Page 58 of The Bad Girl

Chapter 21

Nadine

As soon as we enter the cabin, I turn to Maxwell and whisper, “What the fuck is going on?”

He cups my cheeks in his large hands, forcing me to look into his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“Are you sure of that? I mean, you just saw—”

“If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead. Notice how he was so close to Harlow and missed him. It’s because he’s trying to gain control over the situation. He’s in some kind of trouble, and he’s buying himself time. Possibly buying himself passage on the boat.”

“How do you know—”

“Because I do. Because I know. I’ve known Johnson for nearly a decade, and believe me, he doesn’t want to kill anybody.”

Maxwell pulls me into an embrace, my head resting against his chest. Everything feels heightened, from the woodsy odor of his cologne to the rock-hard muscles beneath his Polo shirt. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but I feel alive.

I’m not the only one affected. Maxwell’s heart is racing, his breath rapidly washing over my neck. His hands are wrapped around me, resting on my hips, pulling me in so I can feel the considerable bulge in his pants.

Instead of stepping away, turning, apologizing as the Nadine of precisely four days ago would have done, I lean in, pressing my body against his.

His hands move lower, grabbing my ass, and I reach up, pulling him down into a kiss. A real one and not for show, like the one he used as a weapon against Eliza. It’s sweet, at first, full of longing, with great fervor.

Deep down, I know fucking my boss is a terrible idea, but that little voice of reason gets buried under an avalanche of raging hormones, and I find myself bringing a leg up and around his waist, pressing his bulging member to my core.

His tongue sweeps my mouth and tasting the whiskey on his lips only serves to further ignite my passion. He grabs my white sarong roughly, pulling it off me and tossing it to the floor so that all I have on is the ridiculous golden bikini that barely contains anything.

His mouth pulls off me, and he buries his face in my hair, nibbling my ear.

“I was up all fucking night wanting to taste you,” he rasps, and I don’t even think the waterproof bikini bottoms can hide my wetness.

His hand goes to my breast, shoving the thin piece of fabric aside so he can take my taut nipple between his fingers. I arch my back, unable and unwilling to contain my passion.

Like a magician, he has my bikini bottoms around my ankles without me even realizing he was pulling them down. I feel exposed, but not ashamed.

I want him to see me.

“Get on the bed,” he commands.

I hesitate, unsure of whether or not to obey or defy him. Maybe I should try to assert some authority, make him mine.

“For God’s sake, Nadine, get that perfect ass on the bed so I can taste you.”

I obey, sitting on the edge in eager anticipation.

He pushes my legs apart, kneeling between them, and unfastens my bikini top to pull it the rest of the way off.

His hands explore my neck, my shoulders, my back, my stomach, before he brings a hand to my inner thigh, his thumb exploring the folds of my pussy as he kisses me passionately on the mouth.

My body jolts at his skillful touch to which he laughs lightly.

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he whispers into my ear. “I love it.”

My legs circle his waist, trapping him.

“You want it, don’t you,” he asks between frantic kisses.

When I say nothing, he grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my head back and extending my neck for him to kiss.