Chapter 5

CHAPTER

FIVE

Sandy

The clink of fine china and the murmur of pretentious conversation surround me, but I might as well be a million miles away.

I'm slouched in my seat aboard the opulent yacht, picking at the lobster bisque that's gone cold in front of me.

My gaze keeps flicking to the deck outside, where the real action is—where Andrew commands the sea with a confidence that makes my pulse race.

"Darling, do pay attention," my mother chides, nudging a smile onto my face like she's trying to smooth out a wrinkle on a silk dress.

"Of course, Mother." But my words are just empty echoes of good breeding. My mind is still with Andrew, the way his rolled-up sleeves expose forearms tanned by the sun, a stark contrast to the cufflinks and tailored suits around this table.

I can't believe they don't recognize him—the rugged, charming captain of this very charter they booked to flaunt their wealth. To them, he's invisible, just part of the crew.

But to me, he's everything they'll never understand.

"Miss Whitmore?" The rich investor—what's his name?—is trying to catch my eye, probably gearing up to boast about some acquisition or another. His attempts to impress are as transparent as the crystal glassware, and just as fragile.

"Call me Sandy," I say, not bothering to look up from my untouched plate. It's bad enough that my parents have forced me into this setup. I won't make it easy for him.

"Ah, Sandy..." He trails off, waiting for me to give him something, anything. But I've got nothing for him. No charm, no giggles, no doe-eyed admiration. Just a hollowed-out patience, hanging by a thread.

"Exciting, isn't it? The open sea, the luxury..." His voice fades into the background hum of waves against the hull, the soft clinking of rigging, the distant call of Andrew's authoritative yet warm commands.

"Thrilling," I deadpan, finally lifting my eyes to meet his. He's handsome, I guess, if you're into that cookie-cutter, polished-to-a-sheen sort of way. But he doesn't hold a candle to Andrew's rugged allure, the untamed edge of a man who's battled storms and conquered oceans.

"Your parents tell me you're quite the art connoisseur," he tries again, shifting tactics.

"Art is subjective," I reply, thinking how the wild beauty of the sea under Andrew's watch is the only masterpiece I care to discuss. But this guy wouldn't know a true work of passion if it hit him over the head with a gilded frame.

"Indeed, indeed. And classic yachts? They must stir your soul, being surrounded by such timeless elegance." He gestures vaguely to the interior of the yacht, as if invoking the spirit of sophistication will win me over.

"Stirred is one word for it," I mutter, my thoughts drifting back to the deck, to Andrew. His laughter rings out suddenly from above—rich and genuine—and it slices through the stifled atmosphere, reminding me where I'd rather be.

"Is something amusing?" Investor-guy arches an eyebrow, clearly not used to being ignored.

"Sorry, what?" I offer him a distracted smile. "Just lost in thought."

"Perhaps I could capture your full attention someday," he suggests, leaning in with a confidence I find more irksome than endearing.

"Maybe," I lie, because it's easier than explaining that my attention, my heart, is already spoken for by a man who doesn't need a suit to prove his worth, who wears his strength and charisma as easily as the salt-kissed breeze wears the sea.

"Excellent. Then let's drink to new beginnings," he raises his glass, expecting me to follow suit.

"New beginnings," I echo hollowly, clinking my glass against his, wishing I was anywhere but here.

Two hours later and the investor's laugh cuts through the music, too loud, too forced—a gaudy display.

He inches closer, his hand finding my bare knee under the table. I stiffen, disgust coiling in my gut.

"Excuse me," I say, voice icy, but he mistakes it for encouragement.

"Just getting to know you better," he slurs, his grin all teeth and no warmth. His fingers inch higher, and panic flares within me like a warning flare at sea.

"Hey!" The sharp command slices through the tension. Andrew stands there, every inch the captain of this ship, command rolling off him in waves. His eyes are stormy seas, and I know he's furious.

"Take your hands off her," Andrew growls, voice low and dangerous.

The investor chuckles, oblivious to the gathering storm. "Relax, Captain. We're all friends here."

"Friends don't force themselves on people." Andrew's words crack like a whip. In one swift motion, he grabs the guy by the collar and drags him up, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. Before anyone can react, he marches the investor to the edge of the yacht and—with an almost casual flick—sends him splashing into the dark water below.

The shock is palpable. My parents gasp, voices overlapping in a cacophony of outrage and confusion.

But I'm frozen, heart pounding, as Andrew turns back to me with fire in those piercing blue eyes.

"Andrew, what—" I start, but he's already striding toward me.

There's nothing apologetic about the way he pulls me close and captures my lips with his. It's a kiss that speaks of storms and wild seas, of raw passion unleashed.

His mouth moves over mine with a fervor that leaves no room for doubt, no space for anything but the fierce grip of his arms and the taste of salt on his lips.

Around us, the world fades to nothing—there's only the heat between us, the urgent press of bodies. Andrew breaks the kiss, a predatory glint in his eyes, and without a word, he lifts me into his arms.

My heart races as he carries me away from the stunned silence of my family, away from the pretense and the suffocating expectations.

He kicks open the door to the captain's quarters, and then we're all over each other like two people dying of thirst. Clothes are shed like old skins. We're Adam and Eve discovering sin for the first time.

Andrew's touch ignites me as his fingers find my core. He uses the pad of his thumb to draw circles on my clit while two fingers plunge into my soaking wet pussy.

I gasp, arching against the stark white of his sheets, lights from the harbor flickering through the portholes like distant stars.

Our breaths are heavy, mingled with the scent of the ocean and raw desire.

"Christ, Sandy," Andrew groans as he watches me unravel under his expert touch, his voice husky with lust.

His mouth descends on mine again, kissing me deeply, tasting of salt and promise. I pull him closer, needing more of him, every part of him. His erection presses hard against my thigh, and I reach down, eager to feel him.

"Want you so bad," I whisper against his lips.

Andrew's response is to shift, positioning himself between my thighs. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and unyielding. "Tell me you're mine," he demands, a wild edge to his tone that sends shivers racing down my spine.

"I'm yours," I breathe out without hesitation.

With that confirmation, he pushes into me slowly. The stretch is exquisite—a perfect fit that feels both overwhelming and exactly right.

We move together in a primal rhythm—pushing and pulling, giving and taking.

"Fuck, Sandy," he groans against my neck, and I arch into him, lost in the raw intensity of the moment.

"Andrew," I gasp, nails digging into the solid planes of his back, urging him on. There's no holding back—the walls of the quarters might as well be paper-thin for all the noise we're making.

"Let them hear. I want everyone on this motherfucking ship to know you're mine," Andrew grunts, his movements relentless, each thrust driving home how right this feels, how inevitable.

"Yours," I pant out, a declaration, a surrender.

The sound of the sea outside blends with our moans—it's like the world exists just for us in this moment, the yacht a private universe where only we matter.

My nails dig into Andrew's back as he increases his pace, each thrust driving us further into madness.

"Sandy," he pants, "I?—"

"Don't stop," I urge him, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him even deeper. The tension coils tighter within me.

His movements become more desperate, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his skin as he drives us both towards the edge. His hand slips between us once more, fingers circling my clit in a relentless rhythm that sends me spiraling over into ecstasy.

As my orgasm washes over me in waves, Andrew follows close behind, his body tensing as he pours himself into me with a groan.

The feeling of his hot seeds spraying inside me makes me come again.

"Yes," he hisses when he feels me fluttering around him for a second time. "Give it all to me, sweet baby."

We chase the climax together, a tangled mess of limbs and desire, until the world shatters around us in a cascade of stars.

Andrew kisses my forehead gently—a stark contrast to the fierce passion from moments before—and pulls me close against his chest.

And as we cling to each other, breathless and spent, I know this is where I belong—not in the polished halls of wealth, but here, in the wild embrace of the man who commands the sea.

Fuck everyone.

I'm Andrew's.