Canada Day

I sigh and tap idly at my keyboard, wishing I were anywhere but at work. Once in a while I don’t mind my secretary job, but most of the time I’m bored out of my mind.

I check the clock. Only two more hours to go. My mind has gone already, though—tomorrow morning I’ll be boarding a plane to fly to Seattle to meet some friends. From there, I’ll be cruising to Alaska. My growing excitement over the cruise is making being at work even more torturous.

I flip over to the Internet and scroll through some pictures of people on a cruise. Most of them are couples laughing in the sun or dancing under the stars. I’m envious. My current relationship doesn’t involve any of those things. As soon as I get back from the cruise, I gotta tell him it’s over, I think.

Someone comes up to me and asks me a question. Typical annoying crap, but at least it makes the rest of the day go by faster. Before I make my escape, I check to make sure that I’ve turned on my “out of office” assistant and left an “I’m-on-vacation” message on my voice mail.

“Goodbye!” I say cheerfully to the last few people who are still in the office. “See you in two weeks!”

A mixture of “Have-fun’s!” and “Wish-it-were-me’s!” trails me out the door and into the late June afternoon. I damn near skip down the stairs and out to my car.

***

That night, I lay everything out on my bed. Formal wear, matching shoes, outdoor gear for the hiking excursions, make-up… I hesitate when I see the pack of condoms in my top drawer. Should I take them with me? After all, I still have a boyfriend. Technically.

I decide an emphatic “no” on the condoms and finish packing my things. They fit into one suitcase, although I do have to utilize the sit-‘n’-close method to get the zipper zipped the last inch.

***

The flight leaves on time and so does the connection. I arrive in Seattle right on schedule and am happy to discover that it is not raining. Apparently, I’m finally having a streak of luck!

I spend my day in Seattle with a friend who had moved from Detroit to Seattle three years ago. Rob is a really good listener, not to mention incredibly patient. As we walk through the myriad neighborhoods and downtown districts of Seattle, I lay out the problems I’ve been having with my boyfriend for the past year.

“The worst part has been having to give up on him,” I explain. “Even though he made my life hell, I stood by him when no one else would because I thought that he could change his for the better. Now I realize that it’s not going to happen—at least, not for a long time—and I need to move on. But it breaks my heart to leave him standing there all alone.”

Rob looks at me with his sympathetic brown eyes. “Maybe that’s exactly what he needs,” he says simply. Wow. Rob is a man of few words, but when he does say something, he’s usually right.

***

The next morning finds me joining the line to board the ship. A twinge of apprehension shivers through me as I walk up the long gangway; it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by the ship’s sheer bulk and opulence. It isn’t until I hear someone say “Fun in the front, food in the back” that I can make sense of the tiny fold-out map of the ship that was in our welcome packet.

An hour after boarding, an announcement is made that the cabins are ready. I’m relieved to hear it—I’m sharing a cabin with friends, but they’re coming from California. We had decided that it would be easier to just meet aboard the ship.

I see them in the corridor as soon as I get to Deck 7 and head for Cabin 7045. “Hey, everybody!” I cry out happily. They turn, see me, and break out into huge smiles. It’s been a while since we’ve been in the same time zone, but we exchange enough hugs to make up for it.

Our cabin is located in the front, close to the lounges and nightclubs. I’m glad—I’d rather be close to dancing than food. I brought my dance sneakers with me just in case I manage to find a DJ who plays hip hop or Latin…although now that I’ve seen the average age of the passengers, I’m not entertaining high hopes for my kind of sound. The vibe seems to be more Sinatra-and-Crosby than Shakira-and-Eminem.

***

The first full day of the cruise is spent at sea. The food is great, the service is nothing short of amazing, and the shows have been dazzling, but I haven’t reached a fever-pitch of excitement. Oh, well…it’s a hell of a lot better than sitting in my not-so-comfy office chair and staring at a computer screen.

On the second night, I excuse myself from my friends and wander down to Deck 2. I drift aimlessly through the casino, not really knowing where I’m going. The Queen’s Lounge is somewhere nearby; the name is tantalizing enough to make me try to find it.

I hear a faint beat coming from the far wall of the casino and swerve towards it. A sign on the wall says “Northern Lights.” Cute. We are going to Alaska, after all.

I go in. The music doesn’t make me want to rush to the dance floor, but it isn’t bad, either. Something disco-ish, late ‘70s/early ‘80s. The club is small—it might hold sixty or seventy people, tops. Its tacky décor is balanced by a relatively large dance floor.

The DJ booth is tucked into a corner of the room, behind a pillar. I decide to put in a song request. Chances are that I’m the only person here who’s from Detroit, but maybe I can persuade the DJ to play something with more of a beat. I head over to the corner.

Hmm. The closer I get to him, the cuter the DJ gets. He’s a dark-haired guy who looks to be about my age. Between his crisp suit and his dark-rimmed glasses, he looks kind of studious—definitely not like the typical wild-haired, zoned-out DJs that I’m used to seeing. It’s kind of a refreshing look, actually. Classy.

I walk up to him and realize that he’s only three inches taller than I am. Suddenly he shifts from “cute” to “sexy.” It’s a lot more pleasant to have a conversation if I don’t have to painfully crane my neck backwards. In fact, I have a height rule: you must be shorter than 5’10” to ride this ride! Anything more than that is just too awkward.

“Hi there!” I say as I lean over the edge of the booth.

He turns away from his stack of CDs to face me. The dark rims of his glasses match his jet-black hair perfectly. Yum. A short brunette. And is that Armani? That’s one of my favorite colognes.

“Hey,” he says. His voice has a smooth, polished cadence. “What can I play for you?”

“Do you have any hip-hop tracks?”

“Sure do.” He starts flipping through his CDs. “Anything in particular?”

I shrug. “Whatever you think is good. That’s my favorite kind of dance music—I’m from Detroit.”

“Detroit, huh?” He looks up and smiles. “I’m from Toronto.”

“Really?” I’m pleasantly surprised. Nothing like meeting someone from the same corner of the world when you’re both in a different part of it. “Toronto—that isn’t too far from Detroit. Great city, there’s a lot to do there. Windsor’s nice, too. I’m only a half-hour across the border from Canada.”

He looks down at his CDs again, but not before I catch a glimpse of his long, dark eyelashes. Wow. Another check on the list. All he needs now is a little silver hoop earring for it to be complete. Stop it, I tell myself sternly. You’re still dating someone. At least until you get back from this cruise, anyway.

“Are you enjoying the cruise?” he asks as he slides another CD into the cue. “Your song is coming up next.”

“Cool, thanks…and yeah, so far it’s been really fun. I can’t wait until tomorrow when we see the glaciers.” I pause, noticing his eyes again. They’re a medium brown. Blond-haired and blue-eyed may be the stereotypical dream guy, but I’m a sucker for dark-lashed brown eyes. I guess it’s in my nature to go against the grain.

“How long have you been working on the ship?” I ask, then look away before he notices me staring. The beat in the background seems to get a little bit louder, and I have to lean towards him to be able to hear his answer.

He leans towards me, too. Yup, definitely Armani. “I just signed a contract with this cruise line three days ago,” he answers. “I only had 72 hours to get all my stuff together that I’m going to need for the next four months and get onto the ship. Before this, I was on Norwegian.”

My eyebrows raise involuntarily. “Geez, only three days to pack everything? That must’ve been tough.”

He shrugs non-commitally. “Yeah, usually the first week is hell—it takes about that long to settle in.” His eyes meet mine and he smiles again. “But what about you? Are you here by yourself?”

Wow, maybe it’s because I’m stuck in a shitty relationship, but there’s something really sexy about this guy. “No,” I answer. “I’m travelling with some family friends—there are eleven of us altogether. But everyone else is either over forty-five or under eighteen, so I thought I’d wander around by myself for a while and try to find some good dancing.”

“No boyfriend?” he asks in a neutral tone.

I hesitate before answering. “We-ell…there’s a current entanglement,” I say slowly. “I have to break it off when I get back.”

He looks like he might say something in response, but just then the air is flooded with a strong hip-hop beat. I’m drawn to the floor like a bee to honey. No point in babbling my sordid tale to a stranger, anyway—no reason for him to know, and I’m tired of complaining about the situation. It’s my own fault for not having done anything about it.

I hit the floor and start dancing. It’s ideal: there’s plenty of room to dance, the music is loud enough but not deafening, and I don’t know a soul in the place. I can be anonymous and exhibitionist at the same time.

The DJ—Mike, it says on his name badge—plays pretty good music late into the night. I alternate between twirling across the dance floor and leaning on the edge of the DJ booth to talk to him. People punctuate our chatting by walking up with requests, but we still manage to have great conversations. The more I hear, the more I like him: he’s pro-choice, pro-gay, and not religious. (Three requirements in my book.) He loves to read and certainly isn’t shy. Some of the things he says are so blunt and outrageous that I almost bend over laughing.

All in all, I’m having a blast talking to him. And the fact that he keeps obliging me by playing some kick-ass dance music doesn’t hurt, either. He even throws in some Eminem in a nod to my Detroit roots.

Eventually, though, I do start to get tired; it must be winding towards two o’clock. Mike begs me to stay a little bit longer. “I’d really appreciate it,” he says. “You have no idea how great it is to talk to someone interesting. This doesn’t happen very often.”

I relent and stay another hour. By then, I’m about ready to drop. We’re heading due north, farther into Alaska, and it’s already starting to get light outside by three a.m. “I’m about dead on my feet,” I tell Mike. “I’ve gotta get some sleep.”

He says that he’s about to close up the club, anyway, and he wishes me a good night. “Thanks for staying,” he says, his smile reflected in his dark-eyed gaze.

I head back up to the cabin and do my best to creep past my friends and slide under the covers without waking them. I stretch out and sigh. Great dancing, great conversations, great guy. I needed that…when’s the last time any of that happened?

***

I wake up feeling tired in a well-deserved sort of way. Glacier day! I’m looking forward to seeing them, and in the back of my mind, I’m also looking forward to going back to the Northern Lights club. I can’t quite keep the image of Mike’s long, dark eyelashes out of my mind. He had to spend a lot of time looking down at his CDs as he shuffled through them—it was ridiculously easy to watch him without him noticing.

The glacier is stunning, the games the cruise activities staff puts on in the afternoon are amusing, and dinner is exquisite. I enjoy all of it, but my feet are already starting to itch for my dancing shoes. I finally put them on after going to a late-night Broadway show with my friends.

Deck 4, Deck, 3, Deck 2…I walk into the club and head directly over to the booth. Mike smiles as soon as he sees me standing there. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I was really hoping you’d come back.”

I grin. “Hey, just keep the good tunes coming. I’m not one who can stay away from a dance floor.” I illustrate my point by spinning onto it and letting my body flow with the music.

As I dance, I’m wondering if he’s watching me. It’s too dark to be able to see across the room clearly, but I imagine that he is, an assumption that turns me on.

Part of my mind is pondering the fact that I’m undeniably attracted to Mike. The other part—the smaller, quieter part—keeps reminding me that I have a boyfriend. Somehow, though, I can’t easily summon an image of his face in my mind. After the hellish year we’ve had, it feels good to just forget about him.

The song flows seamlessly into another one with a strong beat. I stay on the floor for that one, too. By about the third or fourth song, though, I drift over to the DJ booth as someone is putting in a request.

I lean against the edge of the DJ booth and watch Mike flip through his CDs to find the song the person wants to hear. His hands look smooth and strong, I can’t help but notice. I wonder what they would feel like on my skin? My reverie is ended by the requester walking away.

I’m about to say something to distract myself from my salacious thoughts when Mike turns to me. “There’s strong sexual tension between us,” he says without preamble, utterly shattering my self-imposed calm. His gaze is sure and matter-of-fact. “I really think we need to do something about it.”

For a moment, I can’t say anything. He’s right—I can almost feel myself being tugged towards him. But I’ve never met anyone who was so blunt before, and I’m not sure how to handle the situation.

I compose myself quickly and raise my eyebrows. “Well, what would you like to do about it, then?” I say, throwing caution to the wind. This is fun.

He considers me carefully. “That depends,” he answers after a few heartbeats. “What’s your favorite position?”

I have to laugh. “Aren’t we kind of jumping the gun here? I mean, how do you know I’d even kiss you?” Even though I say it lightly, I can already feel my body beginning to respond to his disconcerting-yet-sexy directness.

He leans in closer. “It’s obvious that at least a make-out session is in order.”

I’m starting to agree with him more and more. I thought my panties were wet with sweat from dancing, but now I’m thinking that there’s a more immediate reason than that, and the Armani coming from that reason is threatening to overwhelm any sort of common sense on my part. It’s been three years since I so much as kissed anyone new.

I summon what’s left of my composure and say sassily, “Well, I think I should warn you that I don’t do anal.”

He turns to pick out another CD, but not before I catch a glimpse of the half-smile on his face. “That’s okay,” he says when he turns back to me. “No problem—I don’t mind.” He looks at me unblinkingly again.

“Well,” I say archly, “I’m relieved that we’ve gotten that out of the way. It could’ve been a real stumbling block in our five-day relationship.”

He has to abandon his sauve/sexy demeanor to laugh at that. We pause our come-hither conversation to let someone request a song. I’m thinking that if things continue at this rate, I’m going to have to go put on a different pair of panties.

The song-requester walks away. My need for dry underwear gets more dire when Mike leans closer to me and says, “I’ve been told I have a really nice penis—it curves up just the right way to massage your G-spot.”

I almost can’t believe I’m having this conversation. What’s even more astonishing is that he’s actually turning me on instead of sounding ridiculous.

“I bet you’d like the way my penis would feel in your wet pussy,” he continues, still looking dead at me with those gorgeous eyes. “Because I know it’s wet.”

I can’t take it anymore — I want this guy so much that the tight knot of desire I feel between my legs is turning into a sharp pain. My panties are soaked. I throw my hands up in the air and say, “You’re making me ruin my panties! Now I have to go change them…I’ll be back.” And I stride off before he can say anything else. I have to get away from him for a few minutes to clear my head.

All the way back to the cabin, I’m wondering what I’m going to do. There’s no denying the fact that I really, really want to kiss this guy. Should I? Would that be such a horrible thing to do?

I grab a fresh pair of panties and head into the bathroom to change. I’m relieved to see that I managed to randomly pick out my favorite Snoopy panties that I bought at an H&M clothing store in Austria. Chances are he won’t have seen that kind before. If he sees these, I correct myself hastily. I haven’t said yes yet. Besides, kissing doesn’t involve seeing panties.

My heart is beating just a little bit faster as I head down to Deck 2. By the time I walk back into the Northern Lights club, I’ve decided that the only thing I would regret the next day would be not kissing him. This is way too hot to pass up.

“I’ve been thinking…” Mike says reflectively when I’m leaning on the edge of the booth again.

For an awful split-second, I’m afraid he’s going to call the whole thing off.

He’s not. “It might be intimidating for you if I invited you back to my cabin,” he continues, and goes on before I can agree/object. “I think we should sneak into the dressing room behind the Queen’s Lounge after I close the club. It’s right behind us. We’ll just have to be careful that no one notices us going in.”

I feel a shiver run through me at the very thought of being alone with him. Up until now, we haven’t not been separated by the DJ booth, much less touched each other. If anyone is watching us, they probably think we’re just having an ordinary, boring conversation. Somehow that makes this whole thing vaguely kinky.

“Would you get in trouble if anyone saw us?” I ask, trying to stall for time. I’m not sure how far into this I want to get.

He shrugs. “My last roommate—the one on the Norweigan cruise—was fired for having sex with a guest. He slept with a hot forty year-old one night and then went for a twenty-two year-old the next. The forty year-old found out about it and tipped off security. I’m just glad I wasn’t in the cabin when they busted in and caught them in the middle of things. What an idiot—he should’ve stuck with the forty year-old.”

My eyebrows shoot up and my attention is momentarily diverted from my ever-increasing desire. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble!”

He shrugs again. “Just be careful not to let anyone see you, that’s all.”

I can feel a slow burning between my legs. “I haven’t said I would kiss you yet,” I remind him.

“But you will,” he says in a sure tone. He isn’t being arrogant, he’s just confident that I’m as attracted to him as he is to me. I find his confidence to be a turn-on.

“Okay, okay!” I put my arms up in mock surrender. “I admit, I do want to kiss you. But I’m not going to have sex with you!” I say it strongly to try to convince myself. “Remember, I have a…uh…current entanglement.”

He takes a slight step backwards. “Hey, that’s fine! I promise, no sex!” he says, then looks at me coyly. “I do have a nice penis, though.” Now he’s standing directly beneath a dim spotlight, and I can see his long dark eyelashes clearly against his pale skin.

There goes another pair of panties. I haven’t wanted someone this badly in a long, long time. All I can think about is his hands on my bare skin…and yes, his cock inside of me. I love it when one curves up just a little bit. There’s a reason that most dildos curve slightly upwards, after all.

I clear my throat to distract myself. “So, what is it about me that turns you on, anyway?”

He smiles lazily, then looks serious. “I like you, that’s all. You’re interesting to talk to—not fake like most of these girls that come up here.” He waves an arm at the small crowd of women on the dance floor. Most of them are giggling and drunk in their too-tight tank tops and overly-made-up faces. I’d lay odds that only about five percent of them are actually blond at their roots. Okay, I can see his point…

“You’ve made these last couple nights a lot of fun,” he resumes. “This may sound weird, but you’re helping me quit smoking. I haven’t even thought about wanting a cigarette during the time I’ve spent hanging out with you.”

I try to point out to myself that this could all be a line just to get what he wants, but I’m a pretty good judge of character, and he sounds sincere. I haven’t seen him talking to any other women when I’ve come in and out and he didn’t know I was there. Then again, does it really matter? I won’t see him after Saturday night, anyway, and it’s already Wednesday. This vacation is turning out to be a lot more exciting than I had thought it would be.

“Besides,” he says with his deadpan humor, “this is your cruise, right? You paid for it—might as well get the most out of it!”

I burst out laughing. His sense of humor is bizarre, yet inexplicably appealing.

He waggles an eyebrow suggestively and makes me laugh again. Between the dancing and the flirting, I’m on a hormone-laden cloud nine.

By the time Mike announces last call, I’m aching for him so badly that I can hardly stand it. I’m still fairly certain that I’m not going to have sex with him, but I really want to know if his lips are as soft as they look.

In a quiet voice, he tells me to meet him in the dressing room in ten minutes. “I have to go put my CDs in my cabin,” he says, “and then I’ll come back up here. Just walk by the door and look to see if it’s ajar—if it is, come in.” I tell him I’ll meet him there.

As I wander off in the opposite direction, I can feel a tremor running through me. The whole scenario seems almost surreal. Is this really happening? I can’t believe that I’m about to kiss somebody new. It’s been over three years! I start to get a little nervous. Am I too old to be sneaking around like this?

I go up eight flights of stairs to the top observation deck. I figure the sheer effort of getting up the last couple of flights will focus my attention on something else other than being nervous. It works for as long as I’m climbing the stairs, but as soon as I’m standing on the outside deck, my nerves start jangling again.

The fog twines along the railings on the deck and wreathes my legs with its swirling whiteness. It’s moist and cool on my skin.

I look up at the stars and feel a sort of peace settle over me. As strange as this whole situation is, it feels right, almost as if I’m walking into a script that’s been written especially for me.

I wait another couple of minutes by my internal clock and then head back down to Deck 2. I don’t see anyone in the halls as I walk through them. Either I’m the only person sneaking off to a late-night rendezvous, or everyone else is already busy in their cabins.

The door to the dressing room looks like it’s closed. I feel a twinge of disappointment. There’s an inset porthole situated almost directly across from the door, so I fold myself into it and watch the dark waters slide past the ship. If anyone comes by and asks me what I’m doing here, I can just say that I’m enjoying the view. It would even be the truth.

Behind me, I hear the slight click of the door cautiously opening. I feel my heart pounding as I stick my head out of my hiding place. Is it him?

It is. He waves me inside. I let out a shaky breath and duck behind the door.

The dressing room is obviously very much in use before the nightly shows. There are theater-style mirrors lining the walls, their round bulbs blessedly dark. A long counter runs along the mirrored side of the room; there are a few discarded wigs and unused make-up kits sitting on it. Costumes and props are strewn about haphazardly, and every chair and hook has a garment draped over it.

For lack of a better place, he leads me over to the large piece of cardboard covering the only clear spot on the floor. “This is as good of a place as any,” he murmurs, and reaches out both hands to me. I take them, my breath coming faster, and allow myself to be drawn in.

My heart has gone from pounding to hammering as I breathe in his Armani cologne. His jet-black hair is sleek and glossy in the light of the flourescents—I run a hand through it as his lips hungrily seek mine. They’re astonishingly soft and readily parted.

Our kiss deepens from tentative to demanding. I press myself against him and can feel his hard cock straining against his pants. I’m not thinking anymore; I’ve given myself wholly over to the passion rippling through me. My hips involuntarily start rubbing against his.

He stops kissing me briefly to nibble on my ear. I can hear my ragged breath against his neck. It’s so short and fast that I’m almost gasping…I don’t think I’ve ever heard myself do that before. I feel as though I’m outside my own body, watching the scene unfold.

His hands slide down my back and onto my ass. He grabs me hard, smashing me against him. I hear him sigh with pleasure as he slips his hands beneath the waist of my jeans and then under my panties and onto my bare skin. The touch of his hands is electric—my entire body begins to tremble with excitement.

I start kissing his ears. In the dimness of the club, I hadn’t noticed how tiny and cute they are. I like them. I can hear his breath in my ear, just as ragged as mine. Hearing how excited he is makes me even hotter.

He starts unbuttoning my blouse and then reaches for my bra. I slide my hands down from his hair to help him with it—I can’t wait to feel his hands on my breasts.

The bra pops open and he gently opens my shirt. I look down at my hard nipples and watch as he takes one in each hand. I may be an A-cup, but my flat abs make my tits look bigger. Makes for one hell of an optical illusion.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he starts to massage my breasts. I can feel my knees beginning to shake as he keeps on rubbing my ultra-sensitive nipples; I have to lean on him for support as liquid fire burns from my breasts to my pussy.

With one hand, he reaches for the zipper on my pants and pulls it slowly down. I put out a tentative hand to stop him, not sure if I want things to go that far, but he brushes it away. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “No sex—I promise.”

I’m too far gone to object, and to tell the truth, I want his hand there probably more than he wants to put it there.

He pulls my zipper down the last half-inch and slides his hand underneath Snoopy. I am so wet with desire that I feel dizzy.

I almost come after he’s only drawn a finger along my pussy twice. I clutch his shoulder and press my face into his neck, trying not to fall over. My nipples scrape against his shirt.

He slides a finger into my aching wetness. I gasp out loud and almost bite his neck before I remember that leaving marks could cost him his job. He slides in another finger and presses upwards. “I’ve got something bigger I could put in there, you know,” he whispers.

At this point, I wouldn’t mind a bit if he threw me up on one of the counters and had his way with me. I grind myself against his hand and stifle my moans by kissing him as hard as I can. He digs his hand in deeper, until the heel of his palm is hitting my pubic bone.

I can’t even concentrate enough to kiss him anymore; instead, I bury my face in his shirt as I come, shuddering against him. His entire hand is wet. My ears are filled with the sound of my own breath.

As I try to straighten up, I have the presence of mind to look back over my shoulder at the dressing room door. The only thing that could ruin this would be someone bursting in right now.

He sees my glance. “It’s okay, I locked it,” he reassures me. He goes to pull my pants all the way down. “Remember, no sex,” he says sternly, then looks at me with those smoldering eyes. “But I want to do something else that I’m sure you’ll like. I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking about it.”

Gently, he pushes me a few steps backwards so that I’m partially sitting on the counter. I shuffle back in a daze with my pants around my ankles. The objects in the dim room swim in my vision and prompt me to close my eyes.

I don’t have to be looking at him to know that he’s kneeling down in front of me. Ever so slowly, he pulls my wet panties down my legs, leaving a trail of dampness behind. I grab the bottom of the counter as my head spins. The squared-off edges cut into my palms, but I don’t care. All I can really feel is his hands as they trace their way back up my thighs.

His hands are on my pussy. My breath comes shorter as he uses his thumbs to part first my outer lips, then my inner ones. I imagine that he’s looking at my clit, scrutinizing every detail. The thought that I’m standing here with my legs wide open and my pussy on display makes me even wetter. Is the cum is dripping from me?

His breath is hot on my exposed, swollen clit. My knees are shaking so hard that I have to clutch the edges of the counter harder to keep myself from toppling over. I moan as I feel the very tip of his tongue.

He uses both hands to spread me completely open, then—ohmygod, I’m going to explode!—he starts to lick his way down my pussy. He flicks his tongue against my clit, teasing me, then slides down the length of my vagina to my aching opening. My entire pussy is pulsing with desire—it feels like it’s contracting and releasing, contracting and releasing. I can’t feel the counter edges any more; all of the sensation in my body is focused on what he’s doing with his hands and tongue.

He thrusts his tongue into me as far as it will go. With my heightened awareness, I can feel the roughness of his tongue as he licks around in a circle, tasting all of me. Muffled moans come from between my thighs, but they aren’t nearly as loud as mine.

His tongue withdraws from me and I feel a brief twinge of aching emptiness. It doesn’t last long, though—he replaces it with three fingers, knowing that I’m so open with desire that he doesn’t need to ease into me. His tongue slides back up to my clit. In response to my gasps, he shoves in a fourth finger, stroking me inside as he licks and sucks my clit.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I broke a chunk off of the counter—my entire body is so tight with tension that it’s almost vibrating. If my knees hadn’t locked up, I would have fallen down by now despite my death grip.

His fingers have found my hardened G-spot, and his tongue has nestled underneath the hood of my clit and is massaging the tiny nub. I can feel the two dizzy spirals of pain/pleasure drawing closer to each other as I begin to come both inside and out. They blend in a blinding flash of whiteness. When I come, I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. The whiteness takes a long time to fade away.

I sag against the counter as he slowly pulls his fingers out of my spent pussy. My head droops limply; I don’t even have the strength to help him pull my panties and jeans back up. I lazily watch him zip and button my pants. He does so hesitantly.

When he stands up, my knees finally give way. I lean against him and feel my composure slowly come back. He waits patiently, but I can feel his hips making little grinding motions against mine.

I decide that it’s time to surprise him, so I reach for his zipper and firmly pull it down, followed by his pants and underwear. At first, he doesn’t want to let go of me, but then he suddenly realizes what I’m about to do and shuts his eyes with a sigh. The sigh turns to a groan when I take his penis in my hands and start stroking it. He was right—it does have a nice curve to it.

He has to make a grab for the nearest chair as I move my hands to his balls and take his penis into my mouth, a slow quarter-inch at a time. I carefully caress the base and the soft rounded knobs beneath it. His breath grows more and more uneven as my tongue eagerly licks up and down the length of his shaft. I pay special attention to the head, tasting its salty wetness, then wrap my lips around him and take in as much of him as I can without gagging. It doesn’t take long before I have a fast, steady rhythm going, one that makes his groans deeper and more hoarse.

I shift my hands from his balls to the back of his thighs, feeling the muscles in his legs hardening under my fingers. He shoves his hips against my face. I can hear his moans getting louder and louder. Just before I think he’s about to come, though, he hauls me back up and starts kissing me feverishly, his body pressing urgently along the length of mine.

“No sex!” I say, even though my body is urging me otherwise. When I signed up for this cruise, I didn’t sign up for giving the DJ a blow job in the dressing room! I remind myself.

“No,” he breathes. He reaches down and pulls up his pants with unsteady hands. “No sex,” he repeats more firmly.

“See, I promised you.” He looks at me and smiles. I can still see the desire in his eyes; I’m sure it’s reflected in mine. At this point, Snoopy would’ve needed a bigger ark than Noah’s to survive drowning.

“It’s late,” he says, still unwilling to let me go.

“It is,” I agree, still not moving.

“We should probably call it a night,” he says.

“We should,” I concur.

We stare at each other for another heartbeat before we walk to the door. He unlocks it and cautiously peeks out. “See you tomorrow?” he whispers.

I still feel a little light-headed. “Absolutely!”

He checks the hallway one last time, then nods at me. I slip out in front of him and walk away, turning around once to give him a little wave. He smiles at me before he disappears around the corner.

I still can’t quite believe what just happened. I’m feeling a little bit guilty, but that tiny piece of guilt pales in comparison to the post-orgasmic rush running through my veins. My knees still feel rubbery.

The sun’s rays are already starting to creep across the horizon. I turn my face away from the cabin window and fall asleep with a smile on my lips.

***

When I wake up, I can smell Armani on my pillow. Unfortunately, though, the thrill of last night has transmuted into guilt. I start thinking about the fact that for the first time in my life, I’ve cheated on a boyfriend. Normally, I’m not that kind of person, but things have just been so awful lately…and the last few days have seemed more like a dream than my actual life…

Between the sea kayaking I did yesterday, the rainforest hiking I do today, and the late nights I’ve spent dancing at the club, I’m about ready to fall into my plate by the time dinner is served. I manage to rally after dinner to go to one of the evening shows, but I have a feeling that I’m not going to be able to pull off another almost-all-nighter. Besides, the daily schedule says that the Northern Lights is hosting a country trivia night tonight. Poor Mike. We’ve already discussed the fact that that’s the one kind of music that neither one of us can stand.

I drop by the club later on that night anyway to see if the country bit is over with. It isn’t. Remarkably, however, Mike’s professional DJ demeanor hasn’t cracked—if I didn’t know the truth of it, I would think he doesn’t mind the music he’s spinning.

I confess to Mike that I’d have to commit hari kari if I had to listen to the country music any longer. He says it will be banished at the stroke of midnight; I tell him I’ll be back. I spend the intervening hour or two dancing to the soothing sounds of a combo band up in the Atrium lounge. The Filipino singer is not only handsome, he has a great sense of timing, too.

By the time I go back down to the club, I’m so tired that the ship’s gentle rocking motion is throwing off my sense of equilibrium. Mike looks almost as tired as I am. I dance to a couple songs out of pure principle and then lean wearily on the edge of his booth. “I gotta admit, I’m really, really tired tonight,” I say, grateful for the booth’s support.

He pushes a couple buttons on one of the CD players and gives me a sly smile. “Yeah, I had trouble falling asleep last night,” he says, then raises his eyebrows. “How about you?”

I look away and try not to obviously squirm. Despite my lingering guilt, when I had tried to take a nap in the afternoon, images of his mouth on my nipples and his hand sliding underneath my panties had refused to give me any peace. But I didn’t really want to admit that.

I look back at him. He reads the answer in my eyes and smiles slowly. “Yeah, I thought so,” he says contentedly. He looks as if he wants to reach out and take my hand, but he can’t. Shipboard regulations and all.

“So, what are we going to do tonight, then?” Tired as I am, his pointed question is enough to make an ache start to wind its way through my groin. I shift my weight unobtrusively and wish I could’ve taken that nap. Sleep is a precious commodity on this cruise.

As much as I hate to do it, I have to beg off. As the day has worn on, my guilt has faded, but my weariness has grown exponentially; while my spark of desire is steady, I’m afraid that I don’t have enough energy to make it a fire tonight. He admits that he’s not in prime shape, either—we both agree to call it a night.

***

I actually manage to sleep in a little bit the next morning. I didn’t plan an official excursion in this port, so I don’t have to be on shore at the crack of dawn. What a relief… I even get a bonus nap in the afternoon.

Tonight is the formal night. I’m looking forward to seeing Mike—he said he’d be wearing a tux. Massive improvement over the cowboy hat he’d worn for the country night.

Dinner is very formal, with all the men in suits and the women in long dresses. The meal is incredibly elegant and delicious. I think lobster is an aphrodisiac for me. The only flaw in the evening is trying to walk in my brand-new high-heeled shoes. I’ve never worn any before, and trying them out for the first time on a cruise ship wasn’t one of my better ideas. They look sexy as hell, especially with the silky, rippling dress that I’m wearing, but I’m going to have to change into my dancing shoes later on.

Before I change, though, I wobble my way down to Deck 2. I have two reasons for popping by the club: one, I’ve been wanting to supplant the image of Mike in a cowboy hat with one of him in a tux all day, and two, I want him to see how good I look. With any luck, he’ll notice the heels and make my sore ankles worthwhile.

Mike looks fantastic. True to his word—he had said he had an un-standard tux—the vest is a brilliant crimson. I love it. The red really compliments his black hair.

I carefully walk up to the DJ booth, trying not to ruin my polished image by tripping and falling flat on my face. “Hey!” I greet him. “You were right about the tux—it looks great!”

He looks up at me from his equipment. “Thanks!” he says, and smiles. I can’t tell if the smile is because of my dress or because I’m the one in it. Hopefully both.

I’m admiring his neatly-tied tie when I suddenly realize that he isn’t wearing his glasses. “What happened to your glasses? Do you wear contacts, or do you just not need them all the time?”

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “It’s kind of like Clark Kent and Superman,” he explains with a wink.

I laugh. I’m a major comic book fan.

“No,” he admits, “I’ve got my contacts in.” He pauses to take someone’s request, then turns back to me. “So, how’s your day been?”

I sigh happily. “Great. Saw some interesting sights in port today, dinner was fantastic, and I actually got some sleep. I feel much better.”

He takes a small step closer to the edge of the booth. “I’m glad to hear you’re rested. We were both exhausted last night—just as well we went to bed early.” He gives me that slow, smoldering smile. “But you know,” he adds pointedly, “we should have already had mad passionate sex by now.”

My hormones race into overdrive as I envision what could have happened in the dressing room if I had let it. “You’re going to make me ruin another pair of panties,” I say, flashing him a wicked grin.

He doesn’t look overly repentant. “You know you want to feel my hard cock inside your wet pussy.”

The music in the background has a heavy, thumping beat that seems to be pulsing in time with the throbbing in my groin. I can hear muffled laughter and shouts coming from the other people in the room, but all I can focus on are those confident brown eyes. He knows that I want it just as badly as he does.

“I’m still not sure about that,” I hear myself say, despite the fact that my body is telling me otherwise. My mind is apparently in denial.

He puts his hands up in the air. “Hey, I respect your decision.” His hands drop. “But you’ll decide that you want to have sex.” His tone leaves absolutely no room for argument.

I try, anyway. “Why do you say that?”

He shrugs. “Because tomorrow night is the last night of the cruise, and you’re going to decide that you want to have great memories of your last night.” His irrepressible smile returns. “And because you’re not going to be able to stop thinking about my penis.”

He’s probably right. Then again, I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with the return to reality when I get back to Detroit. After this week is over, he’ll still be blissfully sailing off into the wide blue Alaskan waters.

One of the other cruise activities staff members walks up to the booth, and I hastily tell Mike that I’ll be back later. I don’t want anyone on staff to see me flirting so outrageously with him. As I leave, I can hear him calling for everyone to join in a round of disco trivia.

The comedian that night is so funny that I manage to forget about my ethical dilemma with Mike. It’s a good thing my friend has plenty of Kleenex in her pocket, because we’re both going to need it to wipe away our tears. My sides hurt from laughing so hard.

After the show, we drift up to the Crow’s Nest to check out the ‘50s and ‘60s prom night. This is the best week I’ve had in a very, very long time,think in the midst of things. I had forgotten what it’s like to have this much flat-out fun.

Eventually, my friend gets tired and announces that she’s going to bed. I skip down eight flights of stairs—no high heels this time!—and head for the Northern Lights. My indecision comes back full-force as I soon as I see him. He is, of course, still wearing the tux and looking fabulous.

Maybe he senses my internal struggle, because he doesn’t say anything to make me have to run back to the room and find a new pair of panties. Instead, he regales me with tales of his most interesting DJ jobs and the bizarre things that have happened at the clubs. He makes the most out of the small space behind the booth and acts out parts of the stories. This is the most animated I’ve seen him so far—my sides are starting to hurt again.

It’s gotta be heading towards two o’clock in the morning now, but I’m not tired yet. I’m starting to think I’m turning into a creature of the night. Mike spins song after song—all with solid dance beats—and I put more miles on my dance shoes. The slick plastic bottoms allow me to damn near glide across the polished stone floor.

I ponder how crazy life can be as I abandon the dance floor in favor of leaning on Mike’s booth. Sure as hell never saw this coming…

A trace of naked hunger has crept into his normally-inscrutable gaze when he asks me if I’d like to come back to his cabin later.

I fidget, then say, “As much as I want to, it just wouldn’t be right.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, an argument begins:

–Go ahead! You like the guy, he likes you, your relationship is over, anyway! This is exactly what you need to turn over a new leaf and move on with your life! You’d be a fool to pass this up!—

—No, you can’t! You’ve never been unfaithful to anyone before! If you have sex with this guy, you’re going to regret it!—

The conscientious part of me wins out. The more adventurous part of me concedes a temporary defeat. There’s still tomorrow night, it points out. This isn’t over yet…

I’d like to kiss Mike good-night before I leave, but I can’t do anything that obvious. There are still people in the club, after all. Kissing him here would definitely get him in trouble.

He wishes me a good night. I can feel his eyes on me as I slip across the dance floor and out of the club. Dammit, I should have ended things with Derek before I went on this trip! Then again, part of the reason why I want Mike so badly—aside from those luxuriant eyelashes and his oddly charming personality—is precisely because he’s something I can’t have.

***

Our last port of call before we return to Seattle is Victoria, Canada. British Columbia, to be exact. My friends and I have signed up to go on an excursion to the Butchart Gardens, home to one of the most famous rose gardens in the world.

We get there at dusk. I split off on my own and wander through the Japanese garden, the sunken garden, and the bog gardens. At the edge of the bog, I find a beautiful fountain. It’s set in a large lake, and it’s ringed by gorgeous, moss-covered cliffs. I’ve never seen anything so bright green before. The overall effect is stunning.

I sit and watch the fountain as it plays through its preset patterns. It’s a clear, bright evening. Twilight is just starting to paint the gardens in shades of rose and orange. For the first time in days, my mind is completely blank and at peace.

After a while, thoughts creep in. A fun, sexy guy is mine for the taking tonight if I want him. Wouldn’t that be a phenomenal ending to a phenomenal trip?

Something else occurs to me. He’s Canadian. We’re in Canada, and today is Canada Day. Is the universe trying to tell me something? I watch the fountain majestically spray upwards. Not only that, I found another pair of Snoopy panties this morning. An omen, perhaps? At this point, I’m willing to grasp for straws.

As I watch the gushing fountain, I keep remembering how soft Mike’s hair felt between my fingers, how ragged his breath sounded in my ear as I kissed his neck, how his body felt pressed against the length of mine…

I’ve already made my decision. All of my guilt has completely dissipated, and random smiles have been coming to my lips all day. Apparently, something terribly obvious had to happen in order to shove me into a new direction, and that obvious thing just happened to be a handsome, brunette Canadian.

I feel so free that I could almost float away in the breeze. I close my eyes and feel tiny droplets from the fountain mist across my face. Its gentle splashing echoes against the mossy cliffs in the background.

A short but soothing eternity passes. People come and go, admiring the fountain and taking pictures. Once in a while, someone sits down next to me on my bench. I drift, my mind and conscience at ease.

Eventually, I realize that dusk is settling over the gardens. Soon it’ll be time for the fireworks! Reluctantly, I leave the fountain behind and go off in search of my friends.

The heady scent of roses envelops me as I wander through thousands of blooming plants. Their fragrance is so powerful that it’s almost cloying, but at the same time the roses are dizzying in their sensuality. Imagine what it would be like if all these people were gone and the gardens were deserted…

I picture Mike walking next to me, our footsteps the only ones disturbing the pebbled pathways. I raise my eyes to the lush, grassy carpets beyond the rose gardens and sigh, thinking about how silky the grass would feel on my bare skin…and how dark his eyelashes would look in the moonlight…

Night settles in; the fireworks can finally start. I’m not really expecting an extravagant show—it would be tough to top the fireworks over the Detroit River. Now that I know where I’ll end up tonight, I’m getting impatient to get back to the ship and head down to the Northern Lights.

As soon as the fireworks begin, though, my impatience is forgotten. Incredible showers of fire burn across the sky and are reflected in the lake below. Flaming pinwheels shoot out sparks as airy music floats across the gardens, the ethereal voices accenting the dazzling displays of light. As the music soars to new heights, so do the brilliantly arching fireworks. Each one explodes higher and higher until it feels like glittering fire is going to rain down out of the sky and ignite the crowd.

My eyes are wide open with wonder as I tilt my head back and stare at the flames etching their way across the inky heavens. The boom! from each shooting star reverberates through the air, filling my ears with its echoing thunder. The explosive detonations shudder through my body. Every time a boom! thuds across the sky, the blood in my veins pulses a little bit harder. I feel as though I am standing alone under the radiant canopy of fire.

The thrumming in my body is only thinly masking my ever-increasing desire—each explosion of light seems to trigger a tiny orgasm deep inside of me. My answering wetness makes me wish that I were already back on the ship.

The ride back to the ship is sheer torture—I want to get out and push the bus to make it go faster. It’s already after 11:00! Last boarding call is at 11:30; the ship sets sail at midnight to return to Seattle. No matter how hard I grit my teeth together and will the bus to go faster, though, it doesn’t. Are we going to make it?

It’s a heart-racing 11:55. We’re the last people to board the ship. Made it!

I grab something to eat and hurriedly change. There—that’s my last pair of clean Snoopies. It’s as good a theme as any.

I practically fly down the stairs to Deck 2. By now, it’s after one. I manage to slow down and compose myself before I walk up to his booth.

His smile is genuine. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” he says. I tell him about the delayed, hair-raising trip back to the ship.

He nods in understanding, then pushes something over to me.

“What’s this?”

“A fleece shirt,” he answers. “I thought you might like it. It has the cruise line’s logo embroidered on it.”

I lift it up. It’s a nice thick shirt, perfect for somebody who lives in Michigan and tries to keep the gas bills down in the wintertime.

“How sweet of you!” I exclaim. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and slides me a sly grin. “Of course, now you have to fuck me.” His tone is teasing, but I can hear the tension behind it.

I shrug. “Okay!” I agree readily.

He blinks. “Really?” Now it’s his turn to be surprised.

I lean in closer to him. “Hey, you were right—why not make the last night the best night of the cruise? And it is Canada Day, after all. Might as well celebrate it properly.” I bat my eyelashes.

He laughs, and I catch a glint of arousal in his eyes. “You won’t regret it,” he promises. I already know I won’t. Just like I already know that my life is finally starting to straighten itself out after having veered off its track for a while.

The music throbs through me the same way that the fireworks had; I dance and lose myself in its rhythm. There’s no thought, only motion.

And desire. It grows in me as the dark night lightens towards gray. Every time I pause in my dancing to talk to Mike, I can feel the tension between us increase. My frustrated anticipation is even worse now that I’m within range of his Armani cologne—I can’t wait to get him alone.

The club is more full than it was last night. One of my friends has been dancing with a cute guy about her age. She looks like she’s having the time of her life, too. Once in a while, we catch each other’s eye and exchange huge grins.

At long last, the club starts to empty out. Mike leans in closer to me and tells me how to find his cabin. The music is still loud enough to prevent anyone else from hearing him. “Wait fifteen minutes before you come down,” he warns me in a low voice. “And be careful not to let anyone see you.”

I nod and repeat his directions to make sure I heard them right. For some inexplicable reason, his cabin is located on a passenger deck, which means that I will have to be very sneaky. The sneaky factor makes the whole situation even more of a turn-on, though. I feel kind of like Jane Bond.

Mike plays the last song: Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry.” Interesting choice, I think. Apparently not a philosophy that Mike subscribes to.

I walk out with my friend and we head back to our cabins, which are across the hall from each other. Not wanting to set a bad example for someone who’s ten years younger than I am, I act as if my only remaining plans for the evening are to tumble into bed. By myself.

I wait until she has closed her cabin door before I steathily creep back down the hall and down the staircase. I stop by a ladies’ room to do a final visual check. Is my lipstick smeared? No. Good. The mischievous glint in my eyes reflects back at me in the mirror. My face is a little bit more flushed than usual, and there’s a sparkle in my eye that usually isn’t there. This is it. Time for Snoopy to make his last appearance.

The cabin numbers flash by as I stride purposely down the long hallways, trying to look as if I have someplace to go. Wait—why are the numbers are going in the opposite direction? Did I get his directions mixed up, after all?

A door is ajar…is it the right one? I walk a little bit faster. When I see what’s written on the half-open door, I cringe and speed up my pace, hoping that no one is inside. Cruise Director, it says on the door. Fantastic—his boss’ office. Precisely the person I’m trying to avoid. Dammit, where is Mike’s cabin, anyway? Now I’m starting to get nervous. I would’ve made a lousy Bond.

Just as my level of nervousness almost matches my lustful craving, I spot the cabin number that I’m looking for. I take a deep breath before stepping up to it and knocking.

The door opens far enough to allow me to slip into the room. I turn to quietly close the door.

“Did anyone see you?” I hear Mike ask softly behind me.

“No,” I answer as I turn to face him in the dim light. Now that I’m safely here, all the energy I was putting into being nervous immediately sharpens into desire. I can feel my nipples hardening underneath my double-layered shirts.

It’s pretty obvious that he’s feeling the same way—all he’s wearing is a pair of boxers, and they make his sentiments pretty clear.

It’s late; we don’t have the luxury of time. In about three hours, the ship will dock in Seattle, at which point I’ll be disembarking and he’ll be assisting passengers off the boat. I’m not in the mood for foreplay, anyway—the entire week has been foreplay. I’m more than ready.

So is he, although he does pause to ask me something: “So, what happens after this?”

I smile, surprised at his question. Given our situation, I didn’t think either one of us would consider tomorrow. I’m touched that he’s asking, though—it makes this fling just a little bit more than that.

“I doubt we’ll ever see each other again,” I answer honestly. Somehow, it doesn’t make me sad. I know I’ll miss him, but I also know I’ll have no regrets.

He nods, accepting the truth. Then again, who knows? Detroit and Toronto aren’t that far apart, and we’ve already exchanged e-mail addresses. I gave up trying to predict the odds in life a long time ago.

No matter what happens, this is going to be one vacation that I’ll never forget. I help him pull off my shirts, one at a time. The see-through one billows to the floor. He slides his hands up underneath the halter top I still wear and sighs with satisfaction as he cups my bare breasts in his hands. “No bra,” he whispers. “I like it.”

I gasp as he starts to massage my nipples, sending shooting spasms of pleasure all the way down to my groin. He unties the halter strap as I unbutton my pants. All of my pent-up frustration is rushing to the fore, and I don’t want to wait any longer. My pants slide down to my ankles as my top slides up over my head. I kick off my shoes and socks impatiently and stand in front of him in only my Snoopy panties.

“Ah,” he breathes, taking a step back to get a good look at my almost-naked body. “Beautiful.” He goes to one knee and slips the panties over my ass and down to my ankles, trailing his hands gently along my legs, then stands up slowly, letting his hands travel along my thighs, abdomen, stomach, back up to my breasts. I twine my fingers in his midnight hair, savoring its softness.

We kiss passionately. I feel the same thrill race through me as I felt in the dressing room, except now it’s even stronger: this time, we’re safely shut away. Our hands roam over each other’s body with feverish abandon. I tug his boxers down over his hips and let them slide to the floor.

He crushes me to him with the strength of his embrace. The floor shifts beneath my feet, but I know it’s not the ship that’s making me feel dizzy, it’s him. I crush him to me with equal passion. He’s so close to being my height that his hard cock rubs against my clit. I squirm with pleasure. He reaches down and shoves two fingers up my pussy and slowly strokes me from the inside, making my hips involuntarily slam into his. I feel a fiery ache begin in my groin and radiate outwards to spread through my whole body.

Our ragged breathing seems to fill the small cabin. He pulls me towards the bed and I go eagerly. “I just can’t wait any longer,” he gasps, and reaches for the box of condoms lying by the bed.

I hush him—there’s no need to say anything. Good thing Snoopy already abandoned ship, because I feel as though there’s a dam inside me that’s about to burst. Mike is both an object of my desire and the symbolic means to a new path. Quite a happy collison.

We tumble onto the bunkbed, somehow managing not to hit our heads on the one above it. It’s narrow, but that doesn’t matter. I eagerly watch him roll the condom on, anticipating the way he’s going to feel inside of me. As he finishes putting it on, I lie down beneath him and wrap my legs around his waist. The missonary position may be stereotypical, but when I want a man to fuck my brains out, that’s the one I like the best. I hope I’m not betraying feminists everywhere when I say that nothing is as immediately satisfying as having a hard cock slam into my pussy and feeling a man’s chest press against mine. It’s just so primal…

He slides into me, filling me completely. I moan with relief. His masculine scent surrounds me and floods my senses with its raw sexuality. The ache in me crescendos to a fever-pitch.

“My god,” he gasps in my ear as he thrusts in and out, “your pussy…it’s amazing...” In response, I tighten my inner muscles and make him gasp harder.

With each thrust, I arch my hips up to meet his. Our twinned breathing is becoming shorter and harder as we move faster and faster, our bodies slamming together in rhythm. There’s nothing sweet or tender about this, and I don’t want there to be. I want this to be just the way it is: raw, hot, and hard. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so much pure lust for someone. There’s no guilt, no ownership, no obligation. Just sweat and heat and endless motion.

I turn my face to his and hungrily seek his lips, wanting to taste him while he’s fucking me. The tip of his penis is hitting my G-spot at just the right angle, and as our tongues meet, I can feel my pent-up tension building to a climax. My fingers dig into his hips as I begin to shudder with release. I’m forced to abandon kissing him so that I can bury my face in his neck to stifle my cries. I have no idea how thick (or thin) the cabin walls are.

The waves of pleasure washing through me seem to go on for a long time; I can hear him faintly as he comes, too, with one final thrust that seems to topple my remaining barriers. I feel incredibly liberated—light and airy, like I’m finally free, and finally, satisfyingly, spent.

He lies limp on top of me, his hands still clasping my hips. He doesn’t seem heavy, though—his weight is comforting, like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. I smile with contentment and idly trace a hand down his spine. His skin is slick with our sweat.

“Thank you,” I whisper, listening to his jagged breathing in my ear. It gradually becomes smooth and even. His hair tickles my shoulder.

He rouses himself enough to turn his head and look at me with his lazy smile. Even in the dim light, I can see the twinkle in his eye. “Happy Canada Day,” he says softly.

I laugh. Indeed.

--

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