Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(36)
“Don’t gimme that look, you big spostata,” Bran warned. “I tried telling Morales she was otherwise occupied, but he was having none of it. Besides”—Bran glanced around the room—“the galley, bro? The place where we clean fish? This is where you chose to bump uglies with Olivia? I mean, you remember last week Meat got seasick and upchucked his kibble along with about five gallons of undigested water weeds in here, right?”
“I didn’t choose it,” Leo grumbled. “It just…sort of…happened.” Like the last time. It was as if they were a couple of tectonic plates, the tension that hummed between them growing and growing until snap! The pressure erupted and they were helpless to do anything about it, caught up in its fury and power and swept along in its path.
Bran’s face split into a wide grin, his lids flying at half-mast. “You’re having all the smutty, sexy feels for her, aren’t you?”
“I swear to Christ, man. Sometimes I think you’re just a potato with four limbs.”
“If you’re gonna insult me”—Bran’s grin remained in place—“at least get it right. I’m a really well-hung potato with four limbs.”
“How about I go with something simpler and just call you an asshat?”
“That’s Lord Asshat of Bigdicksburg to you, my friend.”
Leo shook his head, sticking his tongue in his cheek because it was obvious Bran’s internal switch was flipped back to its usual devil-may-care position. In which case, it was impossible to get one over on the guy, so he might as well quit trying.
“I sort of like that,” Bran continued. “Maybe that should be the name of our company. Asshat Salvage or maybe Bigdicksburg Salvage. Has a certain ring, doesn’t it?”
“You’re worse than Romeo.” Leo turned to follow Olivia up to the wheelhouse.
He’d gone no more than two steps when Bran squawked, “For crying out loud!” He held his hands up in front of his face. “I don’t wanna see that! Warn a guy next time, will you?”
Leo looked down to discover his erection had turned the front of his swim trunks into a Boy Scout pup tent.
“Good God. If this is what happens to you when you haven’t been laid in a year and a half, we need to get you some chucky tout de suite.” Bran was still covering his eyes. “It’s already too late for me. I’ve seen too much. I’ll have nightmares for weeks. But at least we can spare the others.”
“How the hell would you know whether I have or haven’t been laid in a year and half? Are you markin’ your calendar or somethin’?”
“These things just have a way of making themselves apparent.” Bran peeked from between his fingers, then said, “Ah, goddamnit. Why is it still there? You think I’m pretty or something?”
“Or somethin’.” Leo frowned down at his erection, which hadn’t wilted one bit since Olivia’s exit.
“Well, you better jump in the john and tug the pug before you come upstairs,” Bran grumbled, heading up the stairwell. “Otherwise, you’re liable to put someone’s eye out.”
Tug the pug? Wax his ax? Wobble his knob? “Did you guys hold a Who Can Come Up with the Worst Euphemism contest at some point and not invite me?” he called up to Bran’s retreating back.
“Wouldn’t you like to know? And, now, in the legendary words of Larry the Cable Guy”—Bran turned at the top of the stairwell—“‘Git ’er done!’”
Christ.
Although…that did seem the best course of action, considering Leo couldn’t head up to the pilothouse looking like this. But as opposed to resorting to middle-school tactics, he figured he should first give that old trick he’d learned when puberty hit and his damn dick grew a mind of its own, springing to attention at the most inopportune times. He pictured his gap-toothed, moley-foreheaded, muumuu-wearing third-grade music teacher, Ms. Meyer. He’d once heard his father remark to his uncle after parent-teacher conferences, “That woman’s uglier than a mud fence and mean as a mama wasp.” Two characteristics guaran-damn-teed to shrink up a pubescent boy’s hard-on in no time flat.
Would it still work on a grown man’s? He aimed to find out. But just as he was conjuring up the image of the three thick hairs that’d grown out of Ms. Meyer’s biggest mole, the one above her lazy left eye, his mutinous mind snapped back to the memory of Olivia arched like an offering against him, her gorgeous nipple just begging for his kiss.
Sonofa—
Okay, there was nothing to be done for it. With a hobbling, shuffling walk—the fabric of his swim trunks chafed in the most unimaginable way—he made his way out of the galley, past the crew’s quarters, and into one of the ship’s two small bathrooms. Unrolling a wad of TP, he stood over the toilet, braced a hand above the tank to steady himself against the subtle dip and sway of the ship, and pulled down his swim trunks.
His erection sprang free, all red and angry and with so much enthusiasm he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a resounding boing!
“Sixteen motherfrickin’ years old,” he grumbled as he took hold of himself, letting his mind drift back to the galley, to Olivia’s fingers kneading his shoulders, to her warm breath tickling his lips, and definitely to her plump ass filling his hand while the grip of her pistol rested against his wrist. Tough, yet tender. Hard as nails, yet soft as sin. That was Olivia.