Finn pressed his finger to his lips, then grinned like a kid up to no good as we crept past, shoulders brushing, our footsteps featherlight on the teak flooring.
We slipped through the service corridor, navigating narrow passageways that twisted around guest cabins and crew storage closets. When we crept down a second set of stairs that was steeper and narrower, a shortcut used mostly by engineers, my stomach cartwheeled.
Every step we took felt like peeling away another layer of logic.
The air grew warmer the deeper we went, thicker — charged with the scent of grease and diesel, mechanical heat and metal.
When we reached the heavy, steel door marked ENGINE ROOM – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, I was panting.
“Finn, we can’t,” I said on a laugh, glancing at the warning sticker plastered below the handle. But my body buzzed in anticipation.
And I knew Finn was wordlessly refuting my argument when he smirked and twisted the handle, pulling me inside.
The door clanged shut behind us.
Instantly, we were engulfed in a low, bone-deep rumble — the hum of the engines reverberating through the floor and walls. Everything vibrated, the sensation embedding itself in my chest and ears. It mirrored the way I felt inside, and as if the room provided cover for it, my desire ramped up, need coursing through me like wildfire.
The space was tight but not cramped. Pipes lined the walls like tangled veins, wrapped in insulation and marked with colored tape to signify their purpose — fuel, coolant, seawater. Massive engines sat in the center of the room like sleeping beasts, humming with restrained power, their housing gleaming with silver bolts and oil-slicked shadows. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered against metal grates and hanging tool racks, casting hard-edged shadows along the bulkheads.
A rolling mechanic’s stool rested beside a workbench cluttered with rags and wrenches. A fire extinguisher was strapped into its holster near the back wall, beside a metal locker used for spare parts. The air was stifling — warm, stale, metallic.
Heat was already sticking to me like humid night air, and it only fueled me more.
I turned to Finn, half-laughing, half-scolding, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grinned, tapping his ear.Can’t hear you,that motion said.
I rolled my eyes, laughing louder this time, confident that the sound would be drowned out by the machines. My blacks still clung to my skin, the fabric damp from my time overboard, andI watched Finn’s gaze heat as he dragged it along every curve my wet dress hugged.
His nostrils flared, igniting the flame inside me more.
His apron was half-discarded, the neck strap undone, and the fabric slung low across his hips. His chef’s jacket was unbuttoned just enough to expose the gleam of sweat at his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest mirroring my own labored breathing. His sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, forearms corded with tension, hands flexing like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now that he had me alone.
There was something devastating about the way he wore the aftermath — sweat slick on his brow, flour smudged across his chest, his bandaged hand a reminder of the way this night had burned us both. Somehow, the mess only made him hotter.
He took a tentative step and then another, time slowing as his hands reached for me. He framed my face, thumbs hooking at my jaw as his fingers curled into my damp hair. One tilt of his hands and my neck was arched for him. One flick of his tongue wetting his lips and then his mouth covered mine.
I inhaled the kiss, the steam, the tantalizing feeling that we could get caught at any moment. Finn pulled at my hair tie, gently unfastening it until my hair fell in a damp mess of frizzy waves. Then, his fingertips were on my scalp, hands fisting my hair as he let out a guttural groan.
Those hands were rough and certain, that mouth confident and sure. There was no hesitation, even though we were breaking every rule in the book. The heat of him, of the room, ofeverythinghad me struggling to catch my breath as I melted into him.
When I started unfastening the buttons of his chef’s jacket, he broke the kiss to watch me, his mouth curling. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“No cameras here,” he said, his voice barely audible over the engine’s growl. “No crew. Just us.”
I didn’t have time to react before I felt him gather the hem of my dress, hiking the wet fabric up with determined hands. Goosebumps paraded over my thighs as I hooked my arms around his neck.
“We have to be quick,” I warned, panting, my palms braced against his chest.
He grinned, and when he bit down gently on my neck, just below my jaw, I let out a moan just because I knew I could.
“Challenge accepted.”
There was no use trying to talk after that. We could barely hear each other, anyway, and we didn’t have time to whisper sweet nothings. In that moment, I needed him — on me, around me, inside me. Any centimeter of distance was too much, and I climbed him with a yearning that didn’t need words to translate.
My grip fastened around his neck, one leg hiking up as he backed me into a machine humming with lights and switches. A glass case covered those switches, serving as our headboard as Finn pressed into me and kissed me harder.
One of his hands held my ass firmly as the other fought with his belt. I reached between us and tugged my thong to the side, enough to give him access. And there I was, torn again between the desire to slow down and savor every taste of him and the need to satisfy the ache between my legs immediately, to claw at his back until he gave me what I wanted.