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

I knew what her lips tasted like, and I imagined them trailing across my flesh, working their way down my torso. My waist. Her tongue tracing the tip of my –

I gripped the wheel, my knuckles whiter than Alpine peaks. My hard on was one pissed off, excruciating motherfucker. Literally screaming for me to stuff my hand down my pants and rub one out. And wouldn't that be dandy. A transient lumberjack in a shit brown Chevy, jerking off in a seven figure retirement community.

Ramona wouldn't have to call the cops. I could have my own self arrested, thank you very much.

I laser focused on the upcoming intersection, partially obscured by the aforementioned tendril of steam that had graduated, by this time, to a full-fledged pillar.

According to my electronic navigator, in five hundred feet, my destination would be on my right. Thank God. The Chevy was lurching, now. Bucking like an old rodeo bull ready to stomp one last cowboy into the dirt.

One hundred feet.

I wondered what they would think when the least favorite remaining son pulled up in his piece of shit truckasaurus, leaking oil and anti-freeze all over their pristine, cobblestone driveway. Maybe I shouldn't park this thing in their driveway. That would be rude. As it turned out, my inner debate regarding automotive civility would not be a concern. One final clunk, and the truck gave up the ghost in the middle of the street.

Alright. Well, maybe this excursion to my folk's house wasn't the best idea ever to cross my mind.

I popped the hood, though I had as much mechanical sense as the empty bags of Fritos on the floorboard – those came standard with every purchase from Dominic's – and had no balls ass idea of what to do now.

What was I looking for? A big On-Off switch?

The warning on the radiator cap was kind enough to tell me not to touch it when hot. Good advice, and really, what good would that do?

I glanced up at the house, half expecting my parents to be peering through the curtains – curious as to what this big, lumbering oaf was doing in their highbrow neighborhood, looking not unlike their first born, staring at the busted engine of his redneck mobile.

I suppose I could call the Auto Club. But they'd need the pass code to access the gates. I didn't have the pass code. Swell. I could now add trespassing to my growing list of criminal infractions.

“Maddox?”

My heart lurched. I took a quick second, and turned toward the voice. She stood just beside the truck, her sunhat a bit askew on her head, wearing a pair of soiled gardening gloves, and holding a half flat of tulip bulbs. She smelled like Miracle-Gro.

“Oh. Hi, Mom.”

“What are you doing here?”

Notice she didn't say oh, honey! It's been so long! I'm so glad to see you!

“I, um… I was in the neighborhood, and I just thought I'd swing by and say 'hey',” I forced a stupid smile. “So, hey.”

“Hey,” she replied. Studying me with her brows knitted in absolute bewilderment, she turned her bewilderment to the dead Chevy, then back to me again. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you guys. That's alright, isn't it?”

“Of course,” she said, adjusting the bulb flat on her hip. “What's the real reason?”

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it, and reached out for the flat bulb. It was probably getting heavy. She handed it over, but never took her eyes off me. As if she were looking at me for the first time.

“What's with the beard?”

A strange little lump of prickly heat blossomed in my throat. My grip on the tulip flat increased. There were twelve bulbs in here, the plastic insert proclaiming they'd grow into a rainbow of colors. Plant in an area with indirect sun.

“Mom… I fucked up,” I said. More to the tulips than her.

“That's nothing new.”

“And I want to apologize.”

She shrugged. As if I'd told her something equally outstanding, like I preferred blueberry muffins to bran.

“Okay,” she said, and stood there. Just stood there, arms crossed, waiting for my apology.

The trouble was, there was so much to apologize for, it would take more time than I felt comfortable with, here on the street. Next to a leaking truck. With my arms full of tulip bulbs.

Just then, the gate on the side of the house opened. My dad, wearing a pair of garden-friendly Bermuda shorts and a Sandfly Country Club sun visor stepped through. I wondered if he finally had taken up golfing.

“Anna? Are we out of fertilizer?”

He stopped as if he'd hit a cinder brick wall. He didn't recognize me, at first, and I was pretty sure his initial thought was to storm down the driveway and tell the redneck stranger to get away from his wife.

Once he got close enough to identify who I was, he'd tell me to get the fuck away from his wife, the hell off his property, and out of the god damn state before he called the police.

“Maddox?”

“Hi. Dad.”

He closed the gate behind him, stepped up to the truck, and took a tentative glance at the steaming engine. Then at me.

“Where's the Audi?”

I shrugged, feeling like I was nine years old again. “Traded it in.”

“Mmm,” he nodded, curling his finger beneath his chin. He shared a quick look with my mom. Neither one of them knew what to make of this. Of me. Some things never change, I guess.

“He said he's here to apologize, John,” my mom said.

“Uh-huh. About what? Never calling? Being a degenerate? Banging the funeral director at your brother's memorial? Leaving the business without so much as an email? A god damn lousy text for Christ's sake? If Martin hadn't called, I would've had to find out about it in the Journal, or Bloomberg. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

My teeth clenched. Being at the receiving end of another disparage from