Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Savannah Rose (readnow TXT) 📖

eyes, and wondered about that funny feeling I'd gotten after she'd turned the tables on me, when I watched her tend the open fire, cook a fish she'd caught, her beautiful legs toned and muscled. I think that was when I began to fall in love with her. I just didn't know it at the time.

That probably sounds weird, and it was. But I'd never been in love before, so how was I to know what it felt like? I just remembered how it was to feel a strange rush of emotion flowing through my heart, my gut…

I suppose it took the raw primitiveness of being completely disconnected to finally connect me.

Those were the facts. And this was the moment in which I was living – listening to the echoing roar of the waves, underscored by an occasional island bird. The pop and crackle of the fire. The quiet rustling of the leaves as the ocean breeze drifted through them. And a fierce, beautiful woman in my arms. With thoughts on the future – whatever it may hold – I drifted off to sleep.

Just another mistake in my ever-growing list of misguided choices.

Chapter Twenty-Six

RAMONA

It was just before sunrise. My leg was throbbing in dull, aching waves. The fire had reduced itself to glowing, ineffectual embers, and my stomach growled with hunger.

A pasty glue coated my mouth, reminding me of a terrible thirst. The only thing of comfort was the warmth beneath the blankets – the heat generated from two bodies pressed together.

Maddox was fast asleep, which I found fascinating. One of the hardest things to do when stranded on a desert island, or a tropical island, perhaps an Alpine mountain top was trying to adjust to a sleep schedule.

The way he was sawing logs, that was one survival technique at which he excelled.

I reached down to feel my injured leg – scraped and swollen. It was harder to wiggle my toes this morning, which concerned me. A lot. I'd given up on my knee, though I had about ten, maybe fifteen percent range of motion in it.

Stupid, god damn Langoustine.

If we ever got out of this mess, the first meal I'd indulge in would be a steaming plate filled with lobster, prawn, and scallops. I'd get my revenge on the shellfish community. That'd show 'em.

In the meantime, I was in a shitload of trouble. There was a hot lump just below my hip where the throbbing was the worst. To me, that indicated a splintered bone. I imagined an X-ray would show an image of something like a giant pencil snapped in half. If, y'know, an x-ray was within the realms of possibility.

Dammit all to hell, anyway. If I hadn't slipped and fallen into a fucking tide pool, it would be different. I could live out here for weeks, if not months. Me and my potentially fractured leg, however, were demanding different courses of action. But I would be damned straight to Hades if I was going to rely on Maddox. Not only was I pissed off that I was, inadvertently, the asinine damsel in distress, I was doubly pissed at how grateful I was when the not-so-charming prince Petersen showed up, and pulled me out before I froze to death. He carried my sorry, soggy ass back to camp, too. And spent a great deal of time talking to me, trying to keep me awake.

There was a very distinct possibility that he was not an entirely deplorable motherfucker. I didn't need that kind of shit. I didn't need that kind of fucking drama or conflict in my life.

My future was exclusively in my hands. Likewise, so was his – should I be successful in what I was currently plotting.

Without devoting too much thought to my next move, I quietly pushed myself away using the one good leg I had left. He stirred and rolled over on his side, taking the blankets with him. God, he had massive shoulders – sprinkled with those Irishman freckles – and as the sun continued its assent, it shone on the red fuzz of his hair.

I pushed again, clenching my teeth as the bad leg protested the shit out of the slightest physical movement. Fiery darts shot through my bloodstream, all landing in the bulls eye of what I now suspected was a ruptured quadricep. Great. A compression rupture blown out against a broken femur. Good morning, everybody.

No more uneven bars for you, I thought, as I edged myself closer to the survival kit. No more anything for you, if you don't get this done.

I turned to look over my shoulder. He was still snoozing.

The kit was just out of reach and I couldn't make it. The pain was insurmountable. But the gun was in there.

Just one more inch, one more stupid bloody inch…

I stretched my arm as far as I could, felt the canvas brush against my fingertips. I dug in, one last time, setting my heel into the sand and letting the muscles that weren't blasted apart elasticize. They got me closer. Closed the impossible gap of that terrible inch, and then, the cold muzzle of the flare gun.

I wrapped my hand around it, pulled it out, and smiled.

Got it. Got it!

I heard him move. The foil of those blankets crinkle like twigs, and his were crackling like kindling.

You can do this. You can totally do this.

I managed to get myself into a sitting position, bent my good leg at the knee, and rested the gun on top of it. The kit was right behind me, offering me just enough support. My other leg was on fire, but hell, at least it wasn't cold like the rest of me.

Cold, and hungry. Thirsty. Naked, of course, but that was my idea.

Blood clots, too, probably. Making their way up to my heart like itty bitty coagulated flotsam.

Maddox rolled over on his back, brought his hands to his eyes, and rubbed at his face. I grimaced.