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“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter under my breath, hearing Connie’s voice has my cock jerking in my pants.I can use a hand… My dick certainly seems to think so.
“No. You’ve been working all day. Go sit down. We’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” Lola says. “You can spend time getting to know Malakai better.”
What? Fuck. No.
“He’s here too?” Ma Silva asks, the smile gone from her voice.
“Of course. I thought it’d be nice to catch up. All of us.”
Lola, ever the welcoming type.I’m beginning to regret telling her about this island.Adjusting my crotch, I try to think of anything but Connie and her deep blue eyes.
“Perhaps Connie should help us after all?” Ma Silva offers.
“Yes, sure, that’s fine,” my Little Siren agrees.
My. Little. Siren?Fuck.
“Don’t be daft. Go sit,” Lola shoos.
I draw in a deep breath, blowing it out quickly when I sense Connie enter the room. I daren’t look at her. I can’t look at her…
Don’t fucking look.
“Hi, Malakai…”
That damn voice and the way her tongue wraps around my name, caressing it, makes me think of sweet, torturous things. I grunt. Staring ahead of me. My hands are folded in my lap over my twitching dick. This is fucking ridiculous. She hovers in the doorway and I know I’m making her uncomfortable, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“How’s your finger? Did you see Dr Fuller or did your ambidextrous skills sort it?”
“It’s fine,” I snap at the laugh in her voice. Though right now my finger is hurting like a bitch given I’m squeezing my hands together over my crotch trying to cover the fact I’ve got a semi.
“That’s good…”
She moves into the room, clearly encouraged by my two-word answer. I should’ve just ignored her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take a seat in the chair to my left. She’s wearing a red summer dress. It floats around her mid-thigh, the soft material grazing over her bare legs as she gets comfortable in her seat. Shit.
Don’t fucking look, Malakai.
Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the empty fireplace opposite, I let the silence grow. Maybe she’ll get uncomfortable and leave so that I can breathe again.
But she doesn’t leave.
She fucking stares atme.
I can feel her gaze, hear her soft breaths grow shallower as she runs her eyes over every inch of me just like she did yesterday in Ma Silva’s kitchen. Knowing she was coming, I’d purposely dressed down, making no effort whatsoever. I’m wearing my oldest denim jeans that are worn and frayed around the knees. My white t-shirt has tiny holes in it from overuse and on my feet I have my leather flip flops that will likely fall apart on the walk back to my boat.
But you would think I was dressed up in an expensive tailored suit given the way she’s staring at me.
For fuck’s sake.
She needs to get the fuck out.
Or I do.
I consider getting up and doing just that. Then I think of Lola and how I’ve treated her, and don’t. So I remain stuck in my seat, willing myself to calm the fuck down.
Connie doesn’t try to fill the silence with small talk. She doesn’t utter a single, solitary word, but her silence says so fucking much. I’m acutely aware of the motion of her fingers as they pluck at the hem of her dress as though itching to play an instrument. I heard from Lola that she plays guitar, that she sings. What sweet fucking torture.
I’m in Hell.
