Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (best ereader for pdf and epub .TXT) 📗

I was impressed with the fact that the Samsung's military grade casing kept it safe. There wasn’t so much as a crack on the screen. There was no real reason for me to have military grade casing other than it looked cool as shit, and the ladies seemed to like it. Also impressive was it was still functioning, further proving I was right (again) not to go for the latest Apple product.

But.

No bars.

The little WiFi icon had an aggressive, almost angry, X through it.

No service.

There comes a point when everything gets so damn ludicrous, there's nothing to do but laugh. Which was exactly what I started doing, until the cut on my cheek reminded me laughing required smiling, and doing so stung like a hornet.

“God damn it!” I screamed, further anguishing my desiccated larynx, and dropped to my knees. This fucking sucked.

I tried to coax some saliva from my mouth, but came up dry.

This was her fault. All her fault.

I wasn't going to die of thirst, was I?

No. Fuck no. That kind of demise happened to idiots that got lost on a hike, or wandered too far from the moors. They happened to people like Sofia who wandered into the wrong office with the wrong things on their minds. They did not happen to me. Not to Maddox Fucking Petersen. I was a billionaire. I was a CEO. CEOs don't die on desert islands.

Wait. Was this a desert island? Or tropical?

Tropical. I was going to go with tropical. We were, after all, on our way to the Bahamas. Nassau, to be precise. There was going to be a ton of sex, she was going to be my little firecracker. I'd brought along so many accessories for the occasion, and now… look at me. No, this wasn’t right. Not in the least fucking bit.

I laid back on the sand and stared at the stars. There were way too many of them. People think they're pretty and majestic, but to me they were just oppressive.

“Martin's the brains of the operation,” I’d heard her say.

I shut my eyes, and thought of her. Holding a gun, aiming it at me, standing in my bathroom. The look of total disbelief when I'd grabbed the barrel and taken it away. The lovely way she'd been presented to me, bound to my bed and helpless, those beautiful breasts exposed and heaving.

My phone may have had no internet, but it did have battery life. Pictures. I opened my eyes, held the screen in front of me, and brought up my favorite image.

I spread my fingers and zoomed in on her chest, those pink and luscious nipples. They'd felt so good against my tongue, my teeth. They tasted like heaven, too. And when she had tried to writhe away from my advances, they tasted even better.

Remembering that, my mouth began to water.

Not much, but enough. Not real relief, just a slight coat of moisture. Her brow was moist, when I'd hovered above her. Small beads of perspiration on her forehead, a slight sheen of sweat on her chest, toned biceps clenched as she struggled against the cuffs.

I knew what would make me feel better. I would give the hand not holding the phone a job to do. I was halfway to fully erect anyway, and with her vision firmly in my mind, I put the phone aside, and unbuckled my pants.

Her lips would have tasted heavenly, too. I pictured them slightly apart, waiting for me to devour them. Pleading for me to devour them. I'd want to go down on her, first. Keep her teased, bring her to the brink, then back off.

My non-dominant hand was doing its due diligence – and as I imagined her begging me to come inside her, the heat of my climax blossoming within my groin, her pussy so hot and tight – my hand clenching me harder and harder…until...

Smoke.

A pungent, sickeningly sweet aroma wafted through the air – the aroma of a distant campfire. It blended with the salty scent of the ocean, and settled against my senses.

I clenched my teeth. I fucking hated campfires. I hated camping in general. There is no more offensive stench than that singed, spicy wreak of the great outdoors. And it was ruining my pleasure.

I could jerk off anytime, anywhere, under any circumstance. Save for this one.

My molars ground together as I let go of myself, essentially tossing my own cock away. It was swollen, engulfed, and demanded I finish what I started. It couldn't understand why I didn't. It wasn't used to being unfulfilled, and it expressed its disappointment in an unlivable ache that gravitated from my shaft, to my balls and further up.

I rolled over on my stomach, clutching at the sand with my fists, hating the smell, hating the ocean, hating everything. They say hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. Try living with a contemptible cock such as mine. Hell ain’t seen nothing yet.

I groaned, my erection disappearing like the Terminator sinking into a vat of fiery acid. It will be back, indeed, I reasoned. And the good news was– if there could be a silver lining in this cloud of erectile disappointment – that campfires would mean campers. At the very least, tourists.

It wasn't too far-fetched of a suspicion either.

The Southeast coast, from the tip of Florida to the Bahamas and beyond were littered with hundreds of little islands, some of which were inhabited. Most of which were not.

These tiny plots of land, little chunks of tropical oasis floating around close to the Mediterranean, were on a lot of people's radars. High end people. High end property dealers. I'd never looked into it, myself, but I did have a colleague who, in fact, bought his own fucking island.

Having one's own island was the status symbols of all status