3
The Island Smells Your Fear
How could she be here? Of all things evil in the universe, her presence was the ultimate in betrayal. He’d been told—no, warned—there would not be another soul in existence on the island. Banished, alone, one year. That was the sentence. He’d accepted the terms in hopes to find inner harmony. His mind wrestled nightly with her face under his. His ears echoed with her silent pleas. His heart ached with what he’d done.
She couldn’t be here. Not her, of all people.
Anger welled inside him to the point of detonation by the time he reached his waterside camp. He’d hacked at the low brush and pounded fists into small trees. He kicked at thick trunks and slapped his thighs as he hiked back to his temporary home. Once there, he swept sand over his fire pit and threw the coffee pot still set within the morning coals. Black liquid flew through the air, raining down in a gentle stream. How prophetic, he laughed. Laughter, deep and rich and bitter, like the campfire coffee. The sky mocked him with black raindrops, he thought, just like the dark liquid in his soul, just like the heavy tears he once shed for all he’d done to her.
And all she’d done to him.
He hated her while his heart once broke for her.
Stripping off his shirt, he raced for the waters’ edge. He stumbled as he pulled up his foot, attempting to remove a hiking boot, tugging at it while he hopped forward. He fell to his knees, the impact hard and jolting. It was then that he noticed how hard he was, the length of him stiff and struggling beyond the zipper of his shorts. Like a child’s tantrum, his legs kicked outward, flinging a boot away from him. His other knee bent and he used the same aggressive effort to remove the second boot before throwing it to his left. He peeled off his socks, leaving them lying haphazardly around him. A flattened palm pressed the length of him, rubbing up and down the hardened rod, both cursing at the excitement and relishing the throbbing heat.
Without a care for his nakedness, he loosened his shorts and stepped out of them as he ran for the ocean bay. He sprinted as far as his feet would take him before he dove deep into the refreshing water. The warmth did nothing to dissipate the heavy feel of his erection and his thick hand wrapped around himself, tugging tightly at the length. His wrist moved in rapid motion, both adrenaline and hatred pumping through his veins.
Her.
His eyes closed and he restored the memory. She was under him, whimpering. Violet eyes, filled with liquid and pleading. Her mouth had been gagged after Rick took his turn. He wanted to do baser things to her, but the initiates were too hungry for their turn.
Her hands had been tied, but he could no longer remember if it was over her head or behind her back. His original plan had been to enter her from behind. He didn’t want to see her face. He didn’t want to commit her to memory. He wanted his turn so he could be a member.
But then he saw her. Really saw her face, horrified, and bruising from where Rick slapped her. Without thought, his hand caressed her cheek, and she whimpered, flinching to get away from his touch, but she had nowhere to go. He remembered cooing at her, shushing her strangled cry.
I’m not going to hurt you.
The words rang in his head, drowning out the water rushing around him, lapping at his waist as he stood in the ocean. He rubbed harder, faster, jerking at his erection with the memory of those eyes under his. That flickering moment where she believed he wouldn’t hurt her or hoped he wouldn’t. That thin sliver of trust that he might have missed had he not been so intently drawn to her eyes.
He remembered his mouth coming down to her lips. Lips that trembled under his. She tried to twist her head, but his fingers gripped her chin.
Just one.
He asked her, although he was firmly in a position to take what he wanted. He’d always taken what he wanted, but for some reason, he waited. Hesitated. Hopeful. One time, he wished to receive something not asked for, not stolen, not assumed. Entitled. The word roared through his head. He’d been entitled to have what he wanted and just once he wanted to be caught off guard. He wanted to be given permission, instead of expecting it.
He looked at the top of the mountain island, a shadow in a presently clouding sky. The weight of his sin pressed down on him, like the knowing-eye of that peak, like the heaviness of his dick in his palm. He drew in a deep breath, nearly shaking with the need for release. A tropical breeze lashed out at him, forcing the water to swirl around him. He inhaled the thick fragrance, committing it to memory, just like his transgression. He’d forever equate that scent with the image of her springing upward from the water.
With that thought, milky substance burst forth, mixing with the salty liquid surrounding him, washing him internally clean of desire and externally of his sweaty memory. He had to have imagined her, he reasoned. His head hung forward, relief at the release. His legs quivered under the water, toes digging into the sandy bottom to reinforce his balance.
If fear was an emotion he recognized, he’d worry. He’d never worried about being caught. There was no repercussion, until recent events. He didn’t acknowledge fear, not in the face of this island. The only thing that frightened him was the displeasure of his father, and even that was no longer a concern. He’d never live up to Terror Corbin, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to any longer. The sensation he felt standing in the waist-deep ocean was slightly different. Like one drop of blood within five miles of a hungry shark, he sensed something out there drawn to him. Something dangerous. His body hummed, his dick growing hard again. He looked up at the range, the tip disappearing into the clouds. The jagged cap penetrated the downy mist, blending them as one. Sensing a storm coming, he felt the ominous weight of eyes watching him, and he jerked off again.