by Keri Lake
Once elevated enough, I fall back against the rocky outer surface, and heave, trying to catch my breath. It’s then I realize I’m still completely naked. Solange stands bent forward, hands on her knees, and chuckles as she lifts her gaze to mine.
I want to fucking strangle her, but whatever she gave me earlier, along with having almost died a second ago, has rendered me weak. So weak, I can’t even fight her when she steps toward me, caging me against the rock.
“Tell me that wasn’t the best fucking orgasm you’ve ever had.”
I wish I could tell her it wasn’t.
I wish I could say I’d been more consumed with the panic of dying than the possibility of climax.
I wish I could tell her what a crazy bitch she is, and that when my parents hear of what just happened, she’ll never work again on this island.
I wish I could tell her it was, hands down, the worst fucking experience I’ve ever had in my life.
I wish I could tell her all these things, but I can’t. Because I’d be lying through my teeth.
Something has awakened inside of me. At the intersection of fear and ecstasy, I’ve found something dangerous. Thrilling.
Inexplicable.
Licking her lips, she hikes up her skirt and pushes her panties down. Taking hold of my partially flaccid cock, she drags my tip over her slit. In the next breath, I’m hard and inside of her, and I spin us around, so she’s against the rock and I’m fucking her.
Hard.
Her screams and moans echo around me, winding down my spine, and the climax pulses through my body again.
I slow my thrusts on a shuddered breath and rest my forehead in the crook of her neck. “What happened to me? Why?”
“In French, the word for orgasm is la petite mort. The little death. Not like real death, from which you never return. This gives new life. Over. And over. And over.” She strokes her hand over my hair and rakes her nails across my back, the sensation intensifying the shiver that ruffles over me. “From this point on, nothing else will compare. No one else.”
Chapter 8
Isadora
Present day …
The sounds of screaming breach the void, and on a gasp of breath, I jolt upright.
Darkness swallows me, confusion clouding my head as I search the unfamiliar surroundings. For a split second, I forget where I am, but with the slow trickle of memory, I settle back onto the plush pillows and exhale a shaky breath.
Running a trembling hand across my brow, I try to recall the last few minutes of my dream.
The dark shadow of a man with intense golden eyes, standing over me, staring down at me.
Lucian?
I lift my head and find the door of my bedroom cracked open, the dim light from the hallway slicing across the floor. I closed it the night before, but didn’t lock it, as Giulia suggested.
A cold sliver of panic ripples over my skin again, and I reach under the pillow, my fingertips prodding the cold metal of a pocketknife I stuffed there before bed. For a while, storing it under the pillow was an attempt to keep my cutting hidden from Aunt Midge. These days, it’s mostly for my own comfort.
Eyes locked on the cracked door, I mentally rewind to sometime in the night when, in dreams, I felt something tickle my arm. The memory of it spurs a phantom sensation that has me scratching at the spot, while a shiver spirals up my spine.
Was someone in my room?
Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, I sit upright. With light steps, I pad across the room and push the door closed. A twist of the lock clicks it, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve locked myself in with someone. The thought lingers on my mind as I dash across the hardwood floor in the direction of the bed.
When something jams against my toe, I halt, stumbling forward. “Ow! Shit!” In blinding darkness, I lift my foot, setting my hand over the throbbing, and pat around for the bedside lamp.
Finding the chain, I flick it on noting only a small bit of redness at the tip. I wriggle it around to be sure it’s not broken and sigh, as the pulsing swell begins to calm.
An object beneath the nightstand draws my attention there, a welcomed diversion from my throbbing toe.
I bend forward and slip my fingers below the elaborate carved wood, and slide out a picture. Turning it to the side, I study the family, who’re standing in a colorful garden with a stone fountain in the background. A woman with short blonde hair. A small boy with sandy blond tufts, who stands alongside Sampson, the beast I met earlier. But my eyes linger on the man. He’s strikingly handsome. Golden eyes and dark chestnut hair. Broad shoulders stretching the casual polo shirt that shows off toned biceps. His lips pressed to a hard line.
Lucian.
Without the scars.
It’s strange to see him this way, as if I’m looking at a forbidden memory. A forgotten moment in time.
In spite of the slight smile of the woman, the beaming smile on the boy on the verge of laughter, Lucian’s solemn eyes don’t match the sunny disposition of everyone else. The way he stares back at me from the image, it’s as if he’s trying to say something. Plead with his unknowing observer.
For the next couple minutes, I study the image a bit more, running my finger over his flawless face, its perfect symmetry, and focus on the darkness behind those bright eyes. They could be any color, and just as intense, but gold is fitting for him. Exotic, almost. Yes, that’s it. In the image, he looks like an exotic animal that’s been captured as a pet. Caged.
I open the drawer of the nightstand and set the image inside the empty space where one might typically find a Bible.
Clicking off the lamp, I cover up and turn to face the tall windows, beyond which the moon sits high. Winds howl, just as Giulia warned earlier, like angry whispers of night against the glass. The phantom tickle at my arm returns, as I lie scratching at it again. But the image lingers inside my head, distracting me from the eerie undercurrent in this room, this haunted place where Amelia once slept. The sight of Lucian’s painfully handsome face now ruined by whatever happened to him, and I wonder:
What did happen to him?
Chapter 9
Lucian
Sixteen years ago …
Ripples chase my hand as I stir the bathwater and test its temperature. Only a couple years ago, I couldn’t so much as look at water so deep without my chest turning cold and my palms sweating. That was before my father demanded I join swim team, and somehow, my competitive nature overrode my fears enough that I won meets and earned medals.
But then, Griffin Blackthorne’s main objective was never really about helping me overcome my fears, as much as I’d like to believe that.
My teammate’s father owned one of the largest chains of grocery stores in the country, with whom my father eventually partnered, and he used the occasional meet as a means of talking business, while he pretended to watch me swim.
I close my eyes, recalling the moments in the cave with Solange, when my chest burned for air, my muscles stiff with fear and excitement. I focus on the memory of her hand gliding up and down my cock, and the way my body tingled with a rush of what I suppose must’ve been adrenaline. I’ve thought about those moments a number of times since then.
Fully unclothed, I step into the tub, much warmer than the cold and salty ocean water, and my body hardens with a thrill of what’s to come. Jacking off in water is nothing new for me. I’ve done it a number of times in the shower, but never like this.
Like giving my fear a big fuck you, and coming while I do it.
I draw the curtains that surround the enormous, circular sunken tub, leaving only a crack of light.
Warmth engulfs me as I settle into the water until it sits at my shoulders, and I run-through some diaphragmatic breathing, in and out, like we did before practice. I’ve grown accustomed to holding my breath for long periods of time, and this time, I intend to put that skill to good use.
I slip below the water’s surface, where the world is muted and I’m alone, and
stare up at the distorted constellations painted across the circular ceiling that mirrors the diameter of the tub. My own dark world.
The strokes begin light and teasing. This time, I intend to draw it out. Maximize the climax. It doesn’t take long for my balls to tighten, though, while the first rush of adrenaline pulses through me.
Fuck, yes.
I imagine Solange straddling me, holding me underwater as she rides my cock. Every muscle turns rigid, the burn inside my chest intensifying. I can practically feel the tiny electric shocks inside my brain, the warning signals demanding I take a sip of air.
I don’t.
Blood rushes to my dick as I stroke hard, the water furious and agitated, echoing the chaos inside my body right now. Tunnel vision sets in. I’m preparing to pass out.
I need air. Every cell in my body is desperate for the oxygen that I intentionally withhold.
Muscles wind tighter. Tighter. So fucking tight. I arch with the impending climax, the cool air on where my groin sticks up out of the water while I continue to pump my slick erection.
A flash of light behind my eyes hits at the same time as a blast of heat rushes through my body, and jets of hot fluid pulse from the head of my cock.
I jolt upright on a gasp of breath. I can’t get enough air, and I lean over the edge of the tub, digging my nails into the cold tiles. Through rapid shallow breaths, my body does its best to fill my lungs, until each inhale is no longer labored, but long and easy.
Not an ounce of strength left in me. I’m so fucking relaxed right now, I can’t even fathom moving from this spot. A chuckle escapes while I lie with my head pressed against the tiles.
Solange was right.
Nothing will ever compare now.
Chapter 10
Isadora
Present day …
Heat falls on my face, the intense light piercing through the void. I frown and shield my eyes, turning away from the open window through which sunlight streams. The clock beside me reads ten minutes to seven, and I groan at the small bit of missed sleep, yet I don’t feel exhausted, the way I typically do when I wake up at home. My neck isn’t stiff, nor is my back the way it sometimes feels after sleeping on the cardboard-like mattress at Aunt Midge’s.
I feel like I’ve slept on clouds all night.
Yawning and stretching, I turn over in the bed and flip off the alarm, which hasn’t yet gone off. I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed waking up. Probably the time I slipped on the wharf and landed on my shoulder. The doc gave Aunt Midge some heavy Tylenols that knocked me out for a few hours, and when I woke up, I felt like I’d slept for days.
I climb out of bed and gather up clean clothes, then make my way to the bathroom. After shutting myself inside, I flip on the water for the shower, letting it heat up while I brush my teeth and floss. Standing before the mirror, I cross my arms to lift my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor beside me. Perhaps it’s the light of the bathroom, but the scars on my forearms seem to stick out even more than before. Thin, tiny lines, unevenly spaced, where I spent months cutting myself. Of course, that was after what happened. I wouldn’t have resorted to this level of self-mutilation before then. Maybe the occasional cut every so often, just to take the pressure off when things got stressful at school, but nothing like this.
We’re just having a little fun.
You’re so beautiful.
I close my eyes on the unbidden lies reverberating through my head. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Not now.
No one will know.
Images flash through my brain as my mind scrambles for some distraction.
Teeth clenched, I shake my head, and the voice of my memories fades into the constant hum of water spilling from the shower. Steam rolls over the glass door, and I step inside, letting the warmth of the water sweep me away into the visual of the picture I saw the night before.
Lucian.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Him. What I imagined him to be then, not the asshole I met in the hallway. Though maybe he’s always been that way. He certainly didn’t look happy in the picture. In fact, he looked very unhappy.
Almost haunting. Like he was begging to be set free.
I wash and dry quickly, and don’t bother to style, or primp, my hair. Aside from eyeliner on occasion, I don’t apply much makeup, either. My bronze skin supposedly comes from my dad, though I wouldn’t begin to know what he looked like. Mom never had pictures of him, never talked about him, at all, and neither did Aunt Midge. Any time I asked about him, I got a short and sweet answer, and an even faster change of topic.
It never made sense to me that my mom could hate him so much, that even after his death, after he was no longer around to disgust her, she still couldn’t say one good thing about the man, but that’s Jenny Quinn. The most spiteful, shallow and selfish woman I’ve ever met.
I rush to dress, then head down for a cup of coffee and something light. Breakfast has never really been my thing, so the gluttonous spread of food I find waiting for me when I arrive at the dining room is unexpected.
Jose, a different chef from the night before, pulls out my chair with a foxy sort of smile stretching his lips. He never actually told me his name, it’s just what’s etched on his uniform, and when I sit down, he offers a wink before brushing his finger across my cheek.
Oh, no.
I do my best to school my face, so I don’t look entirely put off by the gesture, but the guy reminds me of a cartel boss, with his slicked-back hair and chevron mustache. “Thank you,” I say just above a whisper, as he walks off with his stare on me the whole time. Aunt Midge always said my face was a trouble magnet, drawing the kind of bad boys whose imaginations were confined to the brain between their thighs.
Her words, not mine.
Guys have always been this way around me, like wolves whose intent always seems transparent behind wide smiles. Or maybe I’ve just become keen on recognizing it as of late. Unfortunately for Jose, or whatever his name is, I’m not as naive as Red Riding Hood, so even the perfectly brewed French press coffee set before me won’t earn the kind of attention he’s apparently looking for.
Waiting until he’s out of sight, I grab a Danish from the smorgasbord of food, and push the large plate of eggs, bacon and toast, with a stack of pancakes off to the side.
Who the hell could eat this much in one sitting? If I were Aunt Midge, I’d be stuffing it in one of the many plastic Ziploc bags she often stores in her purse, for the few occasions we go to a restaurant. A habit she’s known for in Tempest Cove. So much so, the waitresses at one restaurant often leave a bag for her at the table.
As I finish up the last of my coffee, Giulia enters the dining room, rolling her eyes as she approaches.
“Looks like Jose found a new love interest. You done eating?”
“Yes. I don’t think I’ll have eaten this much after a week.”
Shaking her head, she nabs a piece of bacon, munching on it while she gathers up the many dishes. “His mother apparently told him the quickest way to a woman’s heart is through an excessive breakfast that one person can’t possibly finish.”
With a chuckle, I help her gather the plates, watching her scrape the fruit and yogurt onto the same dish as the eggs and pancakes. “It’s a shame to waste all this food.”
“Dinner parties are the worst. You could probably feed a village with the leftover food. Where I come from? There’d be fights over who gets to finish it.”
“Must’ve been hard living on the streets.”
“Winters were the worst. Had to stay in shelters most of the time, just to keep warm. But Jackie was good about it.” A slight smile lights up her face, and I’m guessing she’s talking about her daughter. “She always woke up each morning and asked, Momma, what adventures are we going on today?”
“You must miss her while she’s at school.”
“I do. But … she gets the life I never had. She’s going to be important someday. Respected. Blackthorne
is a respected name in those kinds of places.”
Those kinds of places meaning, anywhere but Tempest Cove. Basically, anywhere people have as much money as the Blackthornes and aren’t blinded by their gossip.
“Hey, I woke up last night, and my door was cracked. I forgot to lock it.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you. Just that, sometimes Lucian sleepwalks. In this place, it can be unnerving to see him pass by your bedroom. He looks like a zombie, or something. Really spaced out.”
“He’s completely out of it, then?”
“I once called out to him, not realizing he was asleep.” She sets dishes on the tray Jose must’ve used to serve the breakfast. “He turned very slowly and looked at me, like he was trying to decide what to do, then kept on down the hallway. But the way he looked at me had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.”
“That sounds like something out of The Exorcist.”
“Makaio thinks he has nightmares, from the time he spent in that mental institute.” She shakes her head, waving her hand in dismissal. “Not that I want to gossip about it. Forget what I said. I’m sorry.”
“Makaio the big guy?”
“Lucian’s bodyguard.” The dimples in her cheek as she tries to hide a smile tells me he’s something more to her, but I don’t bother to pry. “Anyway, it’s just better if you don’t answer the door.”
“And lock it.” I nod toward the plates she’s stacked on the tray, the food mixed together in one big massive slop. “Do you need help with those?”
“No. Probably best you don’t run into Jose in the kitchen. He tends to be touchy-feely.”