Chapter 3

CHAPTER

THREE

Sandy

I jolt awake, my sheets twisted around my legs, my heart racing like I've just finished a marathon.

But it's not the remnants of a nightmare that has me panting—it's him .

Andrew Carter, and the dreams where he's anything but a gentleman.

My pussy throbs with an ache that's both unfamiliar and intoxicating, a testament to the desires he's awakened in me. Virginity be damned, because when it comes to Andrew, every inch of my body screams for an education only he can provide.

I throw off the tangled sheets and rise, determined to shake off the remnants of my heated dream.

As I dress for the day, his image lingers—a beacon of rugged handsomeness that makes my insides clench with want. I'm Sandy Whitmore, heiress and yacht enthusiast, not some lovestruck girl. Yet here I am, consumed by thoughts of a man whose life at sea is worlds away from the gilded cage I reside in.

I head to the Monaco Yacht Race, the salt-kissed air mingling with the buzz of excitement from the crowd. It's here, amidst the grandeur of sleek vessels and the adrenaline of competition, that fate decides to play its hand.

"Enjoying the view, Sandy?" The voice, warm and inviting with a hint of roughness, sends shivers down my spine before I even turn around.

"Andrew," I breathe out, my pulse quickening as I take in the sight of him—sun-kissed skin, piercing blue eyes, a body honed by the unforgiving sea. He's every bit as alluring as I remember, maybe more.

"Thought I might find you here," he says with that confident smile that could make any woman go weak at the knees. "Couldn't miss the chance to see these beauties race."

"Nor could I." Our shared interest hangs between us, an invisible thread pulling us closer. "It's...good to see you again."

"Likewise," he replies, and there's a spark in his gaze that tells me his interest goes beyond the yachts and into waters uncharted.

As we stroll along the dock, commenting on the elegant lines of classic yachts, his arm brushes against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

"Let's grab a drink," he suggests, nodding towards one of the exclusive pop-up bars set up for the event. "There's a lot more I want to hear about your passion for these vessels."

"Only if you promise to share some of your sailing stories," I counter, the thrill of his attention mingling with the festive atmosphere of the race.

"Deal," he agrees, and as we weave through the throng of spectators, I can't help but feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Andrew's presence is magnetic, and as we chat and laugh over chilled champagne, I can't stop staring at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

Andrew is such a man . Not like the pampered beta guppy stock investors my dad hangs out but like a man's man.

A man who's not afraid to get his hands dirty.

A man with callouses.

A man with hands that…

I blush at my wandering thoughts and try to watch the show.

The yachts are impressive, but right now, they're merely a backdrop to the man who's managed to captivate my every sense.

The roar of the crowd swells around us, but it's Andrew's low chuckle next to me that sends my heart racing. His gaze meets mine as one sleek yacht overtakes another, and in that charged moment, I'm more aware of him than the salt-sprayed air or the glittering sea.

"Ever feel like jumping on one of those and just sailing away?" he asks, his voice a warm current over the buzz of excitement.

"Every single time," I confess, my words floating out like a secret I didn't know I was keeping.

Andrew's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the exclusivity of the VIP section, and every nerve ending in my body goes into overdrive.

Our bodies are close, too close for casual acquaintances, yet not nearly enough for what my body craves.

The pulsating energy of the race mirrors the exhilaration coursing through me, amplified by his intoxicating presence.

"Tell me something," he says, leaning in so his breath tickles my ear, "what does Sandy Whitmore dream about when she's not being the perfect heiress?"

I hesitate, the weight of my family's expectations pressing down, begging to be shared. I find refuge in his earnest blue eyes and the safety of his curious smile.

"Freedom," I say, the word slipping out like a prayer. "To make my own choices, to love who I want, to live without these gilded chains."

"Sounds like we're dreaming of the same thing," he admits, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Except my chains are made of rope and rigging. Always trying to prove I'm more than just a charming sailor."

Our laughter rings out, two souls recognizing the kindred spirit in the other. It's raw, it's real, and it's more intimate than any high-society ballroom dance could ever be. There's an unspoken promise in the air—of secrets kept and confessions made—that binds us tighter than the knotted ropes mooring the yachts to the docks.

"Let's make a pact," he suggests, his eyes alight with mischief. "Tonight, no heirs or heiresses, no captains or crew. Just Sandy and Andrew."

"Just Sandy and Andrew," I repeat, my voice steady even as my insides flutter with the thrill of it all.

And as the sun dips lower, casting a golden glow over Monaco, I can't help but think that this, right here with Andrew, might just be the freedom I've been searching for all along.

This night, laughing and talking with Andrew, has been nothing short of magic.

I slip my phone across the polished teak bar, the screen lighting up with a new contact entry. Andrew leans in, his fingers deftly keying in his number, the digits a promise of stolen whispers and secrets yet to be shared. "Now you can't get rid of me," he says with that cocky grin I'm starting to crave like my morning espresso.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I shoot back, snatching the phone from his grasp, our fingers brushing—a spark igniting in the brief touch. My heart races, pounding out a rhythm I'm afraid everyone at this glitzy party can hear.

The Monaco night is alive with the clinking of champagne flutes and the murmur of the elite, but all I can focus on is Andrew. He's the rogue wave in a sea of predictability, and I'm more than ready to be swept away.

"Let's ditch this joint," he whispers, leaning close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my ear. His invitation is a life raft, and I don't hesitate to grab on.

We weave through the throng of designer gowns and tailored suits, our escape unnoticed as we slip below deck.

The yacht sways gently beneath us as Andrew slips us into a room—probably the captain's quarters—the moon casting silvery trails over the Mediterranean. It's just us and the stars—a perfect slice of heaven where the rest of the world fades away.

We stare at each other for a beat, and then as if some cosmic force is pulling us together, we fall into each other's arms.

"Fuck, Sandy," he murmurs as he pulls me into his chest. His lips find mine, hungry and insistent.

And this isn't just a kiss. It's a declaration, a crashing together of need and desire that's been building since the moment we laid eyes on each other.

Clothes become a distant memory, discarded with every urgent caress. The cool night air kisses my skin, but it's Andrew's hands that set me ablaze, worshiping my body with a fervor that leaves no room for doubt—I am his, utterly and completely.

He cups the mounds of my breath and marvels, "Such perfect little titties." Then, his head descends to take one of my buds into my mouth.

And holy fucking moly. It's like a livewire straight to my pussy. I feel the tingle down there .

His tongue swirls, sending volts of pleasure pulsating through me. Each flick ignites a deeper desire, pulling moans from my throat that blend with the lapping waves outside.

I tug at his hair, guiding him, lost in the haze of sensation and the reality that I am here, with him, where I belong. "Andrew," I gasp as he shifts his attention to my other nipple, teasing it into a hard peak before giving it the same delicious treatment.

The world tilts as he moves lower, tracing fiery lines down my abdomen with his lips until he reaches the waistband of my panties. His eyes lock with mine, filled with wicked intent and unspoken questions.

I nod, breathless and eager, granting him silent permission to explore further. With a deft movement, he peels away the thin fabric, exposing me completely.

His gaze is reverent as he looks at me, making me feel like the most precious treasure he's ever discovered. Then he dips his head between my thighs, and oh god, his tongue is even more persuasive than his words.

He laps at me like he's starved, and every stroke is more insistent than the last. My fingers clutch at his shoulders, my back arches as waves of pleasure crash over me.

"Andrew!" I cry out as an orgasm shudders through me, intense and all-consuming.

But he's not done yet. Rising up to his full height, he sheds his own clothes swiftly.

The sight of him—every hard inch—is enough to make my mouth water. He catches my eyes and kisses me before positioning himself at my entrance.

"Ready?" he murmurs, the tip teasing me exquisitely.

"Yes," I breathe out. "But," I bite my lip, suddenly nervous about my confession. "You should know…I'm a virgin."

Andrew goes completely still—so still that I'm afraid I've said something wrong.

But then his eyes take on an almost manic glint as he says incredulously, "You're going to be mine? Only mine?"

I relax when he realize he likes that I'm a virgin, and I nod my head. "Yes, you'll be my first."

His jaw hardens. "You're only," he corrects.

Why does that possessiveness thrill me?

I feel Andrew's cock leaking fluid against my entrance. He looks down between us and rubs himself up and down my slit, eliciting a moan from me.

He looks up at me and holds my eyes as he starts to push slowly into me.

He enters slowly at first, allowing us both to savor the feeling of becoming one. "Feel that, baby? That's every inch of me going into you. Holy fuck, you're a tight little thing aren't you. Perfect, so perfect."

Sweat is breaking out on his brow, and he's rambling, but I love it. Love seeing him like this, half out of his mind.

For me .

He starts to push himself in out, slowly at first, just savoring the feeling of our skin sliding together.

Then, his thrusts pick up speed, depth, each one hitting a spot within me that builds a fiery need for release once again.

The next thing I know I'm pushing my hips up against him.

"Yes, that's it, perfect baby. Fuck me back." His encouragement makes me feel cherished.

Our movements are frenzied now, driven by raw need and deep connection. Our bodies speak a language older than words—every thrust a sentence, every touch a promise.

"Fuck, Sandy," he groans as he enters me once more, filling me in ways I never knew I was empty. His hips move with the precision of a man who knows the sea, riding the waves of my pleasure until I'm gasping, clinging to him as if he's the anchor keeping me from drifting into oblivion.

"Andrew," I cry out, my voice shrill as ecstasy crashes over me, wave after relentless wave.

He follows, his release a hot rush inside me, his name a prayer on my lips as we cling to each other, adrift in the aftermath.

In the sanctuary of the cabin, with the hum of the yacht's engine and the gentle lapping of the water against the hull, I know I've found my port in the storm—my safe harbor in the rugged, beautiful captain who has claimed not just my body, but my heart.