Over the Rail

I stood at the rail, gripping the cool metal, watching the sun melt into the horizon. The wind whipped my hair around, but I didn't feel it. All I felt was his voice—the one drifting up from the cabin below. The voice I wasn't supposed to hear.

"—Yeah, she's fucking hot. That ass..." He was on the phone, not knowing I was standing right above the porthole. "I check it out every time she bends over. Today, in those white shorts, I almost came right there on the deck."

I froze. My heart was slamming in my throat. Max, my trainer—broad-shouldered, rough hands, eyes the color of a stormy sea—was talking about me. I knew it was me. Who else could he be going on about like that on this boat?

"No, bro, she has no idea. Thinks I'm just the coach. But I'm thinking about pinning her against the mast and—"

I didn't need to hear the rest. I was already burning. Everything inside me coiled tight, and between my legs it was hot and slick. I let out a slow breath, wet my lips, and headed below.

He was at the bar, pouring whiskey, and turned when I walked in. For a second, panic flickered in his eyes—he knew. But I didn't give him a chance to backpedal.

"Max," I said, stepping closer. "I heard everything."

He froze, bottle in hand. The silence between us was thick, heavy as tropical air.

"Lina, I—"

"Don't apologize." I moved right up against him, feeling the heat rolling off his body. "Say it to me. To my face."

He set the bottle down. His hand found my waist—slow, like he was giving me a chance to pull away. I didn't. Instead, I stepped in even closer, and his fingers dug into my hip.

"That ass," he said, voice rough, eyes locked on mine. "I think about it every single session. The way you bend over. The way those shorts fit you like they were painted on."

I smirked and grabbed his shirt, yanking him toward me.

"Show me what you're thinking."

His mouth crashed into mine—hungry, demanding. He bit my lower lip and I moaned right into his mouth. His hands slid down, gripping my ass, rough and hard, making my knees go weak. He spun me around and pressed me belly-first against the bar.

"So fucking tight," he breathed, running his palms up my thighs. "I've wanted you since the day you walked into your first session."

I arched back, feeling his cock through the thin fabric of my shorts. He was hard, thick, and I wanted him—wanted him so bad my head was spinning.

"Fuck me," I whispered. "Right here."

Max ripped my shorts down along with my panties. I heard the fabric tear, but I didn't give a shit. He ran a finger along my slick slit and I shuddered.

"God, you're soaked," he growled, pushing one finger inside me. "Is this from listening to me?"

"Yes," I gasped. "More."

He added a second finger, stretching me open, then pulled his hand away and I heard his zipper. A heartbeat later, I felt his cock at my entrance. He ran the head along my slit, teasing, and I bit my lip.

"Max," I whimpered. "Don't make me wait."

He laughed low and rough.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

And he pushed in. Hard, deep, all the way to the hilt. I cried out, gripping the edge of the bar. He filled me completely—hot, thick, relentless. His hands gripped my hips and he started to move, slow at first, drawing out every stroke, then faster, harder, slamming into me so hard the bar rattled.

"Fuck," I gasped. "Yes, just like that."

He leaned over, covering my body with his, and whispered in my ear:

"Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," I breathed. "Only yours."

He sped up. I could feel his cock sliding inside me, his fingers digging into my ass, spreading me open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I was already on the edge when he whispered:

"Look at me."

I turned my head over my shoulder. His face was twisted with lust, eyes blazing. He was staring at me—and there was so much hunger in that look that I came, loud and unrestrained, clenching around his cock.

"Fuck, Lina," he groaned, and a few strokes later he came inside me with a guttural moan, pressing his forehead to my shoulder.

We stood there, panting, as the yacht rocked on the waves. His cock was still inside me, pulsing.

In the morning, I went up on deck. Max was sitting with a cup of coffee, staring at the sea. He turned, and his smile was lazy, satisfied.

"Coffee?" he asked.

I sat down across from him, taking the cup. The look in his eyes said he could still see me naked, bent over that bar.

"Just don't tell me we're training after this," I smirked.

"What?" He raised an eyebrow. "That ass of yours really is incredible. Gotta keep it in shape."

I laughed and took a sip. Somewhere deep inside, I was still aching from last night—and from the anticipation of doing it all over again.