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

“Save it,” she said, concentrating on each awful stride. “People like you,” she gasped, pretending nothing hurt. “Men like you don't change.”

“Oh, yeah? Now who's being sexist?”

“I can be sexist if I want.”

“But it's not okay for me?”

“Nope,” she spoke through gritted teeth.

I glanced over my shoulder, back at the outcropping. So far we'd gotten all of twenty yards. And in front of us, the dunes. They looked bigger. Menacing. Just daring us to make it up and over and back to camp.

“You need… you need to take a break?” I said, attempting not to sound as winded as I was.

There was plenty of oxygen out here. You'd think I'd be able to breathe some of it in.

Ramona stopped, looking ahead. Puzzled. “Where's the smoke?”

“What smoke?”

“From the fire!” she yelled, which hurt like shit, apparently. She dug her fingernails into my shoulder. My sunburn. “You let it go out?”

“I… well, I didn't–”

“Oh, my good Jesus,” she said. “How the hell did you make it this long?”

“This long what? What are you saying? How many people do you know that can keep a fire going?”

She muttered something under her breath, and shook her head. I think she said 'lame', but I wasn't sure.

“What did you say?”

“I said you're lame.” She put her focus on the sand in front of her, and took another tiny step. At this rate, we'd make it back to the campsite sometime before Christmas. I didn't want to wait until Christmas.

I scooped her back up in my arms. Fuck the hurt, fuck the tired. I was going to get us back, god damn it. Despite what she may think of me. Or, because of it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

MADDOX

God's flashlight made its appearance just as we got to the campsite.

It certainly would have helped if it had shown up before, as I trudged through the sand with Ramona in my arms. More than a few times I'd stumbled over things I couldn't see, other times over my own feet.

She'd insisted on trying to walk at least a dozen times, yet, after the second or third attempt she did nothing but grind our snail's pace down to a sloth's. We tried piggy-back style, but her leg couldn't take it. A fireman's carry impeded our progress even further – and it was awkward as hell. Made me feel like some kind of Neanderthal Tarzan.

Her face kept edging closer and closer to my aching buttocks, and while it was primordially effective, she almost slid off my backside when I stepped over a dead tree trunk.

We therefore stuck with the bride-over-the-threshold position. For what seemed like hours.

The moon lit the little encampment, casting it in a spotlight of sorts. I fell to my knees just beside the remains of the fire I'd let die, being so, so careful not to tumble on top of her when I hit the sand.

My arms were nothing more than limp, sunburned noodles by now, and with strength I simply didn't have, I gently placed her on the ground before I completely collapsed. I'd expended every ounce of energy I'd ever had, and tapped into the reserves until they ran dry.

I wanted to just lay there, let the fatigue run its course, pass out and go to sleep. I picked myself back up, instead, and crawled over to the stack of supplies – to the survival blankets that looked like tin foil.

I may have been cold, but Ramona was freezing. She needed warmth, and as I was dumb-shit enough to let the fire go out, I hoped that wrapping her up like a burrito would suffice.

She was breathing hard and heavy. Her teeth still chattering like maracas, her entire body shivering to the point of seizure. I flapped out one of the blankets, and went to cover her.

“Don't,” she said, putting up her hands.

“I'm not going to do anything gross, okay? You're freezing to death, and–”

Ramona struggled, mightily, to prop herself up on her elbow. She started unbuttoning her shirt – my shirt – and for the scantest of seconds, I thought of seeing those beautiful brown breasts of hers again. Her nipples, frozen like pink ice cubes, and I swear to God, I almost slapped myself.

“What are you doing?” I asked, still holding out the foil blanket, watching her fingers fumble for the buttons.

“Cold… have to get, this, off...I'll, stay cold...”

I understood. She wasn't coaxing me into a strangely timed round of foreplay, and I was a savage ass for thinking along those lines. The shirt was still wet, stuck to her like a second skin. It would keep the chill right next to her.

“...so, cold… because someone, was dumb enough, to let...the fire–”

“Alright! I get it, okay? Jesus Christ,” I said, put the blanket down, and went to help her with her buttons. “I swear to God, Ramona. One click away from death by hypothermia and you're flinging insults.”

“Fuck yeah, I am. Shit head.”

“Move your god damn hand out of the way,” I said, and began unbuttoning the shirt. I slipped it off her shoulders, and I'm sorry, but her breasts were works of art. Exotic, Hispanic obra de arte. I shook out the blanket, and put it around her. “Better?”

She kept shivering – no way was that blanket helping – and nodded.

Her gaze was trained on the ashed wood, longing for it to light again, as she rocked back and forth, slowly. She winced, and sucked in her breath through her teeth. It made a soft, trembling whistle. Beneath the blanket, I saw her hand move to her busted leg.

“Ramona? What, what can I do?”

“...l-light the fire...”

I looked around my immediate area like a spaz. What was I expecting to find? A Bic? Flame thrower? I actually patted my chest. Muscle memory – not brains – thought I could find a lighter in a shirt pocket that wasn't there.

Even in her compromised state, Ramona couldn't