze drifts over the yacht's lines, appreciative and knowing.

"Speaking of paintings, I hear you've got quite the eye for art." I'm fishing now, eager for any thread that might weave our worlds together.

"Perhaps." A mysterious smile plays on her lips. "But I believe there's art in everything. In the way the sails catch the wind, how the sun paints the water gold... even in the skill of navigating these vast waters."

Her words strike a chord in me, echoing my own thoughts. And just like that, we're no longer captain and heiress—we're two souls caught in the same current.

"Sometimes I feel more at home out here than anywhere else," I confess, surprised by the honesty in my voice.

"Me too," she whispers, and the moment stretches between us, taut as a mainsail in a gale.

"Andrew Carter," I extend my hand, belatedly remembering to introduce myself.

"Sandy Whitmore." Her hand slips into mine, warm and sure.

The buzz of her skin against mine sends a jolt through me, and I know—I'm in deep water.

But as quickly as the spark ignited, it's doused by the sound of the crew preparing for our arrival at port. Reality floods back. This dream is docking.

"Looks like we're almost at your stop." I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

"Time does fly," she says, but her eyes linger on mine, promising more.

"Maybe you'll sail with us again sometime?" I offer, not ready to let go.

"Perhaps. If the captain guarantees another conversation as stimulating as this one." There's a challenge in her tone, and it ignites hope in my chest.

"Consider it guaranteed," I say, and there's a silent vow woven into those words.

Then she's gone, a vision in white stepping off the yacht, leaving behind a wake of longing and questions.

But Sandy Whitmore has marked her course on my chart, indelible as the North Star, and I'll be damned if I don't set sail after her.