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

the means to manufacture a radio made out of coconut shells, but somehow didn't have the ability to patch a couple of holes in a boat.

Waves lapped against the sand. Against the back of the Insatiable, where I had held on for dear life. That's what I had done, right? Right? Everything was such a fuzzy blur… I remembered not being able to stand up, not even being able to crawl, as the boat slammed from side to side.

Was it a storm? The guys at Atlantic Charter assured me the weather would be perfect for my trip, and I'd latched on to… on to a… table, at one point, yes?

Okay, this was bullshit. I needed to piece this crap together.

I sat up, and that bolt of pain became far more pronounced. Almost on fire. Like there was a fire in my damn skull.

I put my hand to the side of my head, and felt a lump the size of a golf ball. I couldn't touch it, it hurt so much. Probably a concussion.

God fucking damn it…

I did a quick assessment of the rest of myself; fingers and toes able to move, no broken bones, all teeth present and accounted for. Cuts and scrapes, but those were mostly from the shells and rocks that littered the beach.

A flash of memory streaked across my mind - a Mexican maiden spreading her legs as she sat on the ship's dashboard. That must have been last night. Before she broke my boat.

Alright, alright, it wasn't my boat. But I'd paid a few pretty fucking pennies to rent the damn thing, and even more pennies for the guys at Atlantic Charter to keep their mouths shut about my 'vacation'.

As far as they and their log books were concerned, this charter never happened. As far as they knew, my lovely female companion had a nasty hangover, we both worked too hard, and this trip was for our much needed privacy. So fuck you, and here's your check.

I hoped to shit the insurance would cover the damage. And trust me, there was a lot of damage to be covered. The Insatiable looked like a beached fiberglass whale, heaved on its side. It was moaning, too. Or, creaking, rather.

By fucking Christ I was thirsty.

There was water on the boat, for sure. And with any luck, some of the beer may have survived.

Did she?

I got to my knees, and waited for the shooting headache to ebb. It didn't.

I stared at the boat, feeling the sun beating down on my head, and knew that there was no way Sofia could have lived through that wreckage.

Gross, I thought. I'd find her mangled corpse in there somewhere. I couldn't think of how in the hell I was going to explain that to the authorities. Matter of fact, I couldn't think of anything right now. But I knew for sure there would be authorities involved. There had to be. They would be showing up any time soon, too - on their beach buggies or a helicopter, or whatever.

In the meantime, I needed water. And an aspirin. Maybe two.

I had to get myself out of the sun, and if her dead ass body was in there, then so be it. I'd seen dead bodies before. I could handle this. I mean, she was the girl who was trying to kill me. Under other circumstances, I could have had the security guards pull the trigger the minute they spotted the gun in her hands – forgetting the fact that the security guards didn’t even manage to get to her first.

Pulling myself to my feet was a challenge. Staying on my feet was an even bigger challenge. My head throbbed and protested any movement. I was dizzy and I probably looked drunk as a skunk as I staggered to the side of the Insatiable, and put my hand against it for balance.

Maybe she did survive, though. And she's inside, hurt but alive. There is no harm in being extra cautious, right?

“Sofia?” I called out. My throat felt like I'd been swallowing rocks, regurgitating them and swallowing them again. “Sofia? You in there?”

No response.

Well, fuck.

I looked up to the sky, searching for a plane, a helicopter, any search and rescue would do. Nothing but a few seagulls, those flying garbage disposals, circling overhead. Beach vultures. That's what Josh called them, when one snagged his bag of Cheetoes straight out of his hand.

Why was I thinking of that?

I guess it made sense, that my mind wasn't at full operating capacity. I'd just been in a shipwreck, for Chrissakes.

“Sofia?” I tried, one last time.

Nothing.

Just the squawking of gulls and the crashing of waves.

I sighed. Seriously, of all the fucking inconveniences.

Alright. First things first. Get some water, some pain killers, and while I was at it, the first aid kit. Hopefully a beer. See if the señorita was shuffled off this mortal coil or not. See if she was dead. If she wasn’t…well, I’d have to plan from there. A part of me really hoped she was, though. It would make things a fuckload easier. No one likes to be grappling around with a rabid dog when they’ve got a headache that could move mountains.

I made my way around the side of the Insatiable. It was still upright, for the most part, but leaning very precariously, as if a strong breeze could topple the thing all the way over. The front windows were smashed in, and if I put my fingertips on the very edges, I could see inside.

I raised myself up on my tip toes, expecting to see her crumpled in a dead, naked heap.

Not there.

At least, not that I could see.

Everything in the cabin was piled onto itself, no more than an expensive mountain of trash. Broken beams, lights, furniture… a condensed version of aftermath pictures, the kind that follows hurricanes or tornadoes. Earthquakes.

Most likely, she was underneath all of the mess. A damn shame, really, to waste