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

a perfectly good pair of tits like that. Oh, who was I kidding. She had the best pair of tits I'd ever seen, squeezed, or sucked on. And I could not help but smile as I felt my cock knock against my pants.

“You are a trooper, buddy,” I said, and gave it a little pat. “But, let's find something to drin–”

I was going to say 'drink first', but I couldn't complete the invitation.

Footprints, in the sand. Impressions of small, bare feet leading away from the Insatiable.

Yes, I was thirsty. But more so, I was curious.

I followed the prints down to the foamy lines of the surf where they disappeared into the water.

Oh, my God. What did she do, grab a raft from the boat and paddle away? No, that couldn't be it. I'd see a track next to the prints, a rut where she'd drug one of the yacht's onboard kayaks or canoes beside her.

I looked down the shoreline, left, then right. Shielding my eyes from the sun, feeling the heat increasing on my scalp, seeing nothing but a couple of sand crabs scurrying to the water, then away from it. Back to the water again.

Weird damn creatures, those.

The tide began to come in, erasing what was left of the mad Sofia, and sending the crabs rushing back toward me. Yuck.

I turned from the surf, and made my way back to the boat.

The mad Sofia.

Indeed, that's what she was. Was, past tense. The crazy señorita with the gun, the perfect boobs, and now that I thought about it, suicidal tendencies. The big bummer part was now that she was dead, I'd never, ever know who the fuck she was. Or what I'd done to piss her off. Even worse or just as bad, I'd never get to enjoy that exotic pussy of hers. It would have been delightful.

Climbing into the ship's crooked cockpit was like trying to scale a giant bathtub. It reminded me of the time the Petersen & Stiller PR guy suggested one of those bullshit team-building events where we were supposed to pretend to be mountaineers and haul ourselves up a big block of styrofoam. I told Martin to have a nice fucking time, and fired the PR guy before lunch.

I lowered myself into the cabin, the creeeak and moaning of the ship growing louder, and began to rummage around for stuff I could use. I wanted water, a beer, maybe a soda or something. Maybe some sunblock for my head. All I could find were broken glasses, chunks of wood, and the steering wheel bent and broken against the shattered dashboard.

A small chuckle escaped me as I thought of Sofia loca steering this ship in all her beautiful nakedness, trying to shake me off like a bull trying to dislodge a cowboy. An A for effort, that I'd give her. I'd like to give her somethin' else, too, but she was sleeping with the fishes, as it's been said.

“Martin's the brains of the operation. What does that make you?”

I stood up so fast I slammed my head against a cross beam. Instant, incredible pain shot through the center of my skull, making friends with my concussion and singed scalp. My vision doubled, and I bit my tongue. I tasted a hint of copper as I remembered Sofia said Martin was the brains of the operation.

That meant she wasn't just some scorned lover I couldn't remember. She knew about Martin, and his role in the company. Everybody always said he was the smart one, the real businessman, and that I was little more than idiot eye candy living off my father's money (as she also mentioned when she wagged an asparagus spear at me). That meant Sofia did her homework. Sofia knew something. Why she would want to shoot me for being good looking or riding my dad's coattails, however, would forever remain a mystery.

That would never set well with me. I never did not know. I always knew.

I hit the wheel.

“Fuck you, Sofee,” I growled.

I'd find out who she was. Yes, sir. Once I was out of here, I'd spend every waking moment getting to the bottom of her. For now, though, my head was threatening to throb its way off my neck. It hurt. I hurt. I shouldn't have hit the wheel so hard, either. My palm felt like it was swelling up, and god damn it, I needed a drink.

What I needed to do was think. Think about my next move. The kitchen was just underneath where I stood, so getting to it would be a fairly feasible excursion. I picked my way down toward it. That's where the water was. Beer, too. And bourbon. All three.

The boat didn't like the movement. Its creaking grew into a groan.

“Fuck you, boat,” I said, just as I found the refrigerator.

Its contents were spilled, the bottles all broken. Nothing salvageable. And the more it seemed as if I couldn't have something to drink, the more my throat wanted what it couldn't have.

I was getting angrier. I always got what I wanted. Drinks, food, women. Sports cars, mansions, you name it, I'd have it. This situation was no different. Why? Because I said so, that's why. And as I crawled through the wreckage, the groaning increased.

“You're already capsized, you piece of shit. Quit your bitching,” I told it, stepped over piles of ruined, pre-packaged entrees, and found the door to the master cabin. That's where all my stuff was. My suitcase, my bag of tricks, all the toys I was going to use on Sofia until she went nuts, beached us on a sandbar and then probably walked into the ocean and drowned herself.

“Dumb bitch,” I said, and rummaged through the remains of the bedroom. It wasn't as bad as the rest of the boat. Everything was upended, but the cabinets where I'd stored my things were still closed, safe and sound, so at least I had that going for me.

I