Ocean Jewel by Cassie Mint

Five

Roxy

There’s something different about Damian. Over the last week of the trip, he’s been… distracted. On edge.

Usually, he’s the ice man—cool and collected. Completely impossible to throw off his game. But over the last seven days at sea, he’s become rougher. Wilder. His moods are more extreme, and quicker to change. He never takes them out on anyone, but you can see it if you’re looking.

I’m always looking.

It starts with my sketchpad. With a charcoal hovering over the blank page as I stare out glassy-eyed at the waves. I’ve already done scores of ocean sketches, I’ve catalogued every inch of the boat, and I need something new. A fresh inspiration.

Damian strides past, talking in low tones with the captain. The two men have taken well to each other, each recognizing a calm authority in the other without feeling the need to scrap for dominance. I catch Jake watching them sometimes, a funny look in his eye.

My poor big brother is jealous. Now he knows how I feel.

Damian Flint is a hot commodity. Everyone wants a piece of this man. And I want several pieces, all of them in fact, but the only way I can possess them is on paper.

That’s why I do it. Sketch him that first time. It’s scrawled and messy, a warm up sketch to loosen my wrist and get into the rhythm, but it flows through me as naturally as the sea water pounding the hull. My hand was made to sketch Damian. I know every line of his body; every plane of his face. All his seasons and moods.

Once I’ve started, it’s impossible to stop.

In my defense, I do try. I sketch Jake and the captain and the other crew members too. None of them inspire me like Damian. So I retreat into the pages of my sketchbook, hitching my knees up and tucking away into hidden alcoves, watching him and drawing. Capturing every glimpse of him that I can steal.

It’s funny. I’ve come all the way out here hoping for inspiration, and I’ve found it in a man from home.

The sketches start innocent. They’re realistic—just exactly what I can see, translated to the paper. Damian stood on deck, one hand resting on the railing, the other stroking his jaw as he stares at the horizon. Damian laughing with Jake. Conferring seriously with the captain. Playing cards with the crew below deck.

Damian walking past my open doorway in just his jeans, a towel slung around his neck.

Hypocrite. I pressed extra hard against the paper as I drew that sketch.

If he notices me watching him, he shows no sign. And he never asks to see what I’m doing. None of them do—which is fine, obviously. They’re all here to do a job; I’m the lucky one getting the free trip. But it makes me cocky. Daring. My drawings get bolder, wilder, just like Damian’s polish is wearing off the longer we’re at sea.

That first sketch without a shirt is a turning point. I know what his body looks like now beneath his clothes. The top half of it at least, and when the top half is that broad and toned and substantial, there’s no way the bottom half would be a let down.

Not with the way his jeans cling to his muscled thighs. I swallow hard, wiping my sleeve over my forehead.

I’m tucked away on deck, out of sight and out of mind, scribbling away in my sketchpad. For some of the drawings, I take infinite care, agonizing over every tiny line; every patch of shading. For others, I loosen my wrist and rush myself, trying to capture him in quick, broad strokes.

Those are the ones that suit him most, in the end. The urgent, untethered sketches.

This one is like that. A free drawing, with little care but lots of feeling. I begin to draw Damian as I can see him—leaning against the deck railing, mouth twisted as he scans something on his phone—but my hand quickly takes over. Has a better idea.

Damian shirtless again. Yes. After all, why cover him up when I’ve seen how godlike he is beneath those layers? With the wind still tugging his hair, but his eyes raised. Narrowed. Staring straight out at me through the page.

I bite my lip, shading the hollow of his throat. If he’d only look at me like that—well. I might not survive it.

I flip the page as soon as I’m done, eager now. I’ve drawn him standing—now I lay him out on the cot in my cabin, pillowing his arm beneath his head. I’ve seen the bulge of those biceps, felt the swell of them during our rare hugs.

I add a cocky smile. I’ve never seen that.

Not filled with dark promise. Sensual and primal, seductive enough to make my thighs tremble.

I’m getting worked up by my own sketch. Jeez. Is this what sea-madness is?

I flip the page again, cheeks hot, and keep going regardless. This time, I draw something even worse. I draw us together. Sketch after sketch of our bodies entwined. Me on my knees in front of him, his big hands twisted in my hair. Him taking me up against a wall, my arms looped around his neck and his hands gripping my ass tight enough to bruise. Him behind me while I brace myself on all fours, his top lip curled back in a snarl as he works out all that pent up frustration.

So many sketches. So many I lose count. I draw and draw until the sun slips toward the horizon and I’m left alone on the deck. My hand cramps and I shake it out, hissing between my teeth, before diving back in. I’m fevered. I’m a woman possessed.

“Roxy?” My heart slams against my rib cage. I let out a yelp, almost dropping my sketchbook. Damian frowns at me, concerned, his hands in his pockets. His eyes drift down towards my sketchpad—

I slam it shut.

“What’s up?” I sound off to my own ears. Strangled and high pitched.

“It’s time to eat. What’s going on?”

He means my sketchpad. My scarlet cheeks and shifting eyes. I shake my head desperately, too tongue-tied to speak.

“May I see that?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I say, the word escaping on a gasp. His frown deepens.

“Why not?”

“I… I…”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed. I already know how talented you are.” His praise trickles through me, sparkling and warm, but I don’t have time to appreciate it. I need to change the subject right now.

“It’s not ready,” I blurt. “I’ll show you when it’s done. Okay?” He nods slowly, his expression doubtful. I toss the sketchpad to one side, pushing to my feet and bouncing on my toes. The bright smile plastered over my face makes my cheeks ache.

“Let’s look for wildlife. While the light is still good.” I grab his hand, even though we don’t do this. We don’t touch each other. But to my surprise, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, Damian squeezes me back, gentle but encouraging. And he lets me drag him to the railing, staring out at the waves.

Now and then, over the last week, pods of dolphins and the occasional whale have come to visit the boat. I peer out desperately for something now—the glimpse of a fin, a seal’s head—but there’s nothing. Just the choppy waves, gilded silver by the setting sun.

“I don’t think they’re coming.” He lowers his head, murmuring against my temple. My breath catches, butterflies swirling in my chest. “They must know it’s dinner time.”

I gasp out a laugh. He straightens up, pleased, and lets go of my hand.

The absence of his touch makes me ache.

But then his arm wraps around my shoulder, warm and heavy, and he steers me back below deck. I go in a daze, tripping over my own feet as I try to catalogue every sensation. Commit his touch and scent to memory.

I don’t remember until hours later and I’m back in my cabin—I left the sketchbook on deck.