Page 39 of Hate Wrecked

RILEY

I’m lost in thought as I walk the next morning, with Garfield following, on autopilot, stepping over branches and debris.

The jungle floor is a mess. One of the things Rowan said the researchers will rectify when they show up.

A messy and wild and beautiful circle of islands that will be studied and cleaned up.

But they will study the weather, the birds and fish and wildlife here.

They won’t study the darkness of this place, the curse. That isn’t for scientists.

That is for artists—writer’s like Rowan.

I let my thoughts wander to his hands, the shower, the feel of him inside of me. To the past. But I don’t get to linger there. When I raise my head to look in front of me, I am stilled.

The sight before me is breathtaking, and I raise my hand to cover my mouth before dropping down to my knees.

Rowan is leaning against a tree. He’s bare-chested, his shirt hanging around his neck. His shorts are pushed down, and his hand is on his length.

His eyes are closed, and that perfect mouth of his is open a little as he strokes himself.

Is this what he does when he wanders the jungle alone?

Fuck. I need to go. I need to get the fuck out of here. But if I move, he’ll see me.

Garfield rubs against me, and I glare at him, as if he’ll know what the fuck I’m trying to say.

I lower myself further to the ground, my hands on the jungle floor, my eyes on Rowan.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen him like this—untethered, raw, and wild. It’s what the island has done to him. He hunts and gathers and keeps us alive.

I can’t help but wonder who he’s thinking of. Why won ’ t you let me forget? I would give anything to be in his fantasies. In his arms, on his side of the tent.

He brings his hand up, licks his thumb, and reaches down again, rubbing it against the head.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I can’t stop myself. I reach between my legs, my hand slipping into my bikini. I’m wet, wanting, desperate for something out here to fill me. My fingers will have to do, since he hasn’t touched me the way he did in the shower again.

I stay low to the ground. One hand holding me up, the other working over my clit as I watch Rowan—his eyes closed tight, his lip between his teeth.

While one hand travels up and down his length, the other travels up to his chest, to his throat.

He wraps it around, a slight tension in his hands as he moans.

I can hear him. I can hear every sound, and if he wasn’t so loud, maybe he could hear my breathing, the erratic tempo.

My hand works faster, and I’m almost there.

It’s so easy while drinking him in. My breasts graze the jungle floor, my hard nipples searching for friction.

I blink and look at Rowan again as he comes—hot and sticky on his hands.

He reaches back into his pocket, grabbing another swatch of fabric, turning away just as I come, riding my hand into the earth.

I settle down, my breath moving the leaves next to my mouth.

Garfield runs away, and I close my eyes.

I don’t care if he sees me; it’s inevitable; I’m in his path. So I roll over, closing my eyes. I hear him begin walking straight toward me. And I don’t care. I don ’ t care.

I lay there as he approaches, sense his slowing, then hear him stop.

He looks down at me. My hand is just above my bikini bottom, my nipples hard, and my face red.

He clenches his jaw as his eyes scan every inch of me. After they reach my toes, they move slowly back up to my eyes. “Enjoy the show?”

I smirk, unable to help myself as I make my way to my feet. I step into his space, grab his hand. I bring it to my breast, and Rowan is unmoved, staring into my eyes. As if to say, you can make me touch you, but I ’ ll never do it on my own again.

I reach out, running my hand over the length of him, and when I do, he moves his thumb over my nipple.

I hiss out a breath, stepping closer. His chin points up, making sure I can’t kiss him.

It’s a rejection even as he pushes aside my bikini top, the same thumb he licked now ghosting over the hardened peak.

“Did you?” he asks again, angry and aroused.

I use my other hand to grip his waist, trying to pull him toward me, but he grabs my hand, pushing me back. I still don’t answer, so Rowan looks down between us at the bottom of my little yellow bikini. The damn spot is apparent. “I see you did.”

I lean into his hand, and he pulls that away. “Who were you thinking of?” I ask, adjusting my bikini top, desperate for him to pull it away again.

Rowan stares at me, steel blue eyes and full lips in a line. “Not you,” he says, and then walks away.