Page 42 of Shipwrecked

He doesn’t release me. I peek up.

His jaw is tense, and his eyes are locked on my face. The fist in my hair tightens when our eyes meet.

“Eat the rest of the bar.”

As I take a bite, Cillian moves closer. Through the shorts, his erection touches my chin. My eyes shoot down.

“Look at me.” His grip tightens, holding my head back. I keep my gaze up, breathing heavily. My hands are trembling. I eat the bar in small bites, dropping the empty wrapper when it’s all gone. I flatten my freed hand on Cillian’s thigh, creeping my fingers towards his waistband.

I never break eye contact.

Cillian doesn’t look away, even as his erection brushes against my chin again. Even as I part my lips for him.

He lets go of my wrist first, the skin reddened by his grip, and then he lets go of my hair. He clutches his own sides and stares down as if he’s going to make an absolute mess out of me. “The next time you get on your knees and open your mouth, I’m sticking my cock into it. Understand?”

I nod.

He turns away sharply and walks to the other side of the cabin and roughly opens the kitchen drawers. I kneel there, recovering myself. Throbbing arousal fades to a manageable pulse. I shakily get to my feet. “I’m going to wave and let them know we’re okay.”

“Good.”

I step around the damaged boards where the parasailing winch once was. I rub my neck, remembering the way my head whipped forward as I flew up, the boat becoming a tiny speck. I vaguely recall undoing the straps of my harness. My fingers were numb, and I wasn’t sure in the moment if I was even moving them.

Mathieu is on the edge of the waterline with Seán, while the rest are in the shade of the treeline. I wave, then give a thumbs-up. Both tried to grab me before I got into the water, and both were too slow. Mary had called everyone over for a distraction, giving me the time I needed. I think Seán got hold of Mathieu and stopped him from following me out.

I return to the cabin. Cillian has several lengths of rope on the floor, and extra life jackets next to them. He’s also found an entire box of flippers and snorkelling goggles.

In front of them are my blue boat shoes.

“They’re wet,” Cillian says, “but wear them. There are bits of glass on the floor. I don’t want you cutting your feet.” His gaze flicks over my knees, checking them. They’ve spent a lot of time on the deck since I got on the yacht.

I slip my feet into the shoes.

“We should bring back a protein bar for everyone,” I say. I go to the drawer where Cillian found mine. It’s full. I take out seven and offer the eighth to Cillian. “Might as well eat it now if we’re all having one.”

Cillian takes it, eating as we root around for more things. He checks a very specific drawer, hidden beneath one of the benches. He makes a pleased sound as he pulls out a knife sheathed in dark leather.

“That looks special.”

Cillian shows me. C.C. is stitched into the leather. “It’s a present from Seán’s parents.” He pulls out a wicked-looking blade. “It’s a survival knife. It’s thick like this so it can be used for splitting branches, and see this square bit at the back? You use it for starting a fire with flint.”

My hand finds Mathieu’s quartz, secure around my neck.

“Or any stone harder than steel.”

Cillian retrieves a length of leather from the same cubby, a strap for his waist that the knife sheath attaches to, and then finds a waterproof bag to stash them in. The other knives on board are two filleting knives and a shucking one for oysters. In the same drawer is a pair of scissors that I might build a shrine to later. I’ve learned to appreciate simple tools over the past week.

I drag the debris out of the pool of water so it can drain and dry. I’m delighted when I spot Mary’s bag—the promised exchange for her distraction—and put that out on deck to dry in the sun as Cillian and I attach everything to the life jackets.

“I know more rope would be the best idea, but I think everyone will be much, much happier with that case of 7UP. What do you think?” I ask. “Are we bringing too much for the two of us?”

Cillian throws a look over the cans. “I think we can manage this much. Let’s get everything tied together and head out. Also…” He gestures to inside the cabin. “On the counter. I found them in the bathroom.”

I duck inside. A razor and shaving cream rest on the counter, alongside a toothbrush in an unopened pack and a tube of toothpaste. I lunge for it, ripping open the packet and wasting no time brushing my teeth. There are so many mint plants on the island it’s insane, and Seán showed us which little stems are good for chewing on to clean your teeth, but there is no substitute for toothpaste and a brush.

I lean out of the doorway.

“Thank you, Cillian,” I mumble around the brush.