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

You're in the moment with an eye on the future, Maddox, my boy. Granted, this moment totally sucks, so keep your eye on the future.

I couldn't walk anymore. I just couldn't. It hurt too much. Rather than trying or pushing through the pain, I started to crawl. Sadly, that turned out to be a non-option. The cuffs wouldn't allow it. They gave me just a little over a foot of maneuverability. So I'd inch-worm my way along. That's what I'd do. Inch along, pay no attention to the burning, swelling of my wrists. Which was getting worse, by the way. The more pressure I put on my forearms, the more they protested. My body was betraying me and there was sand in my ass. Sandpaper, between my cheeks against my groin.

I hate this, I seethed, unable to maintain my weight on my forearms. I went down on my belly, like… like a soldier crawling beneath barbed wire. The barbed wire, however, was underneath me, unavoidable. The twigs, the gravel, the fucking sand… does it ever goddamn stop?

My muscles were giving out. They shouldn't be giving out, though. I was in tip top shape. I paid a team of personal trainers a shit load of money to make sure that I was. I had the best equipment money could buy. I was a ripped, sculpted, a beautiful Adonis, and I didn't want to continue to live in the moment with an eye on the future.

Why does that keep going through my head? Because it was a damn good tag line, that's why.

The only parts of my physique that weren't on fire were my elbows. The more I pulled myself along, the more they didn't like it. Just to prove their point, they gave out on me. Somewhere between a stand of palm trees and a cluster of brush, I collapsed.

My hands were numb. The circulation was cut off.

You know what your future is, Maddy boy? Amputation. That is, if you don't die right here and now…or in five minutes. Given the choice, where would you say your future lies? Heaven or hell?

I wasn't sure how to answer myself. But as it turned out, I wouldn't need to. The smell of smoke invaded my nose. Drifting across the air, it was pungent and strong. Sickeningly sweet, too.

So the answer was Hell. There was no doubt in my mind that that's where I was going, and I was fine with that. Just fine.

That's not Hell. That's Ramona's campfire. She's sitting before it, warm and safe, roasting marshmallows. No, weenies. She'd roast weenies. In fact, she has your dick on a stick, and she's cooking it over the flames. She's smiling, too. Demure and proud of herself, as she should be. Her deep brown eyes are twinkling, bright. Just like she looked when she handed you the proposal that had that great tag line inside.

My head snapped up. I spit sand from my mouth. I wanted to wipe the gritty rope of saliva away, but the numbness in my hands had traveled up my arms, wrapped around my elbows and toward my shoulders.

Ramona had slid a properly bound proposal across the mahogany table, and the embossed cover had the initials RNR. No, wait. Those weren't initials. Ramona Sofia Sanchez would be RSS… not RNR. The R's stood for Ramona, and Rebecca. The N was just a cute, clever way to join the two.

They were… twins. They owned RNR Limited, which would go belly up after they became too much of a liability. I was the one who told Martin that we needed to sever the ties. And there was a quick press conference, on TV. Yeah, there was. A reporter asked me what I thought of the second R's death, and by then I didn't really remember or care, so I shook my head and used Ramona's great tag line. Then our stock rose.

I pushed my body forward, my aching feet not wanting me to. I was bulldozing my way across the sand, the ever-lovin' effing sand, creating a burn in front of my face like some retarded sea turtle.

If I could make it to the fire, to Ramona, I could tell her that I remembered. That I knew. That I was an asshole and that I understood now. I could tell her that I was sorry.

I closed my eyes, only momentarily, but so many memories played out in quick succession. Martin had showed me the article, a little column tucked away in some unimportant section of the Wall Street Journal, attributing Rebecca Sanchez's suicide to her husband's desertion, and their sick baby succumbing to cancer. And I brushed it aside. I brushed it aside, like a fuck, and didn't even sign the sympathy card Phyllis had purchased for the surviving sister. Martin signed it, though. I remember that.

My personal sand dune was growing. I couldn't push my way through it anymore. I dug my heels in, and shoved.

The smoke smell was getting stronger now and the sand dune wouldn't budge.

You know what's wrong, Maddy? You're a puss. Maybe you're concussed, sure. And to be fair, dehydrated. Starving. You can't feel your arms anymore. That god damn cut on your face has never stopped hurting, and everything feels like it's on fire. That's what you have, huh? A fever. But you never get sick. You know what you have, Maddy? A fatal case of blue balls… that's what will end up killing you. You lived by the dick and you’ll die by it, too, Maddy.

“...what a way to go,” I said, my face planted firmly in the sand, salty granules wedging between my teeth.

My brain felt as though it was a mushy sponge, absorbing all the cranial fluids my skull had to offer. It would explode soon.

The pillar of smoke blew toward me, little orange embers popping and flying upward into the black, cloudless sky. Ash swirled, joining the embers,