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

the time and the Instant Light charcoal did anything but start the fire. Just before we were going to resign ourselves to ordering pizza, I ran to the garage and pulled a small handful from the trap of Mom's Kennworth. I rushed back to the yard, holding the lint above my head like a trophy. I stuck it in the middle of the charcoal chimney, and had Dad relight it. There was a spectacular whoooosh when the lint ignited, and coaxed the Instant Light briquettes to life.

Tears stung at my eyes, blurring my vision and making it harder to see inside the duffel bag.

There should have been more barbeques. More birthdays. Leslie should have had a third birthday. Becca should have celebrated our last one. I didn't like having my birthday all to myself. I hated it. After she died, I decided I wouldn't have anymore birthdays, either.

I ruffle through the bag, and surprisingly enough the first the thing I stumble upon is a candle. After all that thinking about birthdays, it makes me chuckle. Next up is a signaling mirror. Then a whistle, and safety pins. Oh, a fishing kit! Not a bad thing to have, either. A lockable pot, paracord, and a waterproof notebook and pencil. A deck of cards, too - to help a stranded individual keep their wits about them. Boredom, believe it or not, can be fatal.

I kept digging, taking my inventory, and knew that as I stacked Maddox's stuff to the, side, bored is the last thing I would be.

I cocooned myself into my blanket, kept the knife very close, and allowed myself to sleep.

Chapter Fifteen

SOFIA

He was a flitty little moth, a moth without a name.

This silly flitty little moth one night did find a flame.

Drawn to light and fire,

as moths are wont to do

he didn't know the danger

a moth can get in to

When they fly too close they burn

their wings are singed and scorched

there are so many little moths

dead upon my…

upon my….

“Porch?” I asked aloud. That's the only word I could think of that rhymed with 'scorched'. No, wait. 'Torch'. That was better.

There are so many little moths,

dead upon my torch.

I smiled, and tapped the pencil against my teeth. The moth poem would be the first entry in my waterproof notebook.

People who may visit this island later might find this notebook, and wonder what sort of creepy mind would write such a thing. So I signed it,

Ramona Sanchez

and closed the book.

From the position of the sun, I'd peg it to be about four or five in the afternoon. An hour or so to sunset.

If Maddox didn't show up by this evening, I'd have to assume the best, and that he did die from some internal injury that caused him to bleed out from the inside.

This would ruin what I'd had in mind, but I was okay with that. I could go on either way. It would be a hell of a lot more fun if he wasn't dead, but, hey. Que sera sera.

I spent the better part of the day setting up my camp. I fashioned together a respectable lean-to, kept myself hydrated, and ate just enough protein bar to maintain a decent blood sugar level. I would utilize the fishing kit later, as well as go on a walkabout to determine what, if any, vegetation was edible. For now, for today, I had to keep my eyes and ears peeled for a certain special someone.

I'd also need a weapon.

The boa knife was a great choice, but I'd have to get very very close in order to use it. Remembering what the asshole did when I'd trained the gun on him, I knew my standing there with an eight inch blade separating me from his dick-headedness was more than likely going to end in the same result.

“Fuck that noise,” I muttered.

I was rather disappointed in myself that I hadn't stayed on the Insatiable a little longer, tried to find a harpoon or a crossbow. Playboy yachts like her, however, tended to be equipped with little more than glorified pea shooters. I suppose because the charter services knew their clientele were little more than entitled, intoxicated snowflakes. Too much liability.

There could have been, and probably was, a flare gun. That could do a wicked amount of damage. Do Not Point Toward Face – they usually said. I wouldn’t listen to that warning.

Something. There had to be something I could use, or forge, to keep the pig at bay. I wrapped my hands around my knees, and rocked back and forth. Doing that seemed to help me think and kept me warm, so that was definitely a win-win.

Maddox's shaving kit was over there, next to his fucking suitcase. Behind the closest palm tree. His razor would be another option, weapon wise, yet with the same stipulation of proximity as the knife.

Still, there might be something. I really had nothing to lose by looking.

I unsnapped the kit, and felt a surge of acid roll through my stomach. The razor was great, its blade honed to a lethally sharp edge, and it glinted in the mid-day sun. Quite lovely, in a dangerous way. It would definitely come in handy for scaling fish or peeling fruit. Or... I dunno, cutting flesh if I really had to…or wanted to.

There was a light scent of vanilla, tickling my nose. I fished around and found a bottle of Creame de La Mer. Holy fucking shit. This stuff was upwards of a hundred bucks an ounce. What kind of macho butt-munch carries this kind of over-priced goop around?

“Probably not his,” I said, shaking my head. Probably belonged to one of his conquests. One of his victims. I wondered if she was a willing participant in his romps through his forest of sadomasochism. Or if he had to drug her, too. Say, with one of the pills in this bottle of Rohypnol.

My eyes narrowed to slits.

And I