AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I notice how his silver rings glint in the sunlight streaming through the portlight and that on his wrist is a bracelet that he wasn’t wearing yesterday. It’s thick and made of a dark tan leather and small silver beads held together with tiny knots. His forearm muscle tenses as he sucks in air through his teeth and the veins on his thick forearm bob as he moves his hand beneath the water, cleaning the cut. For a moment I’m mesmerised. I know I’m staring, gawking, again. But I can’t seem to help myself.
“I’ll be fine. Just leave,” he bites out, drawing my attention back up to his face and the hard grit of his jaw.
I should leave. Except, I don’t. I take another step towards him.
He snarls. Literally. His top lip curls up, revealing a flash of his white teeth as he turns to look at me. “Get out,” he repeats, darker, harder this time.
Disobeying him and ignoring my own frantic heart, I take another step closer, then another before I’m reaching for his hand and inspecting the cut. Apparently he’s so shocked by my actions that he stops snapping and snarling like a beast and draws in another sharp breath instead. I ignore the electric current that prickles my skin at the contact and force myself to remain calm.
“It’s a deep cut. You’ll definitely need stitches,” I comment, noticing a tea towel on the draining board. There doesn’t seem to be anything else available to wrap his finger up in apart from the towel wrapped around his waist and I’m not about to use that. For obvious reasons. “Is that clean?”
“Yes,” he grunts, dragging in a breath with that one muttered word.
Nodding my head, I pick up the tea towel and wrap it around his hand. When I’m certain it’s covered enough, my fingers slide over his forearm as I gently urge him to raise his hand and press it against his chest. My fingers hover over his skin, over the leather bracelet and the heat that builds between the centimetre gap.
My chest heaves, and words fill my head.
Electricity runs through fingers fast, lights up like the blue in a spark…
That’s how he makes me feel, like an electric current has run between us, sparking the flame within me. I’m acutely aware of his stare, of his heat, of my heart stuttering, my fingers shaking, my body heating. I feel his gaze burning my skin, licking over me just like the intense heat of a blue flame, but I turn away from it and start opening the cupboards lined up in his small galley kitchen. He doesn’t utter a word, just steps out of my way as I hunt for a first aid kit. I need something to do with my hands, otherwise I might do something stupid like touch him again.
“It’s in the shower room. Other end of the boat.”
“So you do have a first aid kit then?” I ask, looking up at him but resting my eyes on his lips, and the dark stubble that shadows his skin. It has suddenly gotten difficult to breath in the tiny space. I need to breathe.
“In the cupboard under the sink.”
“Give me a second,” I say, having to squeeze past him sideways given there’s not enough room for the both of us to move freely in the small galley kitchen. Even then, I want to lean in close. I want to rub the tip of my nose over his skin and smell him, like an animal would do with another in greeting. It’s feral this need. I bare my teeth, glad that I have my back to him now. I’ve never wanted to bite another person, not ever. But I want to bite him. Tastehim.
I walk quickly to the shower room and crouch down, fishing around in the cabinet glad to have a distraction. There’s a lot of stuff crammed into the tiny space, but eventually I find what I’m looking for. When I stand, I catch my reflection in the small rectangular mirror fixed to the wall above the sink. My face is flush, my lips pinker than I remember and my pupils are large, practically taking over the whole of my irises. I look like I’ve just been fucked or want to be. Is this what love looks like?
“Did you get it?” he yells impatiently.
“Yes,” I respond, returning to the tiny space, my heart pounding in my chest as though I’ve just run a marathon. I really should get off this boat.
Malakai’s sitting on a low two-seater booth behind a small table fixed to the floor and has somehow managed to put on a t-shirt, the ridiculous towel riding higher on his thigh and showing off the tribal tattoo that apparently runs up the whole side of his body from his right thigh to his neck. I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from it, from him. The swirling ink only seems to highlight every inch of firm muscle, but as I peer closer there seem to be small patches of raised skin… are they scars?
“I can handle it now,” he grunts, forcing me to look back up at him. He’s still glaring. Such an angry man. I almost say, ‘if the wind changes, your face will stay like that,’ but don’t.
“You’re going to sort that cut out one handed? I’d like to see you try,” I say instead, sitting down. Placing the first aid kit on the seat between us, I flip open the lid.
“I’ve been alone on this boat for a long time. This isn’t the first time I’ve hurt myself. I didn’t have some little girl to fix me up then and I don’t need your help now.”
My fingers hover over some antiseptic wipes.Little girl?I bristle at the insult, at the dismissiveness of his remark.I’m not a little girl because little girl’s donothave dirty, lustful thoughts about obnoxious, rude, man-gods like I’m having right now. A brutal, toe-curling thought enters my head, of me straddling his lap and pressing my tits into his cross face. That would show him. I push it away, blushing furiously but not for the reason he thinks.
“Well it’s lucky you don’t have a little girl now then, isn’t it,” I quip back, snatching up the antiseptic wipe and tearing the packet open, then grabbing his injured hand none too gently before unravelling the tea towel.
He winces when I press the wipe against the cut, but I don’t ease up the pressure. I can hurt him too. That thought is just as disturbing as my other one.
“It’s deep. I’ll cover it with gauze and wrap it up. Then you might want to take a visit to see Dr Fuller, he lives just off the harbour and will be able to stitch you up.” Better to remain civil, this is his boat after all and I’m the intruder.
“I’ll stitch it myself.”
“Are you left-handed?” I ask, refusing to look up at him and concentrate instead on cleaning the cut and wrapping it in a pad and some gauze.
“Ambidextrous. I’m good with my hands,” he comments, and I’ve no idea whether he’s joking or flirting, given his tone is still caustic and his face unreadable.
I’m betting neither.
