Page 1 of Shark’s Pride

Chapter One

Sebastian

“There’s no place like home” had never rung truer than that moment. I was back in my private plane, among my personal belongings, with familiar comforts at my fingertips.

If only my nerves would settle into a calm state. We’d be taking off from Hong Kong within the hour, and I’d be back at home soon enough. So many balls in the air—always so many balls.

But it wasn’t a new situation I found myself in. Not by any stretch of the imagination. So why was I so agitated?

I already knew the answer.

The X factor jacking my system to red alert was Abbigail Gibson.

More alarms blared through my brain. This—whatever it was with her—shouldn’t be this way already, should it? I had no actual frame of reference. Ridiculous but true. Outside of the few internet sites I’d researched regarding the art of dating, I had no concrete facts to go on.

Yes, I was doing research.

About how to date a woman.

What other choice did I have? My father was a deadbeat long before he was actually dead. From that point, I was on my own. The only adults who took an interest in my well-being in my formative years were women. Not exactly the mentors a teen boy could ask for advice on how to get laid.

And not that I ever had to worry about that specific topic. Until, once again, enter the X factor. She was getting good at this role, my sweet Abbigail Gibson. Upending all the usual apple carts in my life. But I had this particular topic nailed down. Ironic choice of words, considering I’d enthusiastically nailed Abbi to her virginal bed the night before I left for Malaysia on an unscheduled ten-day trip.

Unscheduled—and terribly inconvenient.

No. What was the word past that? Way past?

Torture? Persecution?

But at the risk of pathetic redundancy, I’d had no choice. Dire problems with import and export embargos needed to be addressed. Issues had arisen that could delay freight movement in a profitable shipping lane for the Shark Enterprises’ foreign cargo transport arm. Because when it came to the maritime logistics industry, I wanted to be king. Kings didn’t sit by and watch their kingdom crumble. That meant getting in the trenches where and when it was necessary. And because we were meeting in some very remote locales in this case, the exact where was an undeveloped area in Malaysia. Sweaty, grimy, no-Wi-Fi-signal-to-be-found Malaysia.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d gotten the call within hours after Abbigail and I spent our first night together. Yeah, that night. The incredible hours in which I’d stripped her of her innocence.

No, fuck that.

I took her virginity. Popped her cherry. Shredded her V-card. I needed to man up and call the act what it was. All my desperate romanticizing since wasn’t getting me anywhere. I had no damn idea why I was still trying to keep up such a ridiculous charade. The well-intended gentleman act hadn’t worked over the last ten days either. I thought I’d try the standard boyfriend approach for the first time in my life. On one of the few occasions I had cell phone service, I contacted the florist back in LA with specific instructions to have flowers sent to Abbigail’s condo every day around five p.m. so she would be home to receive them. I scheduled one bouquet for each day until I was due to return—ensuring I’d be on her mind even in a small, manipulated way. And yes, she’d be fuming and lecturing about that grandiosity, but I didn’t care.

Because God certainly knew, she was all I could think about.

The way she tasted, sweet and creamy. The way she smelled, sugary and spicy. How her body undulated beneath my thrusting one, and the way her pussy clutched around me when she came. Every moment of my time with her burned with dazzling brightness in my senses—and thank Christ, because the woman definitely didn’t seem interested in strolling down memory lane herself. Whenever she did finally return any of my text messages, it was a short one- or two-word reply. And when I prompted her to elaborate, she’d beg off with some lame-ass excuse. She was busy with supplier issues. Or equipment repairs. Or website glitches. Or needing to go to bed early because she hadn’t slept well the night before. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

But I already knew the score.

Could read, even from this hellhole on the other side of the earth, exactly what was going on in that busy, beautiful mind of hers.

She’d already invented at least twenty different scenarios of why I hadn’t been in contact. I was sure of it. If I had to guess, much like with a missing person search or a crime scene investigation, the first forty-eight hours were crucial. That was when it had all gone to hell for her. I had been entirely out of pocket, and it doomed me to “just like every other guy” territory. The Siberia of partner candidates. The place where otherwise quality men were hung out to dry, unfairly judged for relationship crimes they didn’t commit but never had a chance to explain.

Sultry, steamy Malaysia to desolate, barren Siberia in the blink of an eye.

The worst part of it all? My helplessness to do a thing about it. Not from here. If I pushed and called her out on it, she’d deny, deny, deny. If I made any more gestures besides the flowers, she’d evade, evade, evade.

Right now, I wasn’t just stuck on an airport tarmac. I was bogged in geographical limbo.

Fuck this.

The refrain steeled a new resolve in me.

But I refocused. Enough to ditch what little was left of my ego and stab at the icon for her number. As the number rang through, I grimaced. The sixteen-hour time difference made it difficult to plan for reaching her at an opportune time, but I’d take thirty seconds if I could get it.