Page 75 of Hate Wrecked

He pulled away, his fingers moving in and out of me. “I’m not going to fuck you while you’re with him, Riley.”

He moved up, his mouth finding my breast again as he fucked me with his hand. “Why do you do this to me?” he asked. I reached for him, wanting to feel his hardness, and he pulled away. Denying me.

“I hate this fucking job, Riley,” Rowan whispered in my ear as he brought me closer and closer. “I fucking hate it, and I can’t leave. I wish I never met you,” he said as I clenched. He bit my ear before moving down again; his tongue on my clit, flicking and sucking, relentless and brutal. I cried out. The neighbors could probably hear me, or those on the shore. I didn’t care. I didn’t care who heard me; I needed to be free, undone.

I came on his fingers, and he pulled them out, his mouth lapping me up, his hand gripping my thighs. I laid there breathing heavily, catching my breath.

When I opened my eyes, Rowan stood over me, eyes blazing. I reached up for him, and he stepped back, shaking his head.

“Let me repay you,” I said, and the look on his face told me it was the wrong thing to say. It wasn’t a transaction, but everything I’d been taught in my life until then told me otherwise.

“No,” Rowan said, walking to his pile of clothes, “You’ll have to figure out that part with him, I guess.” Then he walked inside, leaving me alone and naked in the dark.

HOW YOU TASTE

RILEY

I keep to my word—nolonger hiding myself from Rowan.

The sun bears down relentlessly on the shoreline, the heat oppressive as I gaze at the vast expanse of the ocean. The allure of the water's embrace after a long morning fishing is irresistible. Without hesitation, I shed my shoes and clothes on the shore, plunging into the clear depths. The shock of the cool water is invigorating, a stark contrast to the lingering tension that has volleyed between Rowan and me in the days since we fought on the beach.

When I float in the water, at times, I feel like a ghost. The memories of what we’ve done here plunging me into the dark I deny I feel.

I see the captain’s eyes, lifeless, his hand a closed fist. The ocean and no one else surrounding him in his last moments.

Is that the way a sailor wishes to die?

Will I die alone with nothing but the ocean around me? Will we ever be found? The buildings on this land whisperyes. This is not a no-man’s land. It’s just on pause, like us—like I have been for years.

Like Rowan has been, too. Like he is now, avoiding me, surviving—existing.

Floating, momentarily suspended between the vast sky and the terrifying ocean floor, I find solace in the weightlessness. The sound of my breath, the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves—it’s a release. I won’t merely exist, I won’t.

The rain comes then, a gentle cascade. I dive down, away from the sky, away from everything. When my breath gives out, I break the surface once more, a sense of purpose filling me. The saltwater clings to my skin, and the sun-drenched air feels like a fist to my chest, but the heat lessons as the water falls. I swim in the storm, carless, free. When the rain falls harder I swim to the edge of the lagoon, under the trees. I let my mind wander as the rain falls, and when it starts to fade, I decide to come ashore. With each stroke toward the shoreline, a plan forms at the fringes of my mind.

With the short rain gone, I race to the shower at the back of one of the buildings, dropping my bikini on the ground and reaching for the nozzle. When I step beneath the water, it’s cool, and I shiver, my nipples turning to hard points, but I don’t care. I grab the old and expired body wash, dolling it out in tiny drops and slathering it in my hands. Every bit of our supply must be used sparingly.

The sun peaks through the clouds and hits on me, warming me a little.

I moan at the feeling, the warmth and the suds, the freshness I know will last for a little while but eventually fade when I have to get back into the ocean to catch dinner.

Movement catches my eye, and I wipe the suds away. Rowan stands in the distance, watching me with a pail in his hands—fresh water for our campsite. I could cover my chest and wrap myself in something, but I don’t. I won’t anymore. I arch my back, lowering my head under the water. Rowan walks closer, shaking his head. I can see the vein in his neck.

Good.

I ring my hair out, staring into his eyes. “Come over here.”

“Better not,” he replies, walking past the shower.

I roll my eyes. “Come on. You know you’re tired and need it. I won’t touch you, I promise.” I won’t touch him unless he asks for it. There is no reward in taking something from him.

“Not happening, Riley,” Rowan grumbles.

“I’ll get out. I promise.” I hold my hand up in surrender. And Rowan stops, setting the pail down. His eyes catch on the rainwater pouring off the roof. It drops from the jungle overhead, and he knows it won’t last long.

Not looking at me, he walks toward the shower, stripping his shirt off.

As promised, I step out of the water, the last suds running down my legs.

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