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Eight
Malakai
For the remainderof the day, I work on my boat and do all the things I usually do when I moor up. I’ve got to wait a couple of days until I can get Princess into the boat shop to be fixed so I’m using my time to declutter and organise. I’ve been at sea for a month travelling around the coast of Scotland and Ireland, spending time in small fishing villages, visiting remote islands in the Hebrides. I hadn’t intended on heading this way and was fixing on sailing across the English Channel to Cherbourg, but for some reason that I still can’t fathom, I changed course, deciding to head to Calais instead. When I got into trouble around the Strait of Dover in that sudden squall that wasn’t predicted and seemed to come out of nowhere, I had no choice but to head inland and get Princess fixed.
Funny how the nearest land mass was the island I once lived on.
A better, more honest man, would admit that I hungered to return to a place that had once felt like home. I’m neither.
I’m a beast. An untameable, unlikeable beast.
With needs…. evidently.
I’m still hard. Rock hard. For that girl.
Connie Silva.
No amount of scrubbing and tidying and hauling and lugging has prevented me from remembering how her touch burned me. Flayed my fucking skin.
I could’ve fucked her right here in my boat.
I wanted to.
I wanted to bite her sweet, rosy lips. I wanted to plunge my fucking tongue into her smart mouth. I wanted to wrap her hair around my fist and force her to her knees so she could take my cock between her lips and suck me until I saw stars.
I wanted every inch of her skin naked.
It took all I had not to act on these base feelings.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I need to get laid with someone who is nearer my own fucking age.
I need to find a way to get Connie out of my system because she’s dangerous.
But most of all, I need to get off this damn island.
Growling I yank at the sail, pulling on the rope to bring it down and secure it. I don’t want it catching wind, not that there is any. It’s so hot. Why am I so hot?
The heat of the sun is still scorching even this late in the afternoon, but I’ve suffered worse on my travels. I’ve moored in harbours like this all over the world. I should be used to it.
But I know the kind of heat I feel isn’t from the elements, it’s from within.
Because ofher.
She’s a fucking siren.
Snarling, I lean down and grab the wet sponge from the bucket of soapy water and start washing the hoarding. It’s not particularly dirty, but like I said, I need the distraction.
“Hey, Malakai. You gonna come and have dinner with me before those rowdy sailors return to The Shack tonight and I’m busy again?” Lola asks as she climbs onto the deck and leans against the railings, watching me.
There’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, as well as hope. She wants to reconnect. I owe her that time. I do. But I’m still fucking hard. Kneeling down so she can’t see my discomfort, I start washing the deck before me.
“I can fix my own dinner,” I retort, instantly regretting it when I peer over my shoulder and see the disappointed look in her eyes.
“I’m sure you can, but I’d like you to have dinner with me. I’m closing up The Shack for a couple hours before I reopen at nine. Thought you’d like to come home, see Clayhill, given it’s yours. I’ll drive.”
Sitting on my haunches, still with my back to her, I bite out my response. “Sure, fine. But I’ll make my own way there. I could use the walk. What time?”
