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

“It… he started with codeine. Graduated to fentanyl then worked his way up to methadone. It was his shoulder,” he said.

“Too many golf swings?”

It was his turn to glare at me. “Football. Star quarterback. Do you find that typical, too?”

I took a moment before I replied. “Well... yeah.”

“Then you'll love this. We were in Hawaii, and he'd just come off his second surgery. I told him surfing was a bad idea. And of course he didn't listen and of course he comes off the board and slams his fucking shoulder into a rock. He swallowed a whole bottle that night. Housekeeping found him. Not the call you'd ever expect from the front desk.”

I had approximately three hundred snarky things to say. Major, unequivocal sarcasm, locked and loaded and ready to unload. I kept them chambered.

“I don't know about your parents, Ramona, but when mine buried my brother...?” He stopped himself, still staring at his wrists. “If they didn't hate me before, after Josh died...”

“They hated you more.”

He nodded. “I lived,” he shrugged. “The bad son lived. The fucked up one. The pervert. The deviant. My dad threw the company at me just to keep me the hell away from him. And my mom… My parents walked away from the life they knew, because the one without Josh meant I was the life they had left.”

Maddox pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut so tightly it looked like it hurt.

“Josh called you Maddy?”

“All the fucking time.”

I jabbed the tip of the knife into the sand, and started drawing lines with it. “My parents are dead,” I said, tracing a stick figure.

“I didn't kill them, too, did I?”

I shook my head. Disgusted with him, and disgusted with me. I wasn't supposed to be talking to an asshole like this. Like we had things to say to each other.

I wanted to keep hating him, like his parents did.

“No. You didn't kill them, too. Dick head,” I said, and looked over to where he lay. He was scratching at the cut on his cheek. “Don't do that. You'll make the infection worse.”

“It itches.”

“Tough shit.”

Maddox took his hand away, and laid it on his belly. I watched his stomach rise and fall, thinking it shouldn't be. I had the perfect opportunity to let him die, and I blew it.

There was a shovel in the survival kit, I could have used that to dig one hell of a hole, dump his stupid body into it, and no one would ever know. Even if the Coast Guard or whoever did show up, I'd be able to tell them he died of natural causes – so to speak – and that would be that. No one could blame me for burying him.

A brand new slew of regrets washed over me. I had no idea who I was, what I wanted, or where to go from here.

A few days ago it was all so clear. Shoot the shit head, go to jail and/or kill myself, the end. So what happens? I get kidnapped and marooned on an island. Turn the tables on my captor, and the worst case scenario come to fruition; turns out the soulless prick isn't as soulless as I once believed.

“Ramona?”

“I'm busy.”

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry.”

“You've already said that.”

“I know.” He maneuvered his elbow beneath him, and pushed himself up into an almost sitting position. It looked like it took everything he had left to do so, yet he was determined. A flutter of nerves stabbed my gut, and my grip on the knife instinctively tightened. “But, I think I should keep saying it. Because I mean it.”

“That will get repetitive and annoying. So, don't.”

He nodded, slightly, and started messing with his cheek again. “You got me pretty good.”

“And no one deserved it more,” I said, keeping myself laser focused.

The slightest little suspicious move from this asshole, and I'd cut him like a tuna. If I could be quick enough, that is. He was weak, a bit off his game, but he outweighed me by at least eighty pounds. He could retake the upper hand any fucking time he wanted. If he wanted. Another regret joined in with my previous slew. I'd made a horrible mistake. Again.

“How do you know how to do all this?” he asked, pointing to my campsite. The fire, my lean-to, two neatly stacked inventories of supplies.

“Girl Scouts and family camping trips and if you're trying to distract me by making bullshit small talk, knock it the fuck off because I'm not falling for it.”

“I just wanted to know. I can barely light a match, let alone keep a fire burning for… for... how long have we been here?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“Could I ask one more?”

“You just did,” I said, and got up. First, to get away from him. Second, to check on the aforementioned supplies.

There were a couple of protein bars left, and half the chocolate Sex toys we were good on. Food, not so much.

My stomach growled as I plucked out the fishing line, and checked the knot on the hook. All set and ready to go. There was one problem, though. I couldn't exactly leave him here alone.

I looked over to him, to find he was thinking that same thing. His resolved expression gave him away. He was easy to read, actually. He probably sucked at poker.

“It would be remiss of me to say you can trust me,” he said.

“Oh, no. I think it would be a fabulous idea. I go down to the beach, snag a couple of fish, and come back to find you've set the table and poured the wine. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Everything,” he replied, and made a move I could never have seen coming. He scooted himself backward, trying to hide a wince, and keeping the blanket around his waist, put his back against the tree. Indisputable pain contorted his face