“Your mother told me you had an accident as a child. You almost drowned.”
It’s true. When I was three years old, I fell into the pool. Fortunately, we had a number of staff, and someone managed to pull me out before I officially kicked the bucket. It was traumatic enough to keep me from the water for years, though, until my father demanded that I join the swim team.
Therapy, he called it.
Might’ve helped my fear of water, but it didn’t help my fear of drowning.
“The tide’s strong. We have to get out of here.” My voice is weak, and I feel my consciousness waning again, the darkness on the fringes closing in.
“We will.” She runs her hand up and down my tenacious hard-on. “After you come.”
“I can’t. N’when we’re about to drown.”
“You’re already halfway there, from the feel of it.”
The water rushes over my head, and I hardly have the opportunity to suck in a breath as it washes over me, pulling me when it retreats.
She strokes faster. “Come for me, Lucian.”
I want to tell her to fuck off, to push her away, but I can’t. I’m too caught up in the feeling of her palm, the precise pressure of it as she pumps her fist.
“If you refuse, you’ll drown. Here, in this cave.”
“So will you.” I groan, the sound vibrating in my chest, punctuated by sheer bliss as the water provides a wet slide. Cold, but not frigid.
“I’ll go before it gets too deep. I’ll leave you here to die.”
She’s fucking crazy!
Another wave crashes over me, this one lifting my body up off the sand and pulling at the binds when it recedes.
Coughing up the fluids from my sinuses, I brace for another wave.
Her strokes hasten.
My body hardens.
The salt burns as it floods my nostrils again, the waves coming faster than before. Higher than the last.
Another wave.
My muffled shouts beneath the water pound through my ears, over the muted crash against the rocks. Bubbles expel the last breath, but the sensation between my thighs diverts my attention from everything else. Once again the water is yanked away, and I suck in as much air as I can.
The next wave doesn’t retreat this time.
I kick against her hand pressing into my thigh, while the other works me to orgasm. The breath I managed before the wave punches at my chest for release. The desperate pull for air leaves me arched underwater. Panic reaches its height. My body eases into the next phase. Drowning. I’m going to be the next kid to drown in this fucking cave.
But somehow, somehow I don’t care, because even as the ocean rubs its palms for another sacrifice, I’m still in tune to every incredible rub of my dick.
Dizziness settles over me while she plays with my balls, and the sensations clash together, the fear, the panic, the excitement, tightening my muscles, until I have no choice but to let go.
More bubbles expel from my mouth, light crashes behind my eyes, and for a split second, I wonder if I’m dead.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting upright, the water reaching my neck, my body cold and shaky, the way it feels just before a person passes out. Coughing and gasping for air, I turn to the side, while the next wave pummels my face. Tucking her arms beneath mine, Solange stumbles forward, knocking into me, but I kick back and push to my feet. Still coughing, muscles loose with weakness, I hobble toward the entrance, the water up to my thighs, as we round the mouth of the cave and climb the slope.
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.