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

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

“You're a wuss, Maddy. Leave you out in the rain for a couple of minutes, and you come back with fever sweats. I'd be embarrassed, if I were you.”

His head rolled to the side. The cut on his cheek didn't look so great. A rash was starting to surround the laceration, and it was swelling. Having an opened wound on a bug-ridden tropical paradise is a great recipe for infection – especially for a puss like Maddox. The only thing he was acclimated to was five-star restaurants and day spas. He was probably the kind of guy who got mani-pedis on a regular basis, as well. And when I looked down at his hands to confirm my suspicion, I grimaced.

It was like those pictures from the humane association, the kind they flash late at night to illicit your sympathies and your wallet – where some sad, pathetic dog has had its collar grow into its neck, left there by some heartless jerk. Maddox's hands were ballooning, his wrists purpled and bruised from the vice-like grip of the manacles.

I glanced back over to my camp site. The key to those cuffs were in the bottom of Maddy's bag of sadistic tricks. I looked back to him, my left eye narrowing.

“You know what's funny, Mads? I've seen you naked. Never would have guessed you were an Irish boy. The top doesn't match the bottom, if you know what I mean.”

His breath rattled in his chest. He coughed, looked like he was trying to move his head, then gave up. A single tear rolled down from the corner of his eye, and landed on the sand.

“Oh, God damn son of a fucking bitch,” I put the emphasis on the last word, because I couldn't believe what I was about to god damn do.

“Estupida, estupida, estupida,” I spat, rummaging through the bag, and locating the key. I brought it back to him, and gave myself three last chances to change my mind. On my second second thought, I found myself wondering how little brother kicked off. He was younger than Maddox, from what I recalled from the picture. Healthy, virile. Most likely a frat party gone wrong, or a car wreck.

Considering the money the Petersen family swam in, the kid probably wrapped his Porsche around a Beverly Hills street post. I'd imagine the Petersen team of attorneys would sue the city, the state, if not the entire country for punitive restitution, and while they were at it, slap a wrongful death lawsuit against Volkswagen and its affiliates.

I shoved the key into the posts, and turned. They should have fallen away, like they do in television shows, but I literally had to pry them off his wrists. It was that bad. They were the jaws of a gator locked in a death grip. There was a definite squishy noise when I pulled the second cuff off of him.

His arms slumped to the sand.

“You're fucked up seven ways to Sunday, Maddy. I trust you're not going to pull any of your shit right now. Besides, I still have the knife. Your razor. Let's not forget the flare gun, yes?”

No response.

The last thing, the very last thing I expected from my island adventure was to take care of the asshole that got us here in the first place. Having so much time alone in my own head, I was forced to admit that if I hadn't gone up to his suite like a half-assed, dumb fuck Rambo bent on retaliation we wouldn't be here, either.

Was it a fifty-fifty situation?

Did it really take two to tango?

Whatever rationale or cliché I could come up with, the bottom line was I had a conscience. I blamed my Catholic upbringing. And Jiminy Cricket. Always let your conscience be your guide.

Stupid Jiminy.

So here I was, wringing out a towel, and placing it on his forehead. Grinding up aspirins, and helping him drink it down. Cleaning the mess his wrists had become, and putting aloe on his sunburn. Gingers like him burnt easily. There was a cluster of marjoram close by, and from which my botanist badge attested, was great for drawing out toxins. I'd torn apart some fresh leaves, mixed them with the natural goo of the aloe, and spread it on the cut on his cheek.

It wasn't until the next day, sometime in the afternoon, when Maddox found the strength to opened his eyes. He looked as though he'd woken up on a different planet, and when he saw me, well… let's just say I was the head alien recently beamed down from the mothership.

“Don't fuck with me, shit head,” I said, and squeezed the aloe leaf onto my palms.

He looked around, trying to assess the situation, reminding me of that pathetic dog from the commercials. He tried to raise himself up, and upon discovering that he could, looked even more dumbfounded. More so when he raised his hand to the level of his eyes and moved his fingers. He looked like he'd never seen them do such a weird and wacky thing.

His mouth opened, wanting to speak, but that was too much for him. He fell back onto the blanket I'd laid out for him, curling his fingers at the edges again and again, fighting against the weight of his eyelids to keep them open.

“You're on the honor system, Maddy. And since I'm sure you don't know what that means, let me explain. One false fucking move from you? I'll gut you like a fish.”

This wasn't exactly a lie, but not necessarily the truth, either. The boa was next to the smoldering ashes of the fire. It was a few feet out of reach, but I could get to it in a millisecond if necessary. Once I'd finished with the aloe, I'd go and grab it.

“So, we have a common denominator between us,” I said, spreading the salve on his chest. I took my time with the process, rubbing it slowly