Page 2 of Stalked By the Yacht Captain

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.

CHAPTER

TWO

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