El Fantasma studies the precise second I unravel, humming out approval when my insides convulse around his fingers. He doesn’t stop until I’m tumbling down from the heights of a shocking orgasm. Trembling against aged planks, his grip remains firm, locking me in place as the lightheadedness subsides. Whiskered lips hesitate as if he’s debating a kiss. I hold my breath, secured in place for more torture and waiting for the fall out. Instead of owning my mouth, he removes his hand from between my legs and pushes away.
Flushed and ashamed, I cling to the last shred of tattered dignity and spit on his face. With a stride of space separating us, he glares at me with crippling intensity. A gloved hand swipes over the short hairs coating his jaw, removing all traces of my pathetic attempt at revenge. I ache to claw out his pretty eyes, scratch his immaculate composure, and heave my knee into the magnificent, proud dick bulging behind his shorts. But I know better than to light a fire under the man who would douse the scorching flames with fuel and burn us both.
“Get to work,” he commands with skin-crawling detachment. He flicks his one bare hand with a dismissive wave.
“I’m not your plaything. You can’t abuse me on a whim.” I chance a last-minute outburst of pride. My hands ball, and a queasy wave of hot anger creeps up my neck. “I have feelings. This is mine.” I thump my chest. “Not yours. That display of authority wasn’t kingly or just. It was the most hideous experience of my life.”
In a blink, overwrought muscles huddle me into a corner. Coconut. Lime. Sin. A slippery finger glides over my lips. His breath catches when I taste my own cocktail of vanilla and musk.
“All lies.” His teeth peek through a heartless smile. “I was witness to them.” He carefully removes the finger and slides it across his tongue. His gaze spears me with venom and greed. I can’t quite tell if he needs to kill or fuck. The indecisiveness tightening his features petrifies me. “I felt everything. Every spasm, every contour, and every fucking gasp of pleasure. You fucking loved it.” Then slowly and ever so controlled, he backs away as if he’s fighting within himself, afraid of his own boundaries.
Nausea showers me in a tide of sweat. I grapple with the buttons on my trousers, hurrying to cover my private parts. He shields his eyes, drawing a barrier of darkness, and covers his hand again. After repositioning a pronounced hard-on, he pulls an amber bottle, no bigger than a pinkie finger, out of his pocket. “Catch,” he snaps out, tossing the gift through the air. “Apply it to your scar twice a day.” The corked offering shakes in my unsteady hand. My brow creases. “I don’t have to hurt you. But if you lie to me, this oasis will be your living hell.”
Hatred and disgrace prick and twist around me, creating a heavy crown of thorns. Trapping me under its weight, snagged by potent desire and riddled with remorse. I push past him and storm over the decking. Away from sin. Carrying the secret of my dirty orgasm closer to my chest than the brown ointment in my palm.
12
Dante
Over the years, painful regeneration of nerve endings in my scars brought back a hazy perception of touch. With my hands always covered by gloves, I never took the time to focus on new sensations, to understand how my body was healing in ways I never thought possible. Unsightly self-inflicted burns have mutilated my palms for what feels like an eternity, forever the reminder of what they stole from me. What they accused me of doing.
I’ve built an ironclad defense of tropical species and acres of woodland. Yet it couldn’t prepare me for the celebrated rebirth of touch. The explosion of a simple caress. Slick heat and pulsating flesh. Frenzied tingles enrage like a forest fire. Millions of sparks firing up new sensory cells, initiating a heightened awareness for something I'd once taken for granted—if I ever appreciated it before.
What the hell is happening to me? She’s nothing special. I’ve had Brazilian beauties who strut along Ipanema Beach with curves and G-strings, oozing sexual confidence. Sure, they were fun for a night or two, nothing I’d call earth-shattering. Then Iris collapses at my feet like a broken bird, boldly stands her ground like a defiant queen, and makes me all too aware of things I’ve long forgotten.
Either she has a death wish, or the woman really is an innocent Scottish ecologist with no clue.
After our meteoric encounter, I marched to her unoccupied suite and sunk under the surface of the crystal blue pool. She’d already scampered off with Sal to clean or do whatever the fuck he had planned for her. As she rounded the decking of the cabana, vanishing from sight, all I could think about was how she’d still be damp in those hideous trousers. I was solely focused on my fingers drying beneath my glove, absorbing her sweet-flavored elixir, and shocked at how incredible it felt when she let go. Even swamped in men’s clothes, she vibrates at a different wavelength to mere mortals.
I pushed her too far. I should’ve held back the desire to punish. Defined lips glistened with a plea to stop, but her soft curves flushed, willing me to continue. When my warped fingers were rewarded with wet folds, it took every ounce of temperance to stay calm and hide the electric commotion unfurling up my arm.
She’ll never learn how my newest obsession is beija flor, the stunning red-haired hummingbird with the power to snatch my logic. The four ill-fated lives have consumed my wretched headspace for years. I’ve planned deaths, then rewritten the plot because it wasn’t harsh enough. What’s deadlier than death? Perhaps an infatuation with a creature so magnificent that I’ll fall for her lies. Or worse still, that she’ll become important.
Sun-drenched water silences the permanent jungle fracas. It’s peaceful below the shimmering surface—a sanctuary for my busy mind. She’s filled the cabin with scents of femininity. Floral and sweet. Seconds turn into hours. Floating stills the fury within me. I should be researching and spying, trawling for a new guest, and hunting a worthy assassin to take out the last life. All the others are lined up, ready and waiting for my order. Instead, I’m surrendering to filthy fantasies encased in azure waters that mirror the sky. With my disguise abandoned at the door, I’m clear to lavish in my liberty—and her cell.
The unyielding grip on my throbbing dick doesn’t excite me as much as her constricting inner walls and fast breathing.
Wading out of the pool, I wrap a towel around my hips and stroll through the expansive cabana. I’m drawn to the immaculately made bed she’s slept in. Dipping my torso, I sniff the trace of vanilla and a unique fusion of female seduction.
She’s definitely been in this bed—I waited until she was sound asleep before skulking back through the forest to my private domain. The power gained from watching her through the window with an inconspicuous hot gaze thrums in my veins every time until I throttle my solid dick for being so deprived. It’s the same routine every evening. Follow. Observe. Shoot my fucking load in the shadows.
Her entire presence threatens everything I own, unless I can prove her worthy of trust. A niggle of doubt skitters under my skin. Could I kill her if it turns out she’s the one thing I hate the most? I’d have to. It wouldn’t be up for debate.
I swipe a hand through dripping hair, ignoring the indecision wringing out my stomach. There isn't a future for any traitor in my kingdom.