Heels and Hull Plans
by RILAYAWRITERabout 2 hours ago
•medium read•hot intensity# Chapter: Anchored
The Minkus New York rocked gently against the private pier, a four hundred foot long cruise ship rechristened last week with enough champagne to drown a small country. Through the captain's private dining room portholes, the Minkus Halloween Warehouse loomed like a sleeping beast on the dock, its cavernous interior already half-converted into the most ambitious New Year's Eve venue Manhattan had ever attempted.
Five women sat around a teak table that cost more than most people's cars, each wearing the unofficial uniform Maya had texted them that morning: blazer, blouse, pencil skirt, and heels so high they qualified as structural engineering.
Riley shifted in her seat. The heels—black patent platforms with ankle straps—made her calves burn in a way that was either agony or foreplay depending on Maya's proximity. Currently, Maya was directly to her left, close enough that their blazers touched at the elbow every time either of them reached for their tablet.
Smackle, when she was being formal, which was never anymore, sat across from Riley with the posture of a woman who'd invented posture. Her navy blazer was buttoned to the throat, her brunette hair pinned into a French twist, and her heels were chrome stilettos that looked like they could double as weapons in a spy film. She tapped her pen against her notepad with the rhythmic impatience of someone whose IQ could bench-press this entire yacht.
Red McBride had claimed the seat at the head of the table, captain's chair, naturally, with the casual authority of a woman who'd been running the Transportation Division for Minkus International long enough to know exactly where every camera blind spot was on this vessel. Her red hair was down for once, falling past her shoulders in waves that caught the overhead lighting like she'd staged it. Her heels were deep crimson, matching her name, and Riley had caught Maya staring at them twice.
And then there was Aubrey. Aubrey sat at the far end, next to Smackle, still technically the newest member of their circle. She'd arrived from the Matthews Law, and she'd been quietly consulting on the New Year's Eve event's "private entertainment suites," a euphemism that everyone understood and no one said out loud. Her blonde bob was tucked behind her ears, her blazer was cream-colored against everyone else's darker tones, and her heels were gold.
"Six weeks," Smackle said, clicking her pen. "We have six weeks, a warehouse that still smells like fog machine fluid, and a guest list that includes three state senators who cannot see anything that would end their careers. So let's begin."
Maya leaned forward. "The ship stays docked at the pier for the party. Guests board at nine, dinner in the main dining room at ten, then the ship opens for the after-party at midnight. Three floors. Top deck for champagne and fireworks. Middle deck for dancing. Bottom deck, she glanced at Aubrey. "Bottom deck is yours."
Aubrey pulled up a schematic on her tablet and turned it toward the group. The bottom deck of the Minkus New York had been redesigned into a series of cabins, each one labeled with a single word: Silk. Velvet. Leather. Mirror. Dark. "Each room has a theme," Aubrey said, her voice calm and measured in a way that suggested she'd explained kink infrastructure to corporate executives before. "Consent cards at every entrance. Monitors on rotation. No cameras. No phones."
"No phones?" Red raised an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to run security on a floating sex party with no cameras?" "You'll have corridor cameras," Aubrey said. "Just nothing inside the rooms. Privacy is the product." Red's jaw worked for a moment. Then she nodded. "Fine. But I pick the monitors." "Already assumed you would," Maya said. She turned to Riley. "Your department?"
Riley cleared her throat and pulled up her own tablet. "Catering is handled, Minkus catering division is doing a midnight buffet, raw bar, and a chocolate fountain that I was told, and I quote, 'will make people reconsider their life choices.'" She scrolled. "Entertainment: DJ on the middle deck until two a.m., live jazz trio on the top deck until midnight, then the fireworks launch from the pier."
"What about ambient performers?" Smackle asked. "Last year's Halloween event had those living statue people, and the guests lost their minds." "Working on it," Riley said. "Maya and I have a meeting with a performance artist group tomorrow. They do aerial silk work. Topless." "Naturally," Red muttered.
Maya's hand found Riley's knee under the table. Not suggestive yet, just there, warm and present through the fabric of her pencil skirt. Riley kept her expression professional with an effort that deserved hazard pay.
"The budget," Smackle said, and the word landed on the table like a gavel. "I need numbers. Real numbers. Not 'Maya saw something fabulous and decided we needed it' numbers." "That was one time," Maya said. "It was four times. The fire-breathing violinist alone." "Was spectacular." "No, it cost eleven thousand dollars and set off the sprinkler system."
Riley bit the inside of her cheek. Maya's fingers had begun tracing slow circles on her knee, each rotation creeping slightly higher. She reached under the table and grabbed Maya's wrist, not to stop her, but to guide her hand further up. Maya's breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
Smackle's eyes narrowed. She'd spent enough time in boardrooms with these two to recognize the micro-expressions. "If you two start something at this table, I will bill you for my therapy." No one's starting anything," Riley said, her voice only slightly higher than normal.
Maya's fingers reached the bare skin above Riley's thigh-high stockings. The pencil skirt had ridden up just enough. Riley's grip on her tablet tightened. Red, who had been studying Aubrey's schematic with genuine professional interest, looked up. "The Mirror room. Walk me through it." Aubrey brightened. "Floor-to-ceiling panels on every wall and the ceiling. Adjustable lighting from candle-warm to full illumination. The concept is that participants can see themselves from every angle simultaneously." "And the floor?" "Matte black. Non-slip. The contrast between the reflective walls and the absorbent floor creates a floating effect."
Red leaned back in the captain's chair. Her crimson heels caught the light as she crossed her legs. "I'll need to inspect it in person before the event." "I can arrange that," Aubrey said. "I'll be on board for the final installation next week. You could come Thursday." "Thursday works."
Something in the exchange made Riley glance at Maya, who had already noticed. Their eyes met with the particular telepathy that comes from being married to someone who reads your thoughts by breathing patterns. "Did Red just" Riley's look said. *Oh, she absolutely just did,* Maya's look answered.
Smackle clicked her pen again. "Budget. Final numbers. By Friday. Or I start cutting things, and I will start with the chocolate fountain." "You wouldn't," Riley said. "Try me." Smackle stood and gathered her tablet, her chrome heels striking the teak floor like exclamation points. "I have a call with the pyrotechnics team in twenty minutes. The fireworks permit is pending, and the fire marshal wants a site visit." She paused at the door. "Maya, Riley—try to keep your hands where I can see them until the meeting is officially over."
The door closed behind her. Aubrey looked between Maya and Riley with mild amusement. "She's perceptive." "She's terrifying," Maya said, but she didn't remove her hand from Riley's thigh. "Red, you're staying for the walkthrough of the bottom deck, right?"
Red stood, smoothing her pencil skirt. "I'm staying. But I want to see the Mirror room first." Aubrey nodded and headed for the door. "Follow me. It's down the aft staircase." Red followed, her crimson heels clicking a steady rhythm. At the doorway, she turned back. "You two coming?" "In a minute," Maya said. "We need to discuss something."
Red's blue eyes dropped to where Maya's hand disappeared beneath the table. "Uh-huh." She didn't wait for elaboration. The door closed. The dining room went quiet. Just the lap of water against the hull and the distant clang of warehouse construction through the porthole.
Maya's fingers pushed past the edge of Riley's thong. Riley's head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching the table. "Six weeks," Maya murmured against Riley's ear. "Six weeks to build the party of the century, and I can't even sit through a planning meeting without needing to put my fingers inside you." "That's a *you* problem," Riley gasped. Maya pushed two fingers in. Riley's heels scraped against the teak floor. "It's an *us* problem," Maya corrected, curling upward. "And I intend to solve it repeatedly between now and December thirty-first."
From somewhere below deck, they heard Red's voice echoing off the Mirror room's walls: "Aubrey, this is..." Then the ship's intercom crackled, and Smackle's voice filled every cabin with the deadpan calm of a woman who had absolutely had enough: "The bottom deck is a designated work zone. If anyone is using it for unauthorized activities, the fire marshal's visit will be the least of your problems. You have fifteen minutes. I've started a timer."
Maya laughed against Riley's neck, fingers still deep inside her. "Fifteen minutes," Riley panted. "Plenty of time," Maya said. "I'm highly motivated." The timer, presumably, did not care. It sounded and everything went back to work.
The Minkus New York rocked gently against the private pier, a four hundred foot long cruise ship rechristened last week with enough champagne to drown a small country. Through the captain's private dining room portholes, the Minkus Halloween Warehouse loomed like a sleeping beast on the dock, its cavernous interior already half-converted into the most ambitious New Year's Eve venue Manhattan had ever attempted.
Five women sat around a teak table that cost more than most people's cars, each wearing the unofficial uniform Maya had texted them that morning: blazer, blouse, pencil skirt, and heels so high they qualified as structural engineering.
Riley shifted in her seat. The heels—black patent platforms with ankle straps—made her calves burn in a way that was either agony or foreplay depending on Maya's proximity. Currently, Maya was directly to her left, close enough that their blazers touched at the elbow every time either of them reached for their tablet.
Smackle, when she was being formal, which was never anymore, sat across from Riley with the posture of a woman who'd invented posture. Her navy blazer was buttoned to the throat, her brunette hair pinned into a French twist, and her heels were chrome stilettos that looked like they could double as weapons in a spy film. She tapped her pen against her notepad with the rhythmic impatience of someone whose IQ could bench-press this entire yacht.
Red McBride had claimed the seat at the head of the table, captain's chair, naturally, with the casual authority of a woman who'd been running the Transportation Division for Minkus International long enough to know exactly where every camera blind spot was on this vessel. Her red hair was down for once, falling past her shoulders in waves that caught the overhead lighting like she'd staged it. Her heels were deep crimson, matching her name, and Riley had caught Maya staring at them twice.
And then there was Aubrey. Aubrey sat at the far end, next to Smackle, still technically the newest member of their circle. She'd arrived from the Matthews Law, and she'd been quietly consulting on the New Year's Eve event's "private entertainment suites," a euphemism that everyone understood and no one said out loud. Her blonde bob was tucked behind her ears, her blazer was cream-colored against everyone else's darker tones, and her heels were gold.
"Six weeks," Smackle said, clicking her pen. "We have six weeks, a warehouse that still smells like fog machine fluid, and a guest list that includes three state senators who cannot see anything that would end their careers. So let's begin."
Maya leaned forward. "The ship stays docked at the pier for the party. Guests board at nine, dinner in the main dining room at ten, then the ship opens for the after-party at midnight. Three floors. Top deck for champagne and fireworks. Middle deck for dancing. Bottom deck, she glanced at Aubrey. "Bottom deck is yours."
Aubrey pulled up a schematic on her tablet and turned it toward the group. The bottom deck of the Minkus New York had been redesigned into a series of cabins, each one labeled with a single word: Silk. Velvet. Leather. Mirror. Dark. "Each room has a theme," Aubrey said, her voice calm and measured in a way that suggested she'd explained kink infrastructure to corporate executives before. "Consent cards at every entrance. Monitors on rotation. No cameras. No phones."
"No phones?" Red raised an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to run security on a floating sex party with no cameras?" "You'll have corridor cameras," Aubrey said. "Just nothing inside the rooms. Privacy is the product." Red's jaw worked for a moment. Then she nodded. "Fine. But I pick the monitors." "Already assumed you would," Maya said. She turned to Riley. "Your department?"
Riley cleared her throat and pulled up her own tablet. "Catering is handled, Minkus catering division is doing a midnight buffet, raw bar, and a chocolate fountain that I was told, and I quote, 'will make people reconsider their life choices.'" She scrolled. "Entertainment: DJ on the middle deck until two a.m., live jazz trio on the top deck until midnight, then the fireworks launch from the pier."
"What about ambient performers?" Smackle asked. "Last year's Halloween event had those living statue people, and the guests lost their minds." "Working on it," Riley said. "Maya and I have a meeting with a performance artist group tomorrow. They do aerial silk work. Topless." "Naturally," Red muttered.
Maya's hand found Riley's knee under the table. Not suggestive yet, just there, warm and present through the fabric of her pencil skirt. Riley kept her expression professional with an effort that deserved hazard pay.
"The budget," Smackle said, and the word landed on the table like a gavel. "I need numbers. Real numbers. Not 'Maya saw something fabulous and decided we needed it' numbers." "That was one time," Maya said. "It was four times. The fire-breathing violinist alone." "Was spectacular." "No, it cost eleven thousand dollars and set off the sprinkler system."
Riley bit the inside of her cheek. Maya's fingers had begun tracing slow circles on her knee, each rotation creeping slightly higher. She reached under the table and grabbed Maya's wrist, not to stop her, but to guide her hand further up. Maya's breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
Smackle's eyes narrowed. She'd spent enough time in boardrooms with these two to recognize the micro-expressions. "If you two start something at this table, I will bill you for my therapy." No one's starting anything," Riley said, her voice only slightly higher than normal.
Maya's fingers reached the bare skin above Riley's thigh-high stockings. The pencil skirt had ridden up just enough. Riley's grip on her tablet tightened. Red, who had been studying Aubrey's schematic with genuine professional interest, looked up. "The Mirror room. Walk me through it." Aubrey brightened. "Floor-to-ceiling panels on every wall and the ceiling. Adjustable lighting from candle-warm to full illumination. The concept is that participants can see themselves from every angle simultaneously." "And the floor?" "Matte black. Non-slip. The contrast between the reflective walls and the absorbent floor creates a floating effect."
Red leaned back in the captain's chair. Her crimson heels caught the light as she crossed her legs. "I'll need to inspect it in person before the event." "I can arrange that," Aubrey said. "I'll be on board for the final installation next week. You could come Thursday." "Thursday works."
Something in the exchange made Riley glance at Maya, who had already noticed. Their eyes met with the particular telepathy that comes from being married to someone who reads your thoughts by breathing patterns. "Did Red just" Riley's look said. *Oh, she absolutely just did,* Maya's look answered.
Smackle clicked her pen again. "Budget. Final numbers. By Friday. Or I start cutting things, and I will start with the chocolate fountain." "You wouldn't," Riley said. "Try me." Smackle stood and gathered her tablet, her chrome heels striking the teak floor like exclamation points. "I have a call with the pyrotechnics team in twenty minutes. The fireworks permit is pending, and the fire marshal wants a site visit." She paused at the door. "Maya, Riley—try to keep your hands where I can see them until the meeting is officially over."
The door closed behind her. Aubrey looked between Maya and Riley with mild amusement. "She's perceptive." "She's terrifying," Maya said, but she didn't remove her hand from Riley's thigh. "Red, you're staying for the walkthrough of the bottom deck, right?"
Red stood, smoothing her pencil skirt. "I'm staying. But I want to see the Mirror room first." Aubrey nodded and headed for the door. "Follow me. It's down the aft staircase." Red followed, her crimson heels clicking a steady rhythm. At the doorway, she turned back. "You two coming?" "In a minute," Maya said. "We need to discuss something."
Red's blue eyes dropped to where Maya's hand disappeared beneath the table. "Uh-huh." She didn't wait for elaboration. The door closed. The dining room went quiet. Just the lap of water against the hull and the distant clang of warehouse construction through the porthole.
Maya's fingers pushed past the edge of Riley's thong. Riley's head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching the table. "Six weeks," Maya murmured against Riley's ear. "Six weeks to build the party of the century, and I can't even sit through a planning meeting without needing to put my fingers inside you." "That's a *you* problem," Riley gasped. Maya pushed two fingers in. Riley's heels scraped against the teak floor. "It's an *us* problem," Maya corrected, curling upward. "And I intend to solve it repeatedly between now and December thirty-first."
From somewhere below deck, they heard Red's voice echoing off the Mirror room's walls: "Aubrey, this is..." Then the ship's intercom crackled, and Smackle's voice filled every cabin with the deadpan calm of a woman who had absolutely had enough: "The bottom deck is a designated work zone. If anyone is using it for unauthorized activities, the fire marshal's visit will be the least of your problems. You have fifteen minutes. I've started a timer."
Maya laughed against Riley's neck, fingers still deep inside her. "Fifteen minutes," Riley panted. "Plenty of time," Maya said. "I'm highly motivated." The timer, presumably, did not care. It sounded and everything went back to work.