Page 37 of Hate Wrecked

RILEY

I keep to my word—no longer hiding myself from Rowan.

The sun bears down relentlessly on the shoreline, the heat oppressive as I gaze at the vast expanse of the ocean.

The allure of the water's embrace after a long morning fishing is irresistible.

Without hesitation, I shed my shoes and clothes on the shore, plunging into the clear depths.

The shock of the cool water is invigorating, a stark contrast to the lingering tension that has volleyed between Rowan and me in the days since we fought on the beach.

When I float in the water, at times, I feel like a ghost. The memories of what we’ve done here plunging me into the dark I deny I feel.

I see the captain’s eyes, lifeless, his hand a closed fist. The ocean and no one else surrounding him in his last moments.

Is that the way a sailor wishes to die?

Will I die alone with nothing but the ocean around me? Will we ever be found? The buildings on this land whisper yes . This is not a no-man’s land. It’s just on pause, like us—like I have been for years.

Like Rowan has been, too. Like he is now, avoiding me, surviving—existing.

Floating, momentarily suspended between the vast sky and the terrifying ocean floor, I find solace in the weightlessness. The sound of my breath, the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves—it’s a release. I won’t merely exist, I won’t.

The rain comes then, a gentle cascade. I dive down, away from the sky, away from everything.

When my breath gives out, I break the surface once more, a sense of purpose filling me.

The saltwater clings to my skin, and the sun-drenched air feels like a fist to my chest, but the heat lessons as the water falls.

I swim in the storm, carless, free. When the rain falls harder I swim to the edge of the lagoon, under the trees.

I let my mind wander as the rain falls, and when it starts to fade, I decide to come ashore.

With each stroke toward the shoreline, a plan forms at the fringes of my mind.

With the short rain gone, I race to the shower at the back of one of the buildings, dropping my bikini on the ground and reaching for the nozzle.

When I step beneath the water, it’s cool, and I shiver, my nipples turning to hard points, but I don’t care.

I grab the old and expired body wash, dolling it out in tiny drops and slathering it in my hands.

Every bit of our supply must be used sparingly.

The sun peaks through the clouds and hits on me, warming me a little.

I moan at the feeling, the warmth and the suds, the freshness I know will last for a little while but eventually fade when I have to get back into the ocean to catch dinner.

Movement catches my eye, and I wipe the suds away.

Rowan stands in the distance, watching me with a pail in his hands—fresh water for our campsite.

I could cover my chest and wrap myself in something, but I don’t.

I won’t anymore. I arch my back, lowering my head under the water.

Rowan walks closer, shaking his head. I can see the vein in his neck.

Good.

I ring my hair out, staring into his eyes. “Come over here.”

“Better not,” he replies, walking past the shower.

I roll my eyes. “Come on. You know you’re tired and need it. I won’t touch you, I promise.” I won’t touch him unless he asks for it. There is no reward in taking something from him.

“Not happening, Riley,” Rowan grumbles.

“I’ll get out. I promise.” I hold my hand up in surrender. And Rowan stops, setting the pail down. His eyes catch on the rainwater pouring off the roof. It drops from the jungle overhead, and he knows it won’t last long.

Not looking at me, he walks toward the shower, stripping his shirt off.

As promised, I step out of the water, the last suds running down my legs.

When he’s close enough to touch, he pulls down his shorts, and I look away. Because, Jesus Christ, I forgot what he looked like without clothes.

His red hair is wild; we’re both wild out here. Maybe it’s why I don’t feel so exposed right now. We’re like cavepeople—island wilds.

“Are you just going to watch?” Rowan asks, stepping under the stream of water, his eyes closing at the feel of the incredible gift from the sky.

“Maybe,” I tease. “I told you, I’m not hiding anymore.”

Rowan reaches out, and I grab the body wash, handing it to him. His hand brushes mine, and I don’t move.

I lean against the building as the sky opens up again.

It won’t last, and often, bursts of rain come down after a downpour.

I raise my chin to the sky, closing my eyes.

When I open them, Rowan is washing his hair, but his eyes are on me.

He lets them trail slowly down to the peak of my breasts, to my ribcage, to the hair between my legs, and to the ground.

He closes his eyes for a moment and opens them again. His blue locked into me.

So I smile and do the same, my eyes trailing down his broad shoulders, chest, the beautiful sculpting of his abs, to his length. I imagine my hand wrapped around him, my mouth, and I shiver.

When I look at Rowan again, he smirks, shaking his head.

“You have some suds in your hair,” he says, motioning with his chin for me to come forward.

Fuck. I walk to him, turning under the water. He places his hand on my shoulder, angling me just right. My fingers twitch with the need to touch him, but I don’t. I stand there as he runs his fingers through my long unruly hair, removing any trace of shampoo.

When he’s done, Rowan places his palms on my shoulders. And I remember this. It’s muscle memory. His strong hands press in, and I sighed, bracing myself on the building.

“Our bodies need to relax some out here. It can’t all be fight or flight.”

“There is no flight,” I shudder as he massages my tired muscles. “There’s nowhere to fly to.”

“True,” Rowan whispers. Close.

I back up a little, my ass pressing into him. He’s hard.

“If you don’t behave, we don’t continue,” Rowan warns. And I move forward, desperate for him.

He knows what he’s doing. I’m wet, desperate for him to press into me, push me against the building, fuck me like this.

I close my eyes and focus on the feel of his hands as he massages my shoulders, sighing when he moves down my back, easing away all the worry I’ve been holding there.

The water starts to dwindle, so Rowan moves closer to me, and I look up, praying for something. Anything.

This time, he presses into me, and his hand comes up, threading with mine as he lets the stream of water wash over him.

“You always make me do stupid shit like this,” Rowan groans, his chest grazing my back, his mouth near my ear. “Meeting you in that laundry room. Wiping your tears when he hurt you. Cleaning you up when it was all a mess. It made me a mess, Riley,” he rasps.

Before I can speak, he pulls me back to his chest, under the water. His hand presses against my stomach, the other on my ribcage, just below my breast.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, a lie. Because I’m not sorry. Not for this moment, anyway.

His length presses against me—so close, not close enough.

“I’ll want you to you to touch me? That’s what you said, right?”

He bites my shoulder, a test, and I moan, grabbing his hand and bringing it to my breast. He squeezes, pulling on my nipple. Every desperate plea I’ve had out here is a warning in my head. What do I want? I want it all.

His other hand travels down and moves without hesitation.

I cry out when he slips his fingers into my folds, no preamble, no warning, swirling around my clit for a moment before moving down, two fingers pushing inside of me.

“I remember this, too,” Rowan whispers, biting my ear as he curls those fingers inside me.

“And how you taste. Why won’t you let me forget? ”

Just as soon as he gives in, he pulls away. His hands leave me, and I stumble forward. When I turn around, his eyes are closed. He washes the suds away, and steps out of the water, reaching for his clothes, leaving me naked and alone in the bright sun.