“Let’s find out if you can tell the truth. A simple yes or no.” He ruts his thigh into my pelvis, forcing my legs apart, almost lifting my feet from the deck. “Are you wet?”
I am. Desperately and unintentionally wet. The pressure over my mouth decreases to permit my answer. “Not for you,” I spit out.
There’s no hiding the slick heat forming between my thighs, and no matter how hard I try to clamp them shut, he manages to invade.
“Then who? Your ex?” he hisses with a bitter rasp. Our gazes draw swords. Mine furious, his oddly possessive.
I shake my head, breathing wildly when he finds me perfectly lubricated. “You like this little game, don’t you?” He laughs deep within his chest, riddled with vanity. This time he bites his bottom lip and inhales in tandem with his one-handed search. Neither of us misses the perversion. He drags his mouth to my earlobe, making me shudder. “Your mind might lie, but your body, that’s a whole other creature entirely.”
My heart frosts under the smug tone of his voice. “Leave me alone.” I slam fists into unyielding strength, powerless to move out from under his weight.
A finger slips into my entrance, rendering me speechless. The throaty groan that flees past my lips betrays my soul. He’s manipulating my body against my understanding of sex and sin, wedding the two with a ring of peridot flaring in his eyes.
Tears glaze my vision. The warmth of his pillage blossoms within me, hijacking all the reasons this scenario is depraved. Poor Keith was underwhelming in comparison. Our nights together failed to stir a synergy even remotely similar to the uprise of scandalous arousal taking over me.
Indignation rolls with my eyes. The grunt that escapes me is part bubbling rage, part seething madness. I moan without reserve when a finger pushes higher. Unwanted sensations tingle from my scalp to the rise of my buttocks. A damnable tongue skates over the shell of my ear, making me quake.
“Don’t do this to me,” I beg.
I tense up my internal muscles, refuting the wicked sensation his angled wrist creates. The impulse to hook my leg around him is a fleeting back draft. I suck in the degrading atmosphere and let the idea devastate my soul. It’s a lie. A fever.
His workforce spills out of the cabana, filtering from the entrance only a few meters away. Their voices hum around the open expanse, unaware of our secret encounter.
“Don’t make a sound. Earn my trust.” His command snaps at my ear.
“I don’t want your trust,” I growl. “If this is what it brings me. You’re disgusting. A wild animal wouldn’t be so underhanded.”
Boots clatter. Conversations continue in the distance, ignorant to my imminent sexual spiral. Warm lips brush along the curve of my jaw while fingers continue to slip inside me. It’s not brutal or painful punishment, more hungry, like he’s savoring a gourmet meal after years of basic rations.
Hot breath, sharp citrus, and manly coiled energy all combine in an overwhelming rush of endorphins. It’s a debauchery riddled with pleasure.
I wince when he circles engorged flesh. “No. No!” My head shakes, fighting the thrill building in my core. He releases my jaw and grabs the twisted hair at my nape, fixing my gaze to his. Feathery hairs prickle over my chin. Sultry breaths separate our mouths. It’s intimate and intense. A prisoner held hostage to a need for satisfaction. The divine devil is claiming his property.
El Fantasma studies the precise second I unravel, humming out approval when my insides convulse around his fingers. He doesn’t stop until I’m tumbling down from the heights of a shocking orgasm. Trembling against aged planks, his grip remains firm, locking me in place as the lightheadedness subsides. Whiskered lips hesitate as if he’s debating a kiss. I hold my breath, secured in place for more torture and waiting for the fall out. Instead of owning my mouth, he removes his hand from between my legs and pushes away.
Flushed and ashamed, I cling to the last shred of tattered dignity and spit on his face. With a stride of space separating us, he glares at me with crippling intensity. A gloved hand swipes over the short hairs coating his jaw, removing all traces of my pathetic attempt at revenge. I ache to claw out his pretty eyes, scratch his immaculate composure, and heave my knee into the magnificent, proud dick bulging behind his shorts. But I know better than to light a fire under the man who would douse the scorching flames with fuel and burn us both.
“Get to work,” he commands with skin-crawling detachment. He flicks his one bare hand with a dismissive wave.
“I’m not your plaything. You can’t abuse me on a whim.” I chance a last-minute outburst of pride. My hands ball, and a queasy wave of hot anger creeps up my neck. “I have feelings. This is mine.” I thump my chest. “Not yours. That display of authority wasn’t kingly or just. It was the most hideous experience of my life.”
In a blink, overwrought muscles huddle me into a corner. Coconut. Lime. Sin. A slippery finger glides over my lips. His breath catches when I taste my own cocktail of vanilla and musk.
“All lies.” His teeth peek through a heartless smile. “I was witness to them.” He carefully removes the finger and slides it across his tongue. His gaze spears me with venom and greed. I can’t quite tell if he needs to kill or fuck. The indecisiveness tightening his features petrifies me. “I felt everything. Every spasm, every contour, and every fucking gasp of pleasure. You fucking loved it.” Then slowly and ever so controlled, he backs away as if he’s fighting within himself, afraid of his own boundaries.
Nausea showers me in a tide of sweat. I grapple with the buttons on my trousers, hurrying to cover my private parts. He shields his eyes, drawing a barrier of darkness, and covers his hand again. After repositioning a pronounced hard-on, he pulls an amber bottle, no bigger than a pinkie finger, out of his pocket. “Catch,” he snaps out, tossing the gift through the air. “Apply it to your scar twice a day.” The corked offering shakes in my unsteady hand. My brow creases. “I don’t have to hurt you. But if you lie to me, this oasis will be your living hell.”
Hatred and disgrace prick and twist around me, creating a heavy crown of thorns. Trapping me under its weight, snagged by potent desire and riddled with remorse. I push past him and storm over the decking. Away from sin. Carrying the secret of my dirty orgasm closer to my chest than the brown ointment in my palm.
12
Over the years, painful regeneration of nerve endings in my scars brought back a hazy perception of touch. With my hands always covered by gloves, I never took the time to focus on new sensations, to understand how my body was healing in ways I never thought possible. Unsightly, self-inflicted burns have mutilated my palms for what feels like an eternity, forever the reminder of what they stole from me. What they accused me of doing.
I’ve built an ironclad defense of tropical species and acres of woodland. Yet it couldn’t prepare me for the celebrated rebirth of touch. The explosion of a simple caress. Slick heat and pulsating flesh. Frenzied tingles enrage like a forest fire. Millions of sparks firing up new sensory cells, initiating a heightened awareness for something I'd once taken for granted—if I ever appreciated it before.
What the hell is happening to me? She’s nothing special. I’ve had Brazilian beauties who strut along Ipanema Beach with curves and G-strings, oozing sexual confidence. Sure, they were fun for a night or two, nothing I’d call earth-shattering. Then Iris collapses at my feet like a broken bird, boldly stands her ground like a defiant queen, and makes me all too aware of things I’ve long forgotten.
Either she has a death wish, or the woman really is an innocent Scottish ecologist with no clue.
