Page 3 of Stalked By the Yacht Captain

Andrew

I'm at another one of these swanky art exhibits, champagne flute in hand, pretending to be all engrossed in some abstract painting that looks like a toddler's temper tantrum on canvas. But let's be real. I'm not here for the art. I'm on the lookout for Sandy, the blonde siren who's been haunting my thoughts since the day she stepped aboard the Sea Serenade.

"Remarkable piece, isn't it?" The woman beside me tries to strike up conversation. She's eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat on display.

"Absolutely," I reply with a nod, though I couldn't care less about the swirls of paint before us. It's Sandy's image, her striking green eyes and the way her laugh sounded over the waves, that's got me anchored in place.

My intel is good. Sandy's passion for classic yachts is no secret among the highbrows.

And what do you know, there's an exclusive maritime event coming up this weekend, the kind where old money and sea lovers rub elbows on the deck of some vintage beauty.

That's where I'll be, setting my sails in hopes that fate will do me a solid.

The night of the event arrives, and I'm leaning against the polished mahogany rail of a yacht that's seen more history than I have. Every time someone brushes by, I turn, half-expecting, half-hoping it's her.

"Beautiful vessel, isn't it?" The voice I've been waiting for purrs from behind me. It's like a gust of wind filling my sails after a dead calm.

"Stunning," I say, spinning around to face Sandy. "But not as captivating as its admirers."

And there it is, that smile that could light up the darkest depths of the ocean.

My heart's racing like I'm caught in a squall, but I keep my cool.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Whitmore.”

She blushes so fucking prettily. “Please, call me Sandy, Captain.”

“Then I insist you call me Andrew.”

Christ, is my cock already leaking at just the sight of her? She’s wearing this pretty little white number.

Her dress clings to her like it's been painted on, accentuating every perfect curve of her body. My eyes can't help but roam, and for a moment, I imagine those curves beneath my hands, the soft moans she'd make as I explore her.

She sips her champagne deliberately, watching me with those piercing green eyes. The air between us crackles with that unspoken attraction, thick and charged.

"So," she starts, leaning in a little closer than necessary, "I heard you've been attending quite a few events lately. Searching for something special, Andrew?"

I chuckle, the sound rougher than I intend. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just enjoying the view."

Her laugh is a melody that dances over my skin like sea spray. "And have you found what you're looking for yet?"

"Not yet," I murmur, inching closer until our bodies are nearly touching. The faint scent of her perfume is intoxicating, mixing with the salty air. "But I have a feeling I'm getting closer."

Our eyes lock, and there's no mistaking the desire in hers. It mirrors my own—a tempest threatening to break free from its confines.

"I think it's only fair to warn you," Sandy whispers, her voice low and enticing. "I'm not the kind of treasure that's easily claimed."

My pulse quickens at the challenge in her words. "And I'm not the kind of man who gives up on a treasure worth having."

A teasing smile plays on her lips as she steps back slightly, breaking the spell just enough to restore some semblance of reason.

"Prove it," she says simply before turning to mingle with other guests.

A grin tugs at my lips.

She’s enjoying this game of cat and mouse.

Alright, if my little heiress likes to be hunted and chased, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

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