Page 31 of A Perfect Disaster

I’m afraid she’ll come to her senses, so I hold her back with another kiss—this time slower—savoring every moment, tasting every corner of her mouth, memorizing its texture and the way her breath catches when my fingers slip beneath her clothes, touching the bare, burning skin of her back. We’re both on fire. Desire pulses between my legs with a demanding intensity, reminding me of where we are and how forbidden this situation is.

We’re exposed, pressed completely against the deck railing, in plain view of any security camera or guard on patrol. I feel her fingers gripping my hips, sliding down toward my thigh, and a blessed madness crosses my mind—I don’t care if we’re discovered, I don’t care about the contract, if she touches me right here, under the stars.

Then, the spell is broken.

The sound of a door opening on the lower deck echoes through the night.

Helen pulls away suddenly.

It’s a sudden, almost violent movement. She lets go of me as if I were burning and takes two steps back, pressing a hand to her chest as she tries to catch her breath. Her lips are swollen, flushed, and her green eyes scan the surroundings with genuine terror.

“Helen…” I take a step toward her, reaching out a hand.

“No.” She shakes her head and raises her hands to stop me. “I’m so sorry. This is crazy. I need… to think.”

She runs a trembling hand through her hair, desperately trying to smooth out her clothes and regain the composure that had vanished a second ago. She takes another step back, and then another, though her eyes keep screaming something else at me.

Before I can stop her, she turns away. She crosses the deck at a brisk pace and disappears down the passage leading to the crew quarters, leaving me alone with the sound of the sea.

I bring two fingers to my lips, brushing against the sensitivity and warmth Helen has left imprinted on them. Despite the emptiness of the deck, a slow, inevitable smile spreads across my face as the Mediterranean wind lashes my face once more.

Her taste lingers on my tongue. Her heat, seared into my skin beneath my clothes. And even though her officer’s mind has made her run away, I know perfectly well that the journey is very long. That this isn’t over. On the contrary. It’s just begun.

“And this time… I’m not running away.”

11

Helen

The following afternoon.

I still can’t believe Gonzalo betrayed me like this.

I’m lying on a blue towel under a relentless sun that seems determined to roast the entire Marseille coastline with deliberate slowness. The heat has clung to my skin, and no matter how much SPF 50 sunscreen I slather on, I feel like I’m going to end my break with textbook heatstroke. Next to me, my so-called best friend—because from now on he’s no longer my best friend—is calmly sipping a lemon-and-ice soda, as if he hadn’t just sold out my emotional stability and my reputation to the ship’s unstoppable entertainment department.

“I swear I didn’t know they’d all be coming,” he assures me, without the slightest trace of shame, adjusting his swimsuit.

I watch him over my sunglasses and narrow my eyes. If looks could kill, Gonzalo would already be floating adrift in the Gulf of Lion.

“Sure. And I have no idea how the CO2 fire suppression systems in the engine room work,” I say sarcastically.

Gonzalo flashes a cheeky smile, the kind he knows drives me up the wall and that, at the same time, he uses because he knows my limits perfectly well and knows I’ll put up with almost anything from him.

“It was totally spontaneous, really,” he replies, shrugging with feigned innocence. “Someone posted it in the crew’s WhatsApp group and they signed up.”

“The word ‘spontaneous’ should fill you with genuine dread, Gonzalo. Seriously. My life consists of anticipating chaos, not sitting around soaking up the sun with you.”

We’re in a beautiful cove on the Marseille coast, and that, far from calming me down, annoys me even more. If the place were horrible and gray, I could focus on hating the moment with solid arguments. But no. The water glistens with an almost insulting turquoise blue, the fine sand burns underfoot, and the sea breeze carries that unmistakable scent of salt and freedom, while the Mediterranean stretches out before us like an indecently perfect travel brochure.

The idyllic life on board, as the passengers say.

The Marine IV is visible in the distance, enormous, elegant, its imposing white hull silhouetted against the clear sky of the commercial port. Most of the crew not on duty are enjoying these few hours off before having to return on board for the six o’clock drill and get back into the routine. I should be relaxing too. It took every ounce of effort to coordinate shifts with the first officer so I could set foot on dry land today. I should be enjoying it.

Instead, here I am, trying with all my might not to think about what happened last night. On a dark upper deck, where the sea was the only witness to how Maika threw my plans out the window with her kisses. Or maybe it was me who devoured her. My adrenaline is still so high that I can’t put it in chronological order.

I close my eyes for a second and immediately regret it. The physical memory hits me in the stomach with violent force, without warning. The first touch of her lips was an unexpected spark; the second, an explosion that swept away my sacrosanct protocols. I can still feel the pressure of her body against mine, the intense heat of her hands slipping under my clothes, and the ragged sound of her breathing when she cut to the chase and started kissing me in a way that tasted of heaven and total danger.

What an absolute disaster.