Page 17

Chapter Fourteen

Day Two

Tate

I open my mouth, and the first thing that greets me is the taste of something metallic.

Sour.

Dry.

It’s like I've been chewing on a mouthful of pennies laced with smoke. The second is the weight.

Something warm and sticky pressed to my side–skin to skin.

Cordelia. On the other side, for a moment, I think there’s a furnace, but the soft snores tell me it’s Chase.

Her leg is hooked over mine, her breath cool against the crook of my neck.

I don’t remember falling asleep–or even getting back to the villa.

The previous night is fragmented–the ferris wheel, her tight hole strangling my cock.

Click .

Click .

The sound replays in my mind, causing my body to jolt upwards. “What the fuck?” Chase groans as he turns over to his side, and Cordelia sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with a yawn.

She’s beautiful…

“What’s with you?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep. But I can’t find the words to ask about the previous night. I’m sure we were all so fucked up… this is all due to the drugs. It has to be.

Memories slam against my skull.

Laughter.

Beach.

Blood.

The teeth.

The fucking click.

Getting up from bed, my feet shuffle towards the bathroom, my skin instantly rising in goosebumps. It’s cold as fuck in here, the air smells of earth blended with the salt from the ocean.

How strange.

I continue my way to the bathroom, hearing Chase and Cordelia giggle behind me… as if they know something I don’t. Something just feels off, but I don’t know what.

Stepping into the bathroom, white tiles opening up to the wildness from the forest that surrounds the beach. The leaves rustle as the wind passes through them.

It’s like they’re whispering.

I shouldn’t do drugs anymore. Waking up feeling the way I do today should be a fucking crime. With a groan, I go about my morning business, but stop mid-brush.

I look in the mirror, and something is off in my appearance.

It’s me.

But not really.

I can’t explain it, but my reflection feels delayed. My eyes don’t blink fast enough. My expression holds too long.

Then it happens.

A wave of warmth rolls through me. Not just warmth but arousal. It spreads through my limbs like syrup–thick and slow. Impossible to shake.

I close my eyes and feel her.

Cordelia.

Every moan. Every grind.

My breath catches. Heat coils low in my gut, building–tight and suffocating. My cock stiffens instantly, straining against the fabric of my shorts. My hand moves without permission, sliding down and cupping the bulge.

“Fuckk,” I groan, my head dropping forward.

It’s like my nerves have been rewired.

Just the press of my palm is enough to tip me over the edge. The orgasm rips through me before I can even process it–raw and overwhelming. Ropes of cum soak through the fabric of my shorts as my hips stutter against my own hand.

Through the haze, I hear it. “Chase! Yes. Yes!” Cordelia screams. My eyes snap open as her arousal hits the air, thick and suffocating.

What the fuck is happening?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I stumble away from the sink, legs weak and breath ragged. My shorts stick to me, soaked and disgusting, but I can’t move.

Not really.

Because I can still hear them.

Chase’s grunts.

Cordelia’s soft moans.

The sound of skin slapping… the sounds of her insides being arranged by Chase’s cock, I'm sure.

The rhythm of it–wet and unrelenting–echoing in my head and down the hall like a fucking chant. From somewhere outside, I hear the DJ greet the partygoers just as the base drops.

What fucking time is it?

I step out the bathroom, shuffling towards the sound of their moans–her scent, that fucking overwhelming earthy blend of sex and spores. Pressing my hand to my temple as I walk, my hair sticks to my skin.

When they come into view, Cordelia is on her knees, ropes of cum adorning her neck and face like a beautiful pearl necklace. With a smile, she licks the tip of Chase’s cock before looking my way. “We should head out, it’s almost three o’clock.”

My eyes follow her naked form as she grabs Chase–who just follows her without acknowledging me.

My body burns from the heat as we walk towards the main stage.

The island is alive.

“Believe me” by Navos blasts from the speakers, bass thumping hard enough to rattle bones. People jump, sway, grind–skin slick, mouths open, clothes drenched in sweat.

Some dance.

Some stand in place while others make out to the music.

Everything in sync, like something’s moving them, or maybe it’s just the drugs.

Gotta be the drugs.

Then there’s people like Chase–already faded.

Eyes glassy underneath his aviator shades, no shirt, and tie dye shorts as he hands out beaded bracelets like they are sacred offerings.

Which is how we ended here with a group of strangers that feels more like a cult of friendship bracelets and drugs the longer I stand among them.

There's a blonde–short and curvy–named Chelsea. She’s in a yellow crochet bikini top with matching high-cut bottoms, and a sheer glitter skirt that clings to her hips like static.

Glitter dusts her large tits, her cheeks are painted with tiny daisies and stick on jewels, and her pupils are way too wide along with her smile… Home girl isn’t even blinking.

Next to her is the redhead wearing a metallic silver thong with a mesh halter–nipples out. Proud and unbothered as she keeps licking her own arms like it’s dipped in sugar, and laughing to herself as faint pinkish tendrils curl beneath her skin.

But just as soon as I blink, they’re gone. I’m really losing it.

Then there’s Mike–the tattooed juice head, straight out of Jersey Shore, wearing nothing but denim shorts and combat boots.

His oiled chest glistens under the afternoon sun, and his jaw clenches and relaxes like he’s grinding his teeth in rhythm.

The leash wrapped around his knuckles pulls closer a girl with a blue pixie cut dressed in nothing but a fishnet bodysuit, latex tape in the shape of an X, and leather booty shorts.

Neon paint streaks her thighs–except that shit is moving, crawling up her legs like liquid bio luminescence as she grinds on him. Moaning with every beat drop, her split tongue twitching as if she’s tasting the air..

Yep… the drugs.

And then there’s Shaggy.

Not his real name, but might as well be.

Brown hair down to his collarbone, wearing a faded green shirt with the sleeves ripped off and watermelon–print swim trunks, smelling like straight weed.

The worst part is the fact that he keeps offering me peanut butter sandwiches with a smile, but I can’t stop focusing on the way his gums bleed when he grins.

So I take the necklace instead.

White beads with yellow smiley faces every fifth one. It feels hot around my neck–too hot, like it’s pulsing in time with the bass. Through my sunglasses, I watch Cordelia.

She’s in the center of them now, dancing between the girls.

They press into her like she’s magnetic; hips grinding, hands sliding over sweat-slicked skin.

Cordelia is wearing a white mesh skirt that’s split all the way up both thighs with a yellow thong and halter top that shows off her tight abs and the vines crawling up her ribs.

Gold chain straps keep her small breasts pressed tight against the yellow fabric.

Her braids are all gathered into low pigtails that fall over the swell of her perfect tits.

Her skin is really shining… more than the others.

I look down and frown.

Even I’m fucking shining.

Not sweat.

Not glitter.

It’s fucking glowing.

Subtle–like a fungal shimmer... As if her pores are breathing.

Suddenly, the redhead grabs Cordelia’s tits, and they all moan. Their lips crash together, messy and eager. A group of party goers stop–all looking towards them.

The air shifts.

Heavier. Wetter.

A single synchronized sigh moves through the group like a ripple.

They’re not dancing anymore.

They’re offering themselves.