Page 51 of Boneyard HEA

This late, there’s no one else on this small beach to see my antics.

“You tea-bagging someone?” Loxland shouts.

“Hah! Not even close!” I readjust my bikini. It’s not made for sporty games. The men are in surfer shorts and T-shirts. How did we go from me crawling into a cage, to this, playing cricket on the beach with these two men?

Though I’m sure they will have me doing more crawling anyway, when they wish to. My kinks align with theirs so far, and once again, I’m too happy.

Something will go wrong. That dark cloud won’t go away.

I fling the ball, but Mr. Loxland catches this one when Tomás swings at it, and they swap places.

Tea-bagging. It’s a gamer thing. As well as a sexual thing. Roleplaying is where I first came across it, and, oh yeah, online roleplaying is why the costume word made me go hmmm, earlier.

Tomás stomps across the loose sand toward me, walking backward as he gets nearer, watching Mr. Loxland do some practice swings.

Used to play online with Riley a lot, long ago. I wince at that memory.

World of Warcraft, for one. I was Gremlin 651.

Why is that niggling at me?

“Ready?” Tomás yells from where he’s stopped, five yards to my right, closer to where the waves wash up.

“Yes!”

Then he turns, half-crouches, and growls, “Run, little fucktoy.”

Mr. Loxland has snatched up the backpack he brought and is donning it while he breaks into a run.

“Oh shit!” I take off, heels kicking up squeaky sand. My tits are bouncing wildly with so little support, but I can do this. I’m so not surrendering without making them work for it.

I might even win?

I’ve been wary until my memory distracted me. It was obvious they had ideas. I sprint in the opposite direction to Tomás, heading at an angle for the tree line. If I get past the trees, I can reach the road and run along it to the little main street. They wouldn’t dare accost me in public, would they?

A thrilling mix of fear and excitement drives my legs, though I’m panting once I reach the first pandanus palm, and Tomás is right on my heels.

“Run, run, run,” he taunts. “We’re coming!”

“Nyah, nyah!” Gasping, I dance between the trees, with stones and leaf litter and sticks crunching underfoot. A car cruises by on the road, early headlights flashing through the trunks and casting flickering lines of shadow.

“Fuck!” A stumble has him crashing about, and I look, using a tree trunk as a shield while I check where Mr. Loxland is—yards further back but closer to the road—maybe trying to stop me reaching the road? Tomás is cursing at whatever he hit still. Grinning, I grab the opportunity to whip out my boobs and flash him. He growls as I run off again.

I’ve let Mr Loxland gain some yards by teasing them, but it is worth it. Soon I slow to a jog, I’m not a practiced runner, but Mr. Loxland also slowed and Tomás is…

Ohmigod. He’s sprinting like he donned a jetpack. He lunges forward in great strides, uses a handhold on a trunk to whip himself around and forward then his other hand catches my hip, tearing away the string of the bikini bottom before I get loose. Running half naked is a problem, but I’ve no time to fix it. I sprint again, then have to slow down, and I’m gasping when the bikini bottom drops and tangles about my ankle. Awkwardly, I hop, kick it off, and leave it behind.

One of the men laughs, and I take off again, panting hard, sucking in air and nearing the end of what my lungs can do.

I can’t run on the road, half-naked. The first passing car will spotlight my ass. Plus my feet are in agony every few steps due to the debris torturing me. By running there, Mr. Loxland holds a faster pace than I can. He kept his shoes on at the beach. As did Tomás. I should’ve figured out why.

I slow. I limp. I squeak as a sharp stick jabs my left foot and am forced to slow even more. I’m hobbling along and can hear their footfalls over my gasping.

Dammit. I spin and see Tomás sweep in. He wraps his arms around me, traps my wrists, and wrestles me to my knees. At the last second, he stops me headbutting into the sand.

Glaring daggers, I spit, “Sand!” Before going back to heaving in air.

Having gathered my wrists in one hand, he plasters his spare hand over my mouth, and I deliberately lick his palm, drawing an intense stare.