by L. B. Dunbar
“I’m curious if the woman really is satisfied. Does the dominant actually care for her, or does he care about her? And how can he keep his emotions separate? How does she? I don’t see how it’s possible. I want to be in control of my life at all times but I’d love for someone to—” She stopped again, her eyes opening wide as she realized she was about to reveal too much. I sat on the edge of my proverbial seat, anxiously awaiting more. My palms dampened, and my mouth dried. Did she want to be controlled?
“You’d love what?” My voice harshly barked.
“I’d love someone to care for me. About me.” She sighed as she shrugged, letting her eyes drop to her plate. My heart did a strange flip of relief. I didn’t want her to be dominated by another. I wanted her to feel safe, confident, capable. She could do these things for herself, but I sensed her hesitation. She didn’t believe in herself, and somehow, I felt I was to fault.
I noticed she hadn’t eaten all of her steak, and I was concerned I’d burnt it too much. But more than the taste of the food, I worried we’d crossed a line that took her too deep into sharing with me. The air felt heavy between us, and I needed to change the subject.
“There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
Her head shot up in surprise, and as much as I wanted to beg her to submit to me so I could show her all the ways she could be cared for, I had other plans.
“Could you give me a haircut and shave?”
“What?” She laughed.
“I can’t stand all this.” I grabbed the hair on the top of my head. “And I’m certain I look like I have mange.” I didn’t own a mirror but tried to use the water to reflect my image. I had splotchy pieces of hair here and there that I could feel but never quite cut.
“I guess,” she giggled again. I stood, went to my tent, and returned with a sharp, straight-edged razor and a shaving mug with soap. She eyed the razor held out to her, aware of the pain she could inflict with it. She’d wanted to kill me one night. I jostled the blade to break her attention.
“I trust you.”
19
Day 33 – Juliet
My hands shook as I took the blade from him. He sat on the stump seat and offered me the mug with soap. Holding the mug, he poured water over the shaving soap. He lathered his own jaw, and I stared at the motion. His cheeks filled with thick suds. Holding the brush, he flicked the remaining soap away from us.
“Stand behind me. Work the blade against the grain, like shaving your legs.” I chuckled as it had been a while since I did that. Today had been the first time in a week. I walked behind him and tipped his head by cupping his chin to rest against my belly. His green eyes looked up at me as the blade rose to his neck. Quickly his hand rose and stopped my wrist.
“I trust you,” he said again, then pulled my wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss over my pulse point. He closed his eyes, and with shaky hands, I began to slide the blade over his skin. The gritty sound echoed in the stilling evening. Once the first strip was complete, without nicking him, I continued in a steady pattern of cleaning the blade and shaving his jaw. His eyes remained closed, a peaceful look on his face. For a moment, I thought he’d fallen asleep.
“Finished,” I whispered after a long silence. His lids opened slowly, revealing the deep moss color that narrowed in on me. My heart skipped a beat with the longing in them. He reached for a towel he’d set to the side of him and wiped the excess soap from his face.
“How do I look?” he asked, and I swallowed my reply. He was gorgeous. Cut from clay, and molded to perfection, his cheeks were accentuated by narrow bones and an edgy jaw line. He had a subtle tan line, his skin appearing to easily brown.
“You look good,” I said, attempting to hold my voice steady. He looked almost as clean cut as he looked on that night.
“Hair next? I don’t have scissors, so you’ll have to just hack at it with the blade.”
I laughed. “I can’t do that. I’ve never cut hair. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Anything is better than this mess,” he said, gripping his hair in his hand. I did the best I could, razor-cutting off long strips of his hair and letting it fall at my feet. The process was daunting as I hacked at locks surprisingly silky despite our rugged conditions. The tips were sunbleached, and the removal of them restored him to his rich, brown color. It was choppy looking, but he rustled his hand through the strands, leaving it to lay as it fell in a fashionably messy way. The grizzly man was gone with this cut, but he didn’t match the polished man he’d previously been. A stylish boy remained.
“How am I now?” he asked. I sensed the inquiry dug deeper than his appearance. He looked amazing, but the cutting of his hair softened his features. He looked less edgy and more wholesome. I smiled slightly at the change.
“You still look good,” I teased.
“So do you,” he replied, letting his eyes drip down my body. He quickly recovered, though, collecting his hair cuttings and adding them to the fire.
“I think I missed a spot,” I said, noticing a clump in the back. He sat before me again, and I fixed it. “Better,” I stated and ran my hands through his hair, mussing it up and shivering at the touch as it tickled my hand.
“You did good, Mouse.”
The nickname dropped the smile from my face, and his eyes snapped open.
“What? Tell me that’s not a trigger,” he pleaded.
“I don’t like that nickname.”
“Why not?”
I turned away from him, setting the blade on another stump. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Juliet, what did I say?” His eyes questioned mine.
“Actually, I hate that name,” I clarified, blowing out a breath. His hands came to my shoulders, stroking down my arms to encircle my fingers.
“It suits you. A mouse might be small, but it’s a brave creature, and resilient,” he said, tugging me to him with our entwined fingers. “A mouse can scare an elephant, save a lion, squeeze through a hole the size of a pencil.”
I chuckled. “I don’t think the last one is a compliment.” My breasts collided with his chest, and I was hyper-aware of us touching in such a manner.
“You and your compliments,” he teased, kissing my forehead. “Come sit by the fire awhile.”
He led me by our interlaced fingers.
“It’s getting late,” I pouted. The sky was turning a midnight blue, and although I’d braved the darkness of the jungle on several occasions, I didn’t wish to do it that night. However, I said the opposite of my feelings. “I should go.”
“It’s too dark without you,” he said, too briefly brushing his lips over mine. My mouth hungered for more, but words choked my tongue. The tone of his voice suggested darkness involved more than the midnight sky. He tugged me until he plopped to the ground, propping up against a log. He pulled me to sit between his spread knees, positioning me so I leaned back on his chest. We stared into the flickering flames.
“You’re so far away if you go,” he added, kissing my hair. I twisted to look up at him, questioning his tenderness. His words were sweet but unnerving. He couldn’t possibly mean them. His fingers intertwined with mine, stroking over my knuckles and tickling inside my palms.
“You’re saying that because I’m the only girl on the island,” I blurted, adding laughter to soften the words that tasted bitter.
“What do you mean?” he whispered to the shell of my ear. My skin prickled at the soft brush of his lips.
“I’m the only female here, that’s why you’re attracted to me.” Attracted might have been too strong a word. Interested, maybe? Intrigued? My comment startled him, and he pulled back.
“Why would you say that, Mouse?” His voice lowered as he said the nickname like a term of endearment, seductively sliding off his tongue. He stared at me. He was such a sexual being, and I was the only available person to satisfy his urges. However, I didn’t wish to debate him when he tightened his hold on me. I remained quiet, and the minutes passed in stra
ngely companionable silence.
“Thank you for sharing a feast with me,” he softly said, pressing me against his chest again and resting his chin on my shoulder.
“A feast,” I chuckled, not disappointed with the meal.
“Garvey says each meal should serve more than the purpose of obtaining food. It should be a celebration, and it should be shared. I was happy to celebrate with you. I want to share things with you.” He was smooth, I thought, as my lips curled at the sweet words. Pensive for a moment, I tried to digest their meaning.
“Come into the tent with me.” The gentle command tainted the sugary flavor of what he just said.
“I can’t sleep with you,” I blurted, sitting forward and twisting to face him.
“Just sleep,” he said, his thumb caressing my knuckles. “Just sleep,” he said lower. “I want to hold you.” We stared at one another a moment before I settled back against him, my side on his chest, puzzled by the longing in his tone. He brushed my hair back from my face and neck. Rubbing circles on my back, he kissed my head again. Between the growing night, the warm fire, and the comfort of the man under my side, I drifted off into a restless sleep.
20
Day 34 – Tack
At some point, she slept and I eventually carried her into my tent. She nuzzled against me, and I couldn’t stop my lips from continually kissing her. Her hair. Her cheek. Her fingers. I laid her on my pallet and removed her sandals. I slipped off my shirt and climbed in behind her, drawing her to my chest. She clutched my arm that settled between her breasts and drew it upward so my palm opened and covered her heart. It raced even in her sleep, and I worried she was still frightened of me. Then I thought of her face when she shaved my jaw and cut my hair. Her pupils dilated. She was attracted to me.
I was leaving no doubt that I was attracted to her, and it wasn’t because she was the only female on the island. I couldn’t keep my hands from her, and I thought back to that night. I wanted to take her, but something stopped me. The look in her eyes. That moment we shared, I couldn’t follow through with what Rick wanted to do.
“We’re going to play this my way,” I had said as I slipped down my pants, enough to release me. I stood at her entrance, taking willpower I never knew I had to withstand entering her.
“I’m going to move, blink if you understand.” Her eyes closed and she turned her head, but I needed her to see it wasn’t me that planned to harm her. The damage had already been done, and I wanted to kill Rick. If she became one of his charges, I would instantly request her.
I rocked my hips, the hard length of me caressing her inner thigh. The pleasure was unbearable. The heat of her skin rubbed against mine. I licked two fingers and pressed them over sensitive folds. My eyes closed, and I shuddered, fighting the control. I wanted inside her, but then I looked at her eyes again. I slipped a leg over hers, hoping to disguise from the others that I hadn’t entered her. I wanted it to look real. My mouth lowered to hers again and I spoke against her gagged lips She didn’t seem to hear me, and I worried she was drugged. The camera was recording. Rick was encouraging, but I couldn’t perform. Never in my life had I had to fake an orgasm. It was harder than I thought, as I rolled on a condom and pretended to release inside the latex.
My false finish was interrupted with a shout from that weaseling bartender.
“Get off her. She’s not one of them.” Rick went for the kid instantly, and I thought he’d lay him in the ground. Instead, he hollered for Rory to take care of him. As Rory had been the camera man, the show was over, and she was free. But she was dead in her eyes, dry of tears, and staring blankly up at the ceiling. I hated myself in that moment, and I reached to help her. When she turned away from me, my anger flared.
“Suit yourself,” I snapped, adjusting my pants and leaving her behind.
I tugged her tighter to me, burying my nose in the nape of her neck. I’d already apologized, but a million I’m sorry’s would never be enough. She was still unsure of me, slightly frightened. The fidgeting in her sleep proved it, but I vowed to all things above, that I’d never let her hurt again.
+ +
“Tack.” The sound of my name loudly rushed through my ears. A palm pressed against my face, forcing me backward. I woke with a start, finding her under me, breathing heavily. I was groping her. My hand massaged over one breast as my hips bucked forward, finding friction in the heat of her core.
“Shit,” I hissed, abruptly scrambling off her, realizing I’d been fucking her in my dream, completing the act that I started but hadn’t finished.
I lay on my back, my dick throbbing, my heart racing as I stared at the dark ceiling. My thoughts collided with sorrow and my need to be inside her. For a moment, I thought she’d seen my dream, recalled my memory, and realized my desire. How could she not know how I felt after what I’d been doing? I wanted nothing to break this spell we had started, but I was ruining everything.
She sat up and flipped her legs to the side of the mattress. I wrapped my arm around her waist and tugged her back.
“Don’t go,” I breathed. “I’m sorry.”
To my surprise, she spun to face me. Burying her head in my chest so I couldn’t see her in the darkness. I couldn’t make out her expression or read her body language, other than feel her body quivering against mine.
“What is it, baby?” I asked, but knowing the answer. I’d scared her again. My fingers skimmed over her body, reaching for her chin. Tipping her head upright, I still had no way to focus on her eyes in the dim light.
“I need to go back to my house,” she whispered, her breath shaky.
“It’s the middle of the night. It’s too dark. Go back to sleep. I’ve got you,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tighter against me, but knowing I was the nightmare who caused her to shake. Her lips hovered over my skin, the warmth of her breath tickling my chest. I wanted her to kiss me—give me a sign she accepted my apology. Softly, her lips met my flesh where she lingered over my heart.
The connection was like a jolt of electricity, and I felt something I’d never felt before. My body stiffened—petrified, in fact. I was terrified of the sensation coursing through my veins. Her lips at my heart were a live wire, reviving me over and over again. She shook her head as she released me, and her hair brushed at my damp skin. The tent was warm with two bodies so close together, but I’d do anything she asked to be warmer, to get closer. She was in control, but I was at the edge of mine.
Her hips rolled forward, brushing her core dangerously close to the heavy weight of my stiff dick. It had to be an accident. On the verge of denotation, I groaned. I wanted her too much, too fast. My fingers folded into the sheer material of her skirt, clutching at her dress.
I can’t do this, I thought. I was on the verge of taking as a way to prove I needed her, but I wanted her to willingly give herself to me. I wanted her permission, but I didn’t have it yet. She didn’t trust me, and I sensed it with the stiffness of her movement, the ragged inhale of her breaths, and the moisture leaking onto my chest. She was crying, and I was to fault for the salty liquid streaking her face. My breath hitched.
“I can’t do this.” The words were harshly stated as if more to myself than to her. It wasn’t rejection. I was saving her from me. She rolled to her back, and I followed her, reaching for her face, swiping at the tears moistening her cheeks. Her hand came forward and pressed against my wrist.
“Get off me,” she whispered. My chest pinched with her misunderstanding.
“Mouse, I didn’t mean—” The motion of her sitting up cut me off.
“Get off me!” she yelled, and I scrambled back from the bed, swiping a hand through my hair as I stepped to the front of the tent. I couldn’t look back. I wouldn’t be able to see her face. I wouldn’t be able to look her in the face. After all that I’d done, she’d never forgive me, and I had to accept these facts.
21
The Island Hears Your Sorrow
Like the tiny mouse he ca
lled her, she scrambled from the tent and scampered through the jungle forest. Her thoughts were a jumble of recollection. She’d reached for his hand during the night and covered her heart, hoping he could feel the racing within—the fear and excitement—that rippled through her veins, tickling the fine hairs of her body with hope. No one had ever spoken to her in that way before.
It’s dark without you.
The words slithered through her as she trekked through the dawning day, still dark within the heavy bush of the island. He hadn’t meant what he said, she decided. He couldn’t know how empty the darkness was for her. How lonely she felt, longing for someone.
I’d love someone to care for me. A sob escaped as she traveled stealthily through the greenery, climbing higher, away from the beach, away from his tent, hoping to lose herself in the island. She admitted one of her darkest secrets to someone who could use it against her. And he rejected her.
He did not care about her. He cared about nothing. If he couldn’t take her by force, like one of his businesses to be bought and broken, he wasn’t interested. She could give herself willingly, but that wasn’t how he wanted it. He held her back against his warm chest, but he wanted to take her, even in his sleep.
Another sob escaped, and she covered her mouth, though there was no one to hear her cries. He had been a dream. He wasn’t real, she told herself. His sorrow. His repentance. It was a lie.
He’d shown he could be caring when she was sick, sharing with his steak feast, but he could not care about her. She shook her head. He wanted to control someone.
I can’t do this. His words ripped a chasm through her chest, her heart pierced with pain. She tripped and fell among the thick roots and twisted limbs at her feet. Pressing upward, she continued to scamper through the brush, seeing light up ahead. Bursting through the thickness of greenery, she came to a small, open clearing and fell to her knees, feeling the warmth of the sun on her clammy skin. She lay flat on the surface of rich earth, letting the heat of the dirt press against her cheeks, damp from the tears she hadn’t notice falling. She hadn’t given them tears before, but now they fell. Her heart raced, pressed against the island floor, and she willed herself to become one with her surroundings.
