Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (e book reader pc TXT) 📕

it, not able to conjure up so much as a moan. Honestly, I didn't understand what guys saw in Roofies. If the chick isn't going to even act like she's alive, what the fuck's the point? May as well be banging a corpse. It was much, much more satisfying to have the writhing, the struggle, the gasping for air as the climax strikes and with any luck at all, it strikes again and again and again.

I got up from the bed, and went to the wardrobe. There was a veritable Nordstrom in here, what with all the ladies who had left their things in the sad hope of waiting for Maddox Petersen to invite them back. Some, I did. But only once or twice. Never a third time.

I was deciding between the simple denim top and the linen peasant blouse when Phyllis' ring tone announced itself.

“Go,” I said, and selected the button up black silk. Tits look great in silk.

“Mister Petersen, I'm afraid Boca Raton hasn't got any private charters available at the time you requested. Are you able to postpone until tomorrow?”

I laid the silk shirt on the bed, and watched crazy Sofia breathing. Her eyes were at half-mast, glazed over, and it appeared she was trying to focus on me. Her flesh was taught, a sweet light mocha, and her tight little belly rose and fell with each deep breath.

I didn't want to wait until tomorrow. Hell, I didn't want to wait five minutes. I pushed her leg to the side, exposing her sex just a wee bit, for no good reason at all.

“Mister Petersen?”

“Yeah. Here.” I got up from the bed and crossed to the bathroom. “And I don't postpone, Phyllis, for the love of Christ. Give 'em three, no, four times whatever they're asking.”

I grabbed the bag of toiletries I had to pack up last night, and plopped it on the toilet lid and fished around in it for my razor.

“I offered them five, sir. They apologize whole heartedly, but their schedule has been booked for weeks and there really is – ”

“Nothing is impossible, Phyllis,” I reminded her, and pulled out my favorite blade.

Stainless steel, big wooden handle, the edge sharp enough to split a hair – the type used by old school barbers. Or Sweeny Todd.

I wanted to shave the senorita's pubic hair with it, make her slick and smooth. Nothing between her and my mouth but my tongue.

All in good time, Maddox. All in good time.

I tapped the speaker icon on the screen, squirted a dollop of cream onto my hand, and rubbed it over my scalp.

“I'm putting you on speaker, Phyllis, while we figure out a way around this latest inconvenience. You know how I feel about inconvenience.”

Phyllis' pencil drummed on her pad. “There's another option, but I don't know how you'd feel about it.” Her voice sounded tinny, and echoed off my tiled walls.

“Commercial airlines are out of the question,” I said, and noticed with the happiest of realizations that Sofia's lovely naked body was quite visible in my bathroom mirror. I turned to the side so I could see it better, and flicked out the blade.

Phyllis cleared her throat, and stopped tapping her pencil.

“Just a thought, Mister Petersen, but if you really need to be off to Nassau today, and since this is a vacation, technically, Atlantic Charter has a yacht available. All stocked and ready to go.”

I'd only shaved one strip on my head when I stopped. I wasn't keen on boats. And, boats aside, I wasn’t a big fan of the ocean, either. Call it reverse sentimentality, but the last time my family was in one place, intact, was on a private cruise ship to Hawaii.

For a week my brother had laughed his fucking ass off at me every time I heaved the all-you-can-eat buffet over the railing. Just to show him, I took a touristy crash course in sailing when we docked in Oahu. I wasn't that bad at it, actually, once the Dramamine kicked in.

I'd never be able to show off my seamanship skills to Josh, though. After he died, I never went back to Hawaii. Or boarded a boat, for that matter.

Also, I wasn't familiar with Atlantic Charter. I didn't like things I wasn't familiar with, or knew inside and out. With the exception of the naked girl on my bed, of course.

“Won't work, Phyllis. I don't want a captain, or a first mate, or whatever else.”

Mostly I don't want witnesses, I thought, pulling the blade over my scalp. I wondered if it was too late to buy a jet, hire a pilot, and be in the Bahamas by sunset.

“Need a more viable alternative, Phyllis. A private, viable alternative.”

“Well, it would be, Mister Petersen. According to Atlantic, if you have any sailing experience whatsoever, they'll charter you a craft.”

I ran the blade under the water. “Sounds fishy, Phyllis. Yachts are expensive. There's all the insurance and liability and bullshit. You're saying these guys will just hand the keys over to any yahoo who says they know how to drive one of those things?”

“I didn't say anyone, Mister Petersen. I said 'you'.”

Oh. Oh, I liked that. Liked, as well, my reputation. My privilege.

Everyone likes to say the shittiest things about 'privilege' nowadays, like it's a bad thing. All the pissing and moaning from the have-nots, the hating and despise of men like me who have… it's a fucked up, twisted bigotry. Sour grapes. That's all it is.

But here we were, with the truth of the matter being that at the mere mention of my name, I could have a big private yacht all to myself. At the mere mention of my name, I could have anything I wanted.

I was like my own damn genie.

“What's the name of the boat…, er, ship, Phyllis?”

I was just curious. My seafaring experience was already surfacing. Old fart sea dogs got insulted as hell if you called their ships 'boats'. The rule amongst sea