Captain Dreamboat (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 7) Page 8

  I take another sip from my glass.

  “We forgot to toast.” He holds his glass up, and I stop drinking to clink my glass with his. “To dish soap bubble baths.”

  I laugh and swish my toes through the bubbles. “It’s all I could find. Hopefully, this won’t dry out our skin.”

  “Nah, it’s moisturizing Palmolive,” he says. “The smell of it is giving me the urge to scrub pots.”

  “Let’s not act on that urge.”

  It sounds flirty when it comes out of my mouth, and I wonder if he hears that. He gives a knowing smile but doesn’t comment. How many of my urges are written all over my face? Does he know I’ve thought about undressing him at least twelve times since we set foot in this bathroom?

  Conscious of my flaming face, I lean down to turn off the water.

  “Mood music.” Jon’s voice echoes overhead, and I straighten to see him setting his champagne glass on a shelf beside the shampoo bottles. “We need mood music.”

  “Oh. I should have thought of that.”

  “I’ve got it.” He slides his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and taps the screen a couple times. “Maybe Pandora has a station for fully-clothed bubble baths?”

  Before he can scroll, the phone blasts the chorus of a Jimmy Buffet song. I’m not sure of the title, but Jimmy is enthusiastic about getting drunk and screwing.

  “Crap.” Jon taps hard on the screen to halt Jimmy’s plans. “Sorry about that. I’m kind of a Parrothead. Bree teases me about it all the time.”

  “Parrothead?” I thumb through my mental dictionary and come up empty. “Is that like a pothead?”

  He laughs. “Nah, that’s what they call Jimmy Buffet fans. My father took me to a concert when I was ten. We had front row VIP tickets and a clear view of the remote-controlled shark flying over the crowd.”

  It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about his biological father, not the kindhearted stepdad I met at the hospital.

  “Cort Bracelyn,” I say, pulling the name from the musty trunk in my memory. “Were you close before he passed?”

  Jon doesn’t look up from his phone. “No.”

  I recall our conversation at the hospital. The darkening in his eyes when I pointed out how much he resembled that photo of his father. I open my mouth to change the subject, but Jon speaks first.

  “I’ve been compared to him my whole life.” He looks up and speaks the words like a confession, like admitting he kicks babies or snorts baking soda. “Eyes, hair, cheekbones—even the damn chin. I’m his spitting image, so everyone assumes we’re alike.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I sure as hell hope not.” He shakes his head, and I try to recall what I’ve heard about his father.

  “He was an entrepreneur.” I think that’s the right way to say “richer than God.”

  “He was a jerk.” Jon’s jaw is tight, his words clipped. “He lied and cheated his way through life. Death, too,” he adds, though I’m not sure what that means. “I’ve made it my mission to be his opposite, if that makes sense.”

  It does, I think. “I admire my mother more than anyone in the world, but I try to be her opposite, too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I shrug, part of me wishing I’d never brought this up. “She gave up everything to marry my father. Left her hometown to follow him around the globe. Gave up her career as an artist.”

  “Your mom’s an artist?”

  “Was.” I hesitate, then slip my phone out of my pocket and toggle to the folder of images. “These are some of her paintings.”

  I hand the phone over, then watch Jon’s face as he scrolls. “Wow. These are incredible. She’s not painting anymore?”

  “Not really.” Not as the owner of her own gallery anymore. Not for anything other than charity auctions to benefit my father’s causes.

  “She’s incredibly talented.” Jon scrolls to the end, then holds the phone out. “Thanks for sharing these.”

  “Of course.” I take the phone back and slip it into my pocket, feeling the warmth of his hand. “Anyway, we were talking about your father. About how you try not to be like him.”

  His eyes darken again, and I wonder if I shouldn’t have circled back. It’s obviously a sensitive subject. “I do my best not to be a dick,” he says. “That’s pretty much it. Treating women with respect, making a positive impact on the world. That sort of thing.”

  “From where I stand, you’re doing a great job.”

  He grins and sloshes a hunk of bubbles up my bare shin. “You’re standing in a tub of Palmolive, so I’ll take that with a grain of salt.”

  I consider sharing the origins of that phrase, which I researched just last month. It traces back to Pliny the Elder and salt as an antidote to poison, but I decide to hold my tongue. There’s a good chance Jon thinks I’m nuts already, so no sense adding to that.

  Instead, I lift my glass of half-and-half. “Cheers to your mother and stepfather,” I say. “You said they’re the ones who raised you?”

  “Yeah.” A troubled look passes over his face, but it’s gone in an instant. “Now that’s a kickass marriage. Kinda the opposite of how my father spent his life.”

  “I enjoyed watching them together.” There’s a twist of envy in my voice, and I wonder if he notices. “At the hospital. They seem so in tune with one another.”

  I have no plans to marry, ever. But if I did, I’d want a marriage like Wendy and Chuck have. One filled with kindness and love and mutual respect.

  Why the hell am I thinking about marriage?

  “We should all be so lucky.” Jon clinks his glass against mine. “Cheers to Chuck and Wendy.” He takes a sip, and when he lowers the glass, there’s the tiniest hint of milk mustache on his upper lip. I want to lick it. I want to cover his mouth with mine and press my body up against—

  “Music,” he says. “I almost forgot.” He sets the glass down. “Hey, Alexa—play sexy music.”

  Sexy music?

  I must look surprised, because Jon shrugs and gives a funny little half-smile. “Seems like that would give us a mellow, self-care sorta vibe.”

  A rounded orb on the counter flickers blue light, then follows with a female voice. “Here’s a playlist you might like,” Alexa says. “Playing X-rated R&B jams from Amazon music.”

  Before we can react, bass rumbles from the speakers. There’s some electronic thumping, then a growly voice.

  I want to fuck you in the—

  “Alexa, stop!” Jon’s laughing, but he looks horrified. “Not the mood I had in mind.”

  I’m laughing, too, since it seems better than the alternative. Better than pointing out the X-rated things I’d like to do with the man sharing this bathtub with me.

  I need to get a grip.

  “Um, maybe suggest love songs?” I offer. “That should be more mellow.”

  “Good thinking.” Jon directs his voice toward the device. “Alexa, play romantic music.”

  Another flicker of light. “Playing ‘Under the Covers Country,’” she announces.

  There’s a twangy flare of steel guitar, followed by some banjo. Then a male voice begins crooning about his pickup truck.

  Jon looks at me. “Maybe no music.”

  “Silence is good.”

  I half expect Alexa to deliver Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence,” but no. Jon gives the command and Alexa’s work is done.

  He’s smiling again, too. All good things.

  “Speaking of fathers,” he says, “how’s yours doing?”

  And just like that, I’m not smiling. Oh, I’m faking it well enough. But inside, I’m wishing we could talk about anything else. Mass shootings. Genocide. Various forms of torture.

  “He’s doing well, thanks,” I say. “He’s giving a talk at Columbia University next month.”

  “I know. I saw it in his newsletter.”

  Which just made this weirder. I take another sip of creamer.

  “Hey,” h
e says softly. “Look at me.”

  I do it. Look right into his eyes instead of at his abs. It should make this easier, but it doesn’t. Lord, the man has lovely eyes.

  “I’m getting the sense that you like talking about your father almost as much as I like talking about mine,” he says. “True?”

  “True.” I clutch my glass, wondering how much he’ll push.

  “So what do you say we start fresh with something more self-care oriented.”

  “Deal,” I say as relief floods through me. “Like what?”

  He thinks about it a moment. “Is it a bad sign that I can’t think of anything?”

  Probably, but I hold onto that thought. “How about that song—From the Sound of Music? She has all kinds of suggestions in there.”

  Jonathan frowns, and I wonder if maybe he’s never seen it.

  “Raindrops on roses…” I prompt.

  “Ah,” he says, light dawning. “And whiskers on kittens.”

  Summoned by Jon’s words, the feline from the living room lumbers into the bathroom and looks around. The cat stares at us for a few beats like he’s never seen two fully clothed humans standing in a sudsy bathtub.

  He’s never seen a bathtub, judging from the filth-matted fur. He puts his oversized lobster claw paws on the edge and peers at the water.

  “Hey, kitty,” Jonathan says. “How was lunch?”

  The cat’s whiskers twitch, but he doesn’t respond. Just looks at the water like he’s thinking about getting in. “You’re welcome to join us,” Jon says in a voice so soothing I’m ready to purr. “We could get you clean before I take you to the vet and then find your owners. Or find you a home.”

  The cat gives a low rumble that could either be a growl or a purr.

  “I didn’t see it in the hospital paperwork,” I tell him. “But I’m pretty sure bathing a feral cat that may have rabies is not on your list of approved activities.”

  The cat drops its paws to the ground and saunters off.

  Jon shrugs. “Probably not. You know what I was surprised to see on there?”

  “What?”

  “Jogging,” he says. “I’m allowed to start running right away.”

  “You’re a runner?”

  “Not really. But I should start, since most other things are forbidden for a couple weeks. Weightlifting and contact sports and anything that involves my abdominals, like rowing. And international travel. That’s off-limits for eight weeks.”

  “Did you know that going in?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

  Which makes his gift to Isabella that much more meaningful. He knew he’d be giving up many of the things that make him who he is, but he did it anyway.

  My urge to touch him is yielding to a different urge. A deeper one, a desire to kiss and connect and bury my face in his chest. None of those things are prohibited on the paperwork, but I don’t think I should mention that.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  “Why?”

  “Because whatever’s making you smile like that seems like something I should know about.”

  I’m that transparent?

  I decide to be honest, since there’s no way I’ll come up with a convincing fib fast enough. “I was thinking about kissing you,” I admit.

  “I see.”

  The bemusement in his voice is back, though I can’t bring myself to look at him. I look down into the bathwater, steeling myself.

  “The first two times, you started it,” I remind him. “You asked to kiss me.”

  “Are you asking now?”

  I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak. I know this is a bad idea. Jon Bracelyn has already penetrated my armor in a thousand tender spots, and that’s the last thing I need right now.

  But I find myself stepping forward anyway, bringing us face to face. So close I can feel his breath in my hair.

  Water swirls around my shins, splashing the cuffs of my jeans. I don’t care about that. All I care about is touching him, pressing my lips to his again. My hands rise like they’re controlled by puppet strings, coming to rest on either side of his chest.

  His skin is hot and smooth, and he makes a strangled noise that’s somewhere between a hiss and a groan. I start to pull back, afraid I’ve bumped one of the incisions.

  But Jon grabs my wrists and pins my hands in place. The look in his eyes is frantic, hungry. “Don’t stop. Please.”

  The desperation in his voice matches what’s thrumming through my veins. A primal need, an urgency I’ve never felt before. Flattening my palms, I let my fingertips graze his nipples.

  He closes his eyes and groans for real this time. “God, Blanka.”

  I close my eyes, too, breathing him in. Absorbing him through my senses. He smells like sunshine and saltwater, though I know he’s been trapped in a hospital for days.

  But Jon Bracelyn was born with the ocean in his veins, and I can feel it pulling me under. Washing through me in warm, gentle waves.

  When I open my eyes, he’s watching me. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  It’s a strange quirk of the English language. One of those questions I’m not supposed to answer. But English isn’t my native language, and there’s no hiding what he does to me.

  “Yes,” I answer honestly. “You make me feel beautiful.”

  Surprise flashes in his eyes, and I worry I’ve misspoken. That something got lost in translation. But a slow smile spreads over his face instead. “Where have you been all my life?”

  I don’t know how to answer that, so I don’t try. Not with words, anyway. I stretch up on the balls of my feet, palms flat on his chest. I’m trying to be careful, to kiss gently in case he’s sore.

  But all that flies out the window the instant our lips touch. He lets go of my wrists and pulls me against him, lips crushing mine as his hands slide around to cup my ass. I fight my urge to press against him, to arch my body into his tender abdomen. I need to be careful.

  Not just with his incisions. With my heart, since I feel it tripping out of a slow trot and into a frantic gallop. I could lose myself in these kisses, in the simmering heat of his touch.

  His kisses are rough and hungry, like a man who’s been starved. I feel it too, this strange current of desperation. The craving for more, more, more.

  One hand abandons its post on my ass and slides up my side, skimming my waist, my ribs through the thin cotton camisole. When he gets to my breast, he hesitates with his hand just at the tender edge.

  “I want to touch you,” he murmurs. “Please.”

  I’m not sure if it’s a question, but I nod anyway. My consent flips a switch, and his big hand closes around me. He’s gentle at first, testing the weight of me. It feels way too good, and I groan and press into his palm.

  “Blanka.” He says my name on a groan, shooting a thousand tiny lust rockets through my body. I slide my hand around him, finding my way to the front of his jeans. “I want you so much.”

  “We can’t,” I gasp, even as I’m stroking the thick length of him through rough denim. “With the surgery you’re not supposed to—”

  “Page six,” he gasps, kissing his way down my throat. “Third paragraph down. ‘Kidney donor may engage in sexual activity when he or she feels well enough to do so.’”

  “You memorized it?”

  He nods, lips moving down over my collar bones. “I thought it might be important.”

  I clutch the back of his head, thinking nothing’s more important than this. This moment, right here.

  “I don’t think they expect you to get busy in a bathtub the day you get home from the hospital,” I murmur.

  “Bedroom’s down the hall,” he says between kisses.

  I can’t believe we’re talking about this. I can’t believe I’m considering it.

  His mouth finds my nipple through the thin cotton of my cami, and I lose all sense of logic. I’m still stroking him through his jeans, still wondering what the hell has gott
en into me.

  “We can’t,” I groan as he licks my nipple through the fabric. My resistance has nothing to do with medical concerns, and everything to do with keeping a tight leash on my heart. “We shouldn’t.” Even I hear the weakness of my protest as my fingers clench around him. “Please don’t stop.”

  Talk about mixed messages.

  He responds by flicking the strap off my shoulder, baring the tops of my breasts. I’ve still got a bra, but the lacy cups offer up the contents like they’re on a platter. Jonathan gives a low moan and hooks a finger in the lace, tugging it down.

  Then he feasts on my breasts, one at a time, and it’s all I can do to stay upright. This is insane. He just had a major organ removed, and we barely know each other.

  “Ty moe povitria.” The words slip through my lips before I have the chance to stop them, and I clutch the back of his head to hold him in place. To keep his mouth right there on that spot beneath my left breast.

  He does it again, and I shudder.

  “Mmm,” he says, shifting to my right breast. “So the underside of your left breast makes you speak in tongues.”

  I laugh, still gripping his hair. “Not tongues.” I groan as he moves back to my left breast, and unplanned words slip out again.

  “Ty naykrashhyy muzhcyna.”

  “What does that mean?” He’s addressing the words to my breasts again, and I’m grateful this time. It means he can’t see the flush in my cheeks.

  “Nothing,” I murmur. “Just nonsense words.”

  I expect him to push. To demand an answer.

  Instead, he strokes me with his tongue. I groan again and tug at the button on his jeans. We shouldn’t do this, I know. But I’m working his zipper anyway, tugging it down and stroking him as he—

  “Jon! Hey, Jonathan.”

  We jerk back as his brother’s voice calls from the other end of the house. Water sloshes our calves as we spring apart and James’s footsteps draw closer. He’s muttering something I can’t make out, but I hear the words “fucking lunatic” and figure this can’t be good.

  Another voice joins the mix—Lily. “He wouldn’t just leave his front door open.”

  Oh, shit.

  “You’re sure that’s Blanka’s car?” James is muttering.

  “Positive.”