“I'm not doing anything. And shit. I'm really depressed now. Do you really think of every encounter as a war?”
“Of course. What else could it be?”
“Creative. Collaboration. Lo—Sex isn't a competition.”
“...It is if you do it right. And shit, this isn't it either.”
“The photograph?”
“What a mess.”
“Forget it. Come her and lavish attention on me.”
"Where did you go?" he asked me one day, and I realized I had been staring at the waves. I couldn't have said how long I had been watching them, and when I turned to look at Malcolm, their patterns and swirls continued to spiral across my vision.
"I don't know," I said. "I just stopped thinking for a while." I smiled while I said it. "Feels good."
"I wouldn't know," he said, walking up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist, snugging me in close. I felt the swell of his erection against my ass. "My mind has started to run away with me, too, and I have never been able to meditate."
"Mm," I said. I rubbed my ass cheeks over his cock, and he sighed, grinding into me. "It's not all it’s cracked up to be," I told him. "You start thinking about nothing and the next thing you know your ramen is boiling over or someone's cat just threw themselves under the wheels of your car."
"Perhaps you shouldn't meditate while driving." His hands were slipping under the waistband of the boxers I wore, smoothing over my thighs, dipping into my pussy.#p#分页标题#e#
"It's just too easy when your head is empty," I joked.
His hands stilled. "Why do you always do that?" he asked me.
I frowned. "Do what?"
"Put yourself down."
I ground against his hands, trying to encourage him to continue, but he was steadfast. "I mean it, Sadie. You have a low opinion of yourself."
My lips thinned. "It makes it easier," I said finally.
"Easier to do what?"
I shrugged. "Deal with the disappointment I feel when I look in the mirror."
Behind me I felt him shake his head. "How am I going to convince you you're amazing?" he sighed.
I could think of one way, but I didn't want to say it out loud. I was trying not to push the issue of the fact that we were living on borrowed time, whether he decided to end it all or not. "I don't know," I said. "Pay me to think I'm amazing? I can do a lot for the right incentive."
His chest rumbled in a laugh. "You and most of the rest of the world. But I think even if I did, that you would just tell me you thought you were amazing, rather than actually change."
I shrugged. "How would you tell the difference?"
His lips brushed against my ear, and I shivered down to my toes. "I would be able to tell."
He took me from behind, there on the deck, plundering my core first until I came around him, then withdrawing and placing his cock against the tight hole of my ass. I stiffened, but when I didn't tell him no, he pressed inside, filling me up unbearably, and as he thrust into my ass I closed my eyes and thought of nothing.
“I never see the captain. What does he do all day, jack off?”
“He tells me he's writing a book.”
“About what?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe about jacking off?”
“That's gross. Don't be gross. You're rich, you should be classy.”
“You were the one who introduced the subject.”
“Yeah, but you should be classier than me. I'm just a working girl in a rich man's world.”
“I'm just a rich man on a boat with a beautiful woman who makes him think of soft, dirty things. How else should I behave?”
“Mysterious. Enigmatic.”
“I am that, too. Mysteriously and enigmatically aroused by your perfect ass. No, inspired by your perfect ass.”
“Maybe you should do a piece of art on my ass instead of my whole body.”
“It's certainly something to think about. Perhaps I should write a sonnet on it instead. Sixteen perfect lines, eight for one cheek and eight for the other, and yet only a pale shadow of the real thing.”
“My ass is too big for only sixteen lines. Maybe you should write an epic on it instead.”
“I could. Perhaps I should write it on the skin, as I did on the plane. But I fear it might take too long and you would get bored.”
“Why, because it's so big?”
“Because I'd be writing one-handed.”
“See? Gross.”
“Come here and see how gross it is.”
“I... Oh.”
“Turn over. I will write my ode to your body with mine.”
“...oh.”
One day, in frustration, he broke all his pencils. Deliberately, methodically, I watched him snap each one in half and throw them into the sea. The rage on his face was shocking, overwhelming. For the first time I was actually nervous of his temper, of the temper of the billionaire, the ruthless businessman who had carried the person inside of him to such a hopeless, terrible place in life.