5
River
I can’t wait forthis evening to be over. The whole day has sucked.
Running into Cleo with Boot, Kit, and Cheddar in tow wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but it did present me the opportunity to set some boundaries. The conversation didnotgo as expected.
Nice. That word haunts me. She said our night together was nice! Oh, it was also fine. Fine and nice, like we’d shared a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit together rather than hours of hot sex.
I left the dining hall and went straight back to my bunk. Thankfully the girls were on duty and I had the place to myself. My work shift started within the hour, though, so I didn’t get a chance to take a nap, which my body and brain needed. Instead, I ruminated on Cleo’s words.
Fine and nice. Really?Really?!
There are two things I pride myself on, and that’s being good at my job and being an excellent lover. My friends think I’m cocky and arrogant. Hell, they’re probably right, but that doesn’t change the fact I’m good in bed.
So, how could my time with Cleo be just fine and nice?
Was I drunk? Yes. Did I temporarily blank out the memories? Yes. But when they came back to me, I remember the night well. I remember the way Cleo’s thighs trembled when I went down on her the second time. The way she fisted my hair so hard it hurt. The broken gasp she made when I added a third finger. The way she begged—actually begged—for the strap.
That wasn’t nice. That was fucking spectacular.
So, how could my time with Cleo be just fine and nice?
Is it a way of punishing me for sneaking out? Even if it is, why should I care?
I had all that shit rattling around in my brain as I went on work duty. Not ideal when WO Benson seemed to be everywhere. He was just looking for a reason to call me out. He caught me checking the missile guidance system, stoodthere for a full minute watching me work. Waiting. Hoping I’d fuck up or miss a step. When I finished the diagnostic perfectly, he just grunted and walked away.
Tosser.
I bet it pissed him off I’d not complained about my new work assignment. Which I still wasn’t clear on.
Chaperoning Cleo could mean anything.Am I expected to wait around for her?Something else I thought about as I completed the routine maintenance check on our missile guidance system.
By the time I had to leave and dress for dinner, my mood was sour. Not only did I have to get dressed up in my parade uniform, I then had to sit with Cleo and her dad all night making small talk, when all I wanted to do was pick our conversation up from earlier and prove her wrong.
Getting into the number one uniform is always a faff. The jumper has to sit just right, the scarf needs to be knotted perfectly, and don’t even get me started on the hat.
Cheddar, with a stupid grin on her face, helped me straighten everything before I left. “You look proper smart, Romeo,” she’d said. “Try not to shag the admiral’s daughter at dinner.”
“Fuck off.”
When Cleo opened the door, all the blood rushed to my crotch. Vulgar, but true. The simple evening gown fitted like a glove, and her hair…wow. Flowing over her shoulders in soft waves. The lights aren’t the most flattering on a ship, but damn, Cleo glowed under them, looking good enough to eat.
Her shoulders were bare, just a hint of collarbone visible. The dress hugged her waist, her hips. I remember those hips. Remember gripping them as I—
But then I heardfineandniceechoing in my brain again, and that doused the fire pretty sharpish. We headed to the captain’s private quarters, and voila. Here we are.
I spot several crewmates who I class as friends waiting on us. That makes my face heat. Meatball catches my eye and smirks. Brilliant. By breakfast, the entire crew will know I had dinner with the brass. They’ll take the piss for weeks.
The table is set with crystal flutes and silver cutlery. I’m so out of my depth. Usually I thrive under pressure. In my job, that is. But outside of it, I’m a bit crap. My body language gives me away every time, and the way Cleo keeps looking at me I think it’s happening now. She can see how uncomfortable I am, and that somehow makes it worse.
The admiral and captain are chatting away again. Cleo is sort of on the periphery of it and I’m still close to the door, wondering if I could get away with sneaking out.
“Are we ready to eat,” the admiral calls. It’s not a question. He’s already sitting at the head of the table.
My uniform feels stifling as I take my seat. Meatball, a.k.a. Mike Murray, pours us all a glass of Champagne. He side-eyes me with a small grin. Meatball is part of the ship’s kitchen crew and a damn fine cook. He earned his moniker by stuffing five meatballs in his mouth without choking at the ship’s Christmas party three years ago.
“Shall we raise a glass,” the admiral begins. “To safe seas and new adventures.”
