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

I thought she was referring to me. She very well may have been, but I was pretty sure her bad knee and busted leg were also playing into these particular metaphors.

“Hey, hey,” I tried to be soothing. Comforting. Two things in which I had little to no experience. I stroked her matted hair as her nails dug into my chest, her face buried so deep against me I wasn't sure she was able to breathe. “What's hurting the most?”

“Whole… fucking… thing...” she gasped.

This was bad. A broken leg in the middle of literal nowhere? Not only were we hundreds of miles from medical attention, we had no way to get to medical attention. There could be shards of bone floating around her blood stream, ready to lodge themselves into a clot.

I felt moisture, then, dripping against my skin. She was crying. Shit. She was crying.

I kept stroking her hair, not knowing what else I could possibly do. Hating that I was this helpless.

She balled her hand into a fist, and began pounding it against my breast. Rhythmically. Continuously.

It didn't hurt. It should have. Ramona Sanchez was a strong ass tamale. Her punch should be leaving marks at the very least. It was no more than a soft, half-hearted mallet.

She's not fucking dying, is she? Oh, holy fuck, no. No way. No fucking way.

What could I do? What could I god damn possibly do? I couldn't even offer her an aspirin because she gave it to my sorry undeserving ass, and...

Oh, holy crap. Ramona was right. I really was a dumb shit. Here she was, potentially dying in my fucking arms, what she needed was a hospital, and there was a fucking flare gun not five paces away from where we lay.

I moved, slightly. Perhaps I could reach it from–

“No!” She cried. “No, please. Don't… don't move...”

“Ramona, I have to. We have to get you out of here, okay? I'm going to get the flare gun, and–”

“No,” she said again, fighting to keep her labored breathing under control. “No, I'm fine.”

“You're not fine, stupid. You call this fine?”

“Don't, move...” she tucked her fist beneath her chin. “It hurts… when you move.”

“Ramona,” I began. “This is ridiculous. Just let me get it, yes?”

“No.”

I sighed. And like the dumbass she always accused me of being, stayed right where I was. Listened to her breathe. Felt her chest against my side, rising and falling away.

“What should I do, then? Stay up all night, make sure you don't have a heart attack or something?”

“Like… you'd know what to do if I did...” she coughed, her fist clenching again, then relaxed.

“It's beyond me, Ramona. This whole fucking thing, you know?”

“You must hate that,” she said. “Control freaks... can't deal with... being out of.… out of...”

“Control?”

“No, cornflakes,” she replied. “Of course, control.”

I didn't know if she chuckled, or coughed again. Her hand moved to her face to wipe her eyes, and she took in a big, deep inhale. Her body felt good against me, my arms wrapped securely around her, and I conceded that no, I had absolutely no control.

Not now. Not in this situation. It was entirely out of my hands. I had no choice but to accept it, and oddly, I found that liberating.

“Do you think that's what I've been doing my whole life?” I asked her. “Playing the, um, I don't know… professional dominant? The ultimate lord and master? And if I have, then, why? Why would I do that?”

“...why, are you asking me?”

“Because I'm trying to keep you awake, dummy. Plus, I think, maybe I want to hear your opinion.”

She yawned. “You're over… overcompensating.”

“For what?”

“...Josh...”

Warm rushes of her air passed across my skin, and suddenly, it all made perfect sense.

She was right.

She was bloody fucking right.

I was an obsessive compulsive with a mean streak, flaunted my satyriasis around like flag, had to always be the one to call the shots no matter what they were, and the one thing I couldn't dictate or control was my brother sucking down a bottle of pills to make his pain go away. Throw in my parents not really digging me to begin with, and no wonder I was a fucked up mess with a strange, bordering on dangerous fetish.

And let's not forget what the world would think when and if the cavalry ever arrived. Maybe the wreck of the Insatiable was spotted by a plane, or a helicopter, and someone radios in its location. Help finally gets here, Ramona gets the medical help she needs, then what?

There would be a media frenzy. A journalistic riot. Microphones, television cameras, reporters, all wanting to know exactly what happened, how it happened, and if they didn't get the answers they wanted, they'd make shit up. Whatever would benefit the juicier narrative du jour. Depending on what would get more clicks, I would either be deemed a hero or a knave. And in accordance with the internet's domino effect, I'd either be exalted or destroyed.

Which would I prefer?

A few days ago, the answer would have been easy. Now? I honestly wasn't sure. I'd actually grown tired of myself. I'd concluded I wasn't pleased with myself anymore. And at the end of the day, it wasn't going to matter. Everything was up to Ramona.

Considering what I'd done to her, her sister, and subsequent family… she wasn't only within her rights, she owned them. She owned me.

I'm sure my team of attorneys would have plenty to say about whatever charges and accusations she would file, but most of me didn't care anymore.

Because the shittiest part of all of this, if we were ever off this island, was that there would never be a 'we'. Or an 'us'.

Ramona stirred slightly, and I froze. Expecting her to scream, expecting anguish to wrack her body, and then I would insist on getting that flare gun.

Nothing. Blissful silence. Her rhythmic, sweet breath rushing across my chest.

I gently put my hand against her head, shut my