Page 22 of Magnum, Volume 1

I’d seen the snake about to strike, saw the large bullfrog he’d been eyeing get startled by us and leap away, and then Storm had suddenly been all up in the snake’s business. It was annoyed about losing its dinner and defensive because Storm’s arm sliced into the water less than a foot away from him.

I’d been on the other side of her and a few feet back, so I could keep an eye on her. My arm was around her and my body propelling us backward before I even considered what to do.

I’d worried she’d panic and be stupid once she saw the snake, and I’d worked to get us farther away when he’d opened his mouth so there was no way she could miss him, but she surprised me. Sure, there’d been fear and adrenaline, but she’d used them to help me get us away, kicking her feet to beat the band. There’d been no girly-girl panic.

The more time I spent around her, the more she impressed me.

Not to mention the fact she’d made it to the island faster than most humans can manage. To say she was a strong swimmer would be an understatement, and my inner turtle especially liked that she was so at home in his favorite environment.

I still wasn’t sure what to do with her turning in my arms and staying put, though. Most women, when you grab them and tow them away, can’t get away from you fast enough when you let them go.

But this chick had balls of steel. It’d been all I could do to push her away and not kiss her, but that wasn’t why she was here, so I’d only held her long enough to make sure she was keeping herself afloat before I’d regretfully moved completely away from her.

I desperately wished we could rescue the fighters in two weeks instead of ten, and I made a little personal vow to do everything in my power to figure out how to get it done — because surviving another two and a half months with her living in my house while she was off limits was going to be hard enough without stretching it out even longer.

If we weren’t ready, we’d wait, of course, but I was going to push hard so we’d be ready.

Chapter 10

Storm

I turned the water to scalding and stood under it until my skin burned, but it didn’t wash away the feel of his arm locked around my torso, or the way he’d pulled me back so fast it’d pushed all the air out of my lungs. The memory of his body pressed tight against mine while he kicked us away kept looping — hard muscle, controlled strength, the way he’d shifted me behind him without even a tiny hesitation. My nipples tightened under the spray, one of my body’s many reactions to the memories of his hands on me, handling me. So easily controlling me.

Part of me wanted to be offended that he’d put his body at risk to save mine, but I couldn’t find it in me to be upset. I was relieved, and I didn’t especially like what that said about me, but it was the truth.

Also, it made me want to jump him even more, which wasn’t helpful. Neither was the memory of his hard, muscled body pressed against mine while he kicked us backward, or the way he’d held me after — tight enough to tow me away but loose enough I could breathe.

And then those few seconds of devastating eye contact, our faces only inches away from each other before he’d pushed me away. Or maybe he’d pushed away from me. In the water, I’m not sure you can tell one from another.

I washed and conditioned my hair, dried it, and was still horny as fuck. No way was I going to get to sleep like this, so I grabbed my vibrator from my suitcase and went to bed naked.

His bedroom was right fucking beside mine, and the vibrator sounded way too loud when I flicked it on, so I turned it off, found the remote, and turned the television on. The recommendations weren’t great, so I turned a music station on and then flicked the vibrator to medium and stroked all around my clit, preparing it for what was to come before I went at it directly.

Sometimes, that’s enough, but it wasn’t tonight.

I replayed his arm around me in the water, the two of us kicking, our bodies pressed together — and then the way he’d looked at me in the water — faces inches apart, his hand still at my waist, holding me up like it cost him nothing. I fantasized about him taking control, closing the distance, and his mouth was suddenly on mine, taking me and owning me while we floated, while one of his hands stayed banded across my back and the other slid lower. I flipped the switch to high and shoved the vibrator inside while imagining it was his fingers, and came almost immediately, rolling to my side with my thighs locked around my wrist while my hips pumped, the vibe humming deep while I curled my lips in and sealed them closed to stay quiet. The release rolled through me in long, shaking waves, but the second it eased I was already restless again, already needing more while I lay panting on top of the sheets.

The second orgasm took longer. I had to work harder for it, fucking myself slow and steady with the vibe while I remembered his calm, annoyingly patient voice the day before demanding, “Again.” How I’d had to keep wiping the glass down, keep repeating the job until he was satisfied, and every time he’d said it I’d felt the same hot, liquid clench between my legs. I have no idea how I ended up on my back again, my legs spread wide while I timed the thrusts to that single word, my hips lifting off the bed in desperation while I chased a release from the torment of his voice, his gaze, his damned authority. His absolute assumption that I would unquestionably obey had gone straight through me and was still lodged in my entire lower torso now, hours later, while I fucked myself into a frenzy and tried not to make a sound.

When I finally came this time, I rolled to my stomach and pressed my face into the pillow, humping the bed with the vibe wedged inside and my fingers still working my clit.

But sometimes an orgasm just works you up more instead of providing release, and there was no way I was going to manage sleep in this state.

So I let a new fantasy build slowly this time, and I moved the vibe just as leisurely, teasing myself while I imagined him finding a watermark on the shower door. A single drop I’d missed, and it’d dried to leave a mark.

I imagined his eyes going flat. Disappointed. “How, exactly,” he’d ask with that voice made of gravel, “does one wipe it down, then use glass cleaner, then polish it with a microfiber cloth, and still miss a drop?”

But when I moved to try to fix it, he’d stop me and demand I admit I’d taken shortcuts. And of course I’d have to be honest and admit, “I took shortcuts, Sir. I skipped the glass cleaner and went straight to the final cloth polishing,” while he stood over me without anger, just a look that demanded compliance — and then a cane would magically be in his hands as if it belonged there, while that calm fucking voice casually ordered me to strip, and then, “Bend over and brace your hands around the damned mark.”

I’d follow his orders, but he’d say, “Bend your arms. Eyes two inches from that godawful watermark, so it fills your vision.”

There’d be no way to look away, no way to make it so my ass wasn’t higher than my head and fucking vulnerable.

I hate pain, but the idea of it is the best aphrodisiac in the world, so I imagined the first stripe of the cane landing across the backs of my thighs in a sharp explosion of agony while that calm, deep voice told me shortcuts will always be punished in this house, and the cane struck again and again.

I fucked myself harder with the vibrator, fingers rubbing fast circles on and around my clit while the fantasy kept going — his voice steady, the cruel cane deliberate, my body shaking while desperately trying to hold the position he’d ordered me into.

Eventually, I came so hard I couldn’t breathe, the orgasm dragging on in long, helpless pulses while I tried not to make any sounds that might carry through the wall, but I worried my heavy breathing might while I gasped around my racing heart and fought to bring more oxygen into my lungs.