Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance

by Savannah Rose

  I held myself steady with the wheel, a regular pirate queen at the helm. The Insatiable surged beneath me, her engines firing on all cylinders, and her bow sliced through the ocean like the world's largest, sharpest knife.

  In the reflection of her windows, I saw Maddox's struggling, soggy mass trying to make its way up to the pilot house.

  Taking firm hold of the handles, I spun the wheel for all I was worth – a madwoman at the controls of a boat that was worth more than my parents' first house, their neighbor's house, and a studio apartment Rebecca and I rented together after college. The Insatiable banked severely to port, throwing me up against the console, and almost, almost sent Maddox flying over the side. Not quite, though, which was sorely unfortunate.

  More alarms went off, then. More warnings and whistles.

  I didn't have to look at flashing icons and dials and levers I didn't understand to know what the Insatiable was telling me. We were going to capsize.

  This crate wasn't meant to treat like a hot rod in a parking lot, burning doughnuts, spinning like a ballerina in the big, mean ocean. This thing was designed to carry wealthy passengers across tranquil waters while they sipped martinis and decided between the lobster tails or sirloin steak.

  I grappled for the wheel, and pulled myself up. Steady as she goes, I thought, and caught another glimpse of Maddox fighting for some semblance of balance on deck. But not too steady.

  I spread my feet wide, giving my already low center of gravity even more of an advantage, and yanked the wheel to starboard.

  The sudden pitch threw him off again. He tumbled toward the table and slammed up against it, his hands flailing for something to hold on to.

  I turned around, and saw him reach out for the corner leg. He connected. Back to port side we went.

  Despite the Insatiable screaming at me to knock it off, I kept going. Swerving one way, then the other, toppling the magnificent Maddox Petersen around like a big, stupid pinball. All of the beep, beep, beeps and whoop whoop whoops blurred together into one continuous sound – like an air raid siren, or a smoke alarm. Or a flat line on a heart monitor when the person it’s attached to stops breathing.

  Sometimes that person is small. Sometimes that person is just a baby.

  “I'm sorry, Miss Sanchez,” the doctor had said. “There's nothing more we can do.”

  That's what they had said when they tried to save my sister, too. Just like they tried to save her daughter – my little niece – but Leslie's death was slow and painful. Rebecca's was quick, overall. Two downward slices to her wrists, and her blood turned the bathwater a thin, ruddy shade. That's how they found her. The paramedics didn't know she'd been dying long before that – ever since the moment Leslie was taken off life support. Dying for months, just like her daughter. Except one was a visible death and the other was silent.

  Who knows how long Rebecca would have laid in the tub, in that pinkish blend of bathwater and her own fluids, had her kindly old neighbor not knocked on the door. Missues Vanderklien had brought her a peach cobbler. She was concerned that Rebecca was growing too thin. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I could not let Maddox win. He needed to feel pain. The pain my niece felt. The pain my sister felt. The pain I am still very much feeling.

  When the Insatiable pitched back to port, then to starboard, back to port, I was thankful. Thankful that my initial gun idea hadn't worked out. A bullet in his brain would have been too quick, too easy. He was scared, now. Fear widened his eyes like saucers. If I were close enough, I was sure I would be able to hear and see his heart beating out of his chest.

  Ahead of us, the sea was still, and pretty - black glass with a streak of moonlight shining across it. It reminded me of a silver river one may read about in a kid's book. And there were so many stars. I don’t think I have ever, in my life, seen so many stars.

  My mom used to tell Becca and I that all the stars were angels, and the one you see first – the one that twinkles the most – is your guardian spirit waving at you from heaven.

  All of those stars were twinkling now. I had my own celestial cheer squad, apparently. They approved. They liked what I was doing.

  So did I.

  The same could not be said for Maddox. He was a land lubber. A city mouse. A greedy, evil, white collar suit whose only physical hardship in his wretched life was a botched pedicure.

  Now he was fighting for his life, trying to keep hold of a wet, slippery table leg as the crazy naked bitch at the wheel spun his yacht in lethal circles as she tried to dump him in the water. If I had a fucking plank at my disposal, I'd make him walk it right into his death.

  That table leg was his pillar, though, and latched onto it like he was, I'd need some different maneuvers to shake his hold.

  A brief, lovely fantasy of him spilling over the rail into the cold Atlantic waters crossed my mind. He'd be floating in the black glass, perhaps in the moon's silver river. I'd drift up next to him, just out of his reach, then blow him a kiss as the Insatiable and I sailed off into the sunrise. Leaving him to drown, to die, to be eaten alive.

  Fuck, that was awesome. No one deserved such a fate more than Maddox did. He'd be fish shit. And that was an end to justify every means.

  I eased off the throttle, and righted the wheel. The star beside Venus - I think it was, anyway - flashed as if it didn't approve nor understand what I was doing.

  “Trust me, Becca. I got this,” I said, and held the wheel, five degrees to starboard, steady as she goes.

  The lights and alarms began to quiet themselves. The hiss of the bow cutting through the water returned, replacing the thump thump slam the keel had made as it impacted the surface. As I suspected, it gave Maddox the opportunity he needed to get back to his feet. And boy, did he look pissed.

  My nakedness and I turned around, giving him a full, frontal view. As he approached, I thought that this may be one of the first times I hadn't seen him with an erection. Not even that giant cock of his could remain at full attention with the cold ocean water blasting against it. Not unless it had super powers or something.

  I hopped up on the console, smiled, and spread my legs. Reached up to my chest, between my breasts, and toward my thighs.

  He actually paused. The mother fucking, sexually deranged son of a bitch actually took a moment to check me out.

  World, I am doing you such a favor, I thought. And as one hand traveled closer to my sex, I shifted my hips, giving him a gynecological point of reference, and hiding my other hand as it inched toward the throttle.

  There would be nothing for him to hold on to. He was out there in the open, and as he took one final step toward me, I sneered, blew him a kiss, and shoved the throttle forward. The good ship Insatiable took off like a rocket. It must have been so beautiful to watch.

  It's known as the slingshot effect, and I was counting on it to work again. Whatever Maddox may have thought of his grand and glorious self, when it came right down to it, he was no match for gravity and physics. He flew, literally flew, back down the deck. Toward the stern, and up and over the side.

  Score one for the good guys.

  I did a fist pump. It was a silly fucking thing to do, but I couldn't help it. My heart was beating so fast, so hard, and I'd done it! Flung him off the back of a boat and into the sea, dumping him like the garbage that he was. How perfect was that? I may not even get arrested. Accidents at sea happen all the time and I could come up with a great story. A fish story. As I ran down a list of possible alibis, I should have known better than to celebrate so soon. Evil doesn't die that easy.

  Inch by inch, I saw his hand move higher and higher on the stern cleat.

  It was a scene from a horror movie. The villain, thought vanquished, rising up from the dead like some kind of unkillable zombie.

  He must've gotten hold of the swim ladder. How was that even fucking possible, though? Defying the odds, probable or not, I watched in disbelief as his other hand clasped the cleat. He was going to pull himself all the way
up, he was going to survive this, and that was simply not an option.

  I turned back to the front windows, saw all the stars twinkling, pretty little diamonds shining tiny and white, and then shimmering against the black glass sea.

  Stars don't shine on the water, though, do they? No. Stars don't. Angels don't. What I was seeing wasn't anything celestial. What I was seeing were white caps breaking before the rise of the surf. And a long horizontal line of black. Maybe a mainland, maybe an island.

  Whatever kind of land mass it was, it didn't matter. What mattered was the white caps. They only broke like that if they were churning above a reef. Hidden stretches of deadly rocks that will smash a boat of any size into toothpicks.

  That's what lighthouses were for, of course. To warn approaching vessels of impending disaster.

  These were big white caps, too.

  And there was no lighthouse.

  What there was, however, was Maddox hoisting himself up on the railing.

  I pushed the throttle to maximum, and aimed the bow straight for the breakwater. There was no way I was going to allow him to survive this.

  Another alarm sounded, as the Insatiable begged me to rethink my actions. I was going to miss her, this boat, like I missed my parents who had pushed Rebecca and I on the swing set. Like I missed my dad who taught us how to fish and who took us camping for our twelfth birthday then cried at our graduation. Like I missed the tears in my parents’ eyes. Tears like the ones in my eyes at Becca's wedding. Tears like I cried after hearing Leslie’s diagnosis and when the hospital called and –

  A strangely soggy sound of wood and fiberglass colliding with solid rock pulled me away from my thouhgts. The boat's hissssing upon the water suddenly disappeared.

  As I saw the jagged shore coming up so quickly, yet so slow, I wondered what sort of star I would be.

  Chapter Eleven

  MADDOX

  Gritty.

  Sandy.

  As if I'd fallen asleep on a mattress made of wet gravel.

  There was the sound of ocean waves, and the air was thick with the smell of salt. And my head hurt.

  It was warm, too. Not my head, but all of me. Humid. Where in the fuck was I and what the shit happened...?

  I raised myself up on my elbow. A bolt of pain shot just behind my ear as I saw the splintered remains of the Insatiable not too far from where I lay, just down the shoreline.

  Funny how the mind works. As I focused on what was left of the boat, the front of it crushed in on itself, the first thing I thought of was Gilligan's Island. Where the S.S. Minnow had run aground, two gaping holes in its side.

  I never understood why the castaways had 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 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.