Fever by Autumn Archer

11

A tornado of glorious flesh and strong tendons secures the cap back on his head and covers his hands. Dangerous green eyes fix onto the lips that tingle from his brutal kiss.

I’m a bundle of jitters and misery. Insidious butterflies die an inglorious death in the acid roiling in my stomach. For a harebrained second, my fight ebbed. The fury deep inside of me combusted with scorching heat, not revulsion. His lips conjured a longing within me that whispered immoral desire. My distorted, perverted soul craved him. A slick heat was the telltale sign I was wet—for him. In a beat of insanity, I parted my lips to savor the exotic flavor of sin and hot summers, then my fight-or-flight response kicked in.

My dignity crumbled in the ashes of my soul. His attack was lightning in the dark. A roll of thunder from afar crackling through intense muggy heat. It brought relief and devastation.

Those feelings of mania are wrong. So very abnormal. A tangy tinge of iron mingles with saliva. I was the one who drew the first droplet of blood, yet he didn’t match pain for pain. Not this time. Instead, he reared back with a glare of pure disgust. The cold, hard stare both depletes my hostility and fuels contempt.

With my spine pressed rigid, I coast downward, spiraling in the aftermath. Burnt orange particles from the broken lamp crunch to a chalky powder, staining the cool floor. He returns the dark glasses to his face, hiding lustrous green eyes. Neither of us speak. The only movement are muscles flexing under his T-shirt. Taut fabric covers every solid curve like a thin layer of seduction, leaving tanned, sinewy arms bare.

After what feels like a lifetime of silence, he stalks around the bed. No second glance. No apology. No estimated timescale of imprisonment.

Only bad blood and a hammering heartbeat louder than jungle drums.

The noise of a door clicking shut echoes through the lonely paradise suite. Similar to his employees, the man exits in stealth mode. Except he hadn’t been quite so unobtrusive during his visit. Flawed palms weren’t aimed at choking out my last breath. They carefully secured, angled and owned. He didn’t kill me; he sought satisfaction and found discomfort.

Shaky thighs transport me to the mattress where I crawl on my hands and knees, curling up in the center of the bed. Tears sting, not because I’m upset, it’s more than that.

I’m ashamed. Utterly distraught.

What woman yields to her jailer, albeit a fleeting flash of temporary insanity? Now he’s aware of my reaction. It was there. He sensed it. I felt it.

I crave him.

I deplore him.

Huddled in isolation, I can only assume it’s a consequence of loneliness. A sick syndrome that smoothers a sound mind. The aftermath of a tropical fever.

* * *

I’m wokenat dawn with a tap on the door, a baseball cap, and a uniform twice the size of the last one.

“Hurry and get changed.” Sal lets himself in and plonks down by the transparent patio door. Slashes of flamingo pink and flushed coral streak over navy blue, gently announcing another day in the afterlife. “It'll be light soon, and I have to escort our new guest to the medical suite after breakfast. Tomorrow you can make your own way to the staff cabana.”

My head falls back on the pillow. Despite having an enormous bed, the sheets are tangled around me in loops from wallowing in the aftermath of el Fantasma. The last thing I want to do is move from my linen hideaway. It's the one place where I’m alone. To think. To remember. To seek refuge. If I’m honest with myself, I could easily barricade the door and never leave, except that would be giving up.

I haven’t come this far in life, to only get this far. For all to end here.

El Fantasma will let me leave, someday. He said so himself. The golden carrot of “one day” hangs out of reach, dangling in plain sight.

Traipsing into the bathroom, I dip under the waterfall shower head, going through the motions. Vanilla essence lingers in my towel dried curls and a fruity cocktail moisturizer takes care of stiff shins. I’m careful not to irritate the mending gash on my cheek, aware of how ugly it must be. Dressing in men’s trousers and a boxy shirt, I’m thankful for the lack of mirrors.

I try to push away thoughts of Emmie, my parents, and Bruce’s accident. My brain naturally plays out visions of their inconsolable grief. As months pass by, their tears will dry and their sadness will mellow. The world will continue to rotate in a glorious galaxy, and normal day-to-day living will resume.

One day they will learn to smile again.

They will carry on.

I’m destined to become a faded memory. A woman they once knew. A character in a framed photograph. A lost soul. All but forgotten until a snapshot reminds them of a moment we shared. The cruel facts unfold under the same rising sun that shines on my family.

I gather twisted strands into a low bun and conceal them beneath the baseball cap. My belly twinges in apprehension, pleading for a day without el Fantasma. A ravenous rumble reminds me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Not that I have much of an appetite.

Joining Sal, my attention lands on professionally tucked sheets and plumped up bolster cushions.

“Make your bed every morning. It sets the standard for the day ahead.” He fixes the last cushion with a perfecting karate chop.

“I’m used to shaking out a duvet and walking away.” I smile with limited effort.

“You’ll get used to it.” He ushers me to the door, stops and fastens the remaining buttons on my shirt, closing it around my throat. The gentle touch makes me shrink. “It’s better if you keep covered.”

“Better for who?”

“For you.” The corners of his eyes crease when his lips press to a firm line. “Tell me about Scotland.” He seamlessly switches the topic. “I’ve only ever lived in Manaus and here in the oasis.”

I sigh, missing the seaside whip of icy air and fishermen off-loading fresh sea trout from their trawlers. “It has an oceanic climate which makes it cold ninety percent of the time, with plenty of rainfall.”

Flickering lanterns guide us along the pathways, their yellow hue fading as darkness dissolves. I love how eco-friendly they are. However, I doubt they were an intentional touch by the egotistical creator of such a glorious trap.

Everything smells fresher in the earlier hours, while the sun prepares to burnish the opposite side of the world to my homeland.

“Why do you work here?”

“Why would I not? I get paid triple what most men my age earn.”

“What’s the point if you never hang out with your friends or look after your family?”

“I do see them.”

“How?”

“It’s all about trust. I work hard, follow through on my word, and my employer grants home leave.”

“He lets you out of the oasis?”

“He does.”

The first light of day spills tangerine columns on solar panels fixed to a rustic thatched roof shaped like a pyramid, nestled on top of a cabana sitting majestically on stilts. An amber wraparound deck boasts a panoramic view with twinkling lanterns.

Drifting indoors behind Sal, I gaze up at industrial steel beams and cultivated bamboo. Timber framed windows welcome shades of foliage from light to forest green. A natural reminder of the acres holding me hostage.

Workers occupy dining tables and relax in an informal lounge. A sugary coffee aroma carries through airy space. The buffet station flanking the far side offers an abundance of serving plates decorated with tropical fruits, nuts, and leaf-wrapped parcels.

Sal hands me a plate and winks. “Stretch or starve.”

Jovial conversations take place around us. These men aren’t here against their will. They happily sip hot drinks, filling up for a day of paid labor.

Paid.Whereas I owe a debt of gratitude. Pompous asshole. Isn’t it human nature to save a soul in distress without an expectation of reward or repayment? Sal is so blinded by money that he can’t see the devil in disguise.

I tug down the peak of my cap, thankful for the baggy uniform that helps me blend into the crowd. With so much food to choose from, I pick mashed avocado on sourdough, sprinkled in pepper. Sal pours two mugs of coffee and picks a table by the window.

It should be intimidating sitting amidst a throng of strapping men who work for the man holding me hostage. Yet, they don’t stare at me or point fingers or acknowledge my presence at all. It’s like I’ve become insignificant. Unseen.

“The guys seem content to be here.” It’s been weeks since I’ve savored a warm drink. The soothing liquid travels into my empty stomach.

“Yeah. They’re a hardworking bunch.” Sal wrinkles his nose. “The maintenance crew works the hardest.”

“And they enjoy working for a man like him?” The corner of my mouth drifts up.

“Of course they do.” He sighs, sinking his teeth into a plantain surprise. “If it helps, I understand why you’re angry,” he replies, covering his mouth as he chews. “I’d hate to be in your shoes. Away from my family. I get that. But you’re the one who came here. He didn’t snatch you from a crowd or lure you here under false pretenses. You crossed over the boundary. You stepped on his land and saw things you weren’t supposed to see.” He shrugs his shoulders as if that statement was perfectly rational and justifies my entrapment. “He could’ve left you for dead out there.”

“I was ill. Delirious,” I protest. “I didn’t notice any boundary lines along the river. What man owns the damn rainforest.” My fist slams down, rattling cutlery.

“He doesn’t trust interlopers who appear out of nowhere. You have to admit it yourself. It's very suspicious.” Sal dusts his palms together. “Anyway, I’m forbidden to talk about him, and I’d prefer to keep my job.”

To his employees, he's the respected authoritarian, the powerful king of his whimsical oasis. From where I’m sitting, he bribes men with money in exchange for silence. It doesn’t take a well-educated scientist to understand how he works. A blind woman could pick up flaws in this idyllic setup.

Sal sits back in his chair. “It could be worse.”

My brows drift higher. “How on earth could it be worse?”

He rips open a sugar packet. “You’re staying in one of the luxury guest suites. The rest of us bunk up on the opposite side of the oasis, in basic accommodation. Nothing like the cabana you’re assigned to.” He taps the granules into his coffee and stirs it with a teaspoon.

Rowdy chatter slashes to low mutters. My gaze cuts to the entrance, sensing the sociable mood falter.

El Fantasma.

The glorious rising sun salutes to him like the god he demands to be. With his usual dark lenses placed on his splendid nose and a baseball cap masking rebellious inky curls, he halts like a tyrannical ruler.

My pulse attacks the furious flutters in my throat. Sanguine strides cover the hardwood floor with a burst of arrogance. His presence absorbs all the nervous energy around him and conjures it into regality.

Behind me, Sal whispers, “He never comes in here.”

I drop my gaze to the bottomless pool of coffee, wishing I could splash into its warmth and banish the chill his sudden appearance commands.

One man scoots back in his chair, making a ghastly noise as the legs judder. The screech cuts through the palpable atmosphere. I take a quick breath and side-eye the interaction. The employee stands, holding out his hand. El Fantasma ignores his waiting palm, nodding once instead. They have a brief exchange in Portuguese, and just as I gnaw on my fingernail, his face angles. Hidden eyes find our table.

Muscles strain under a pristine white T-shirt. With his self-assured posture strong, he backs away from the friendly worker, all the while keeping his shaded gaze in our direction.

I don’t allow him to intimidate me a second longer. He told me to stay out of his way. I’m keeping my word. Bowing my cap, I fork toasted bread from one side of the plate to the other.

“Sir?” Sal stands. I stay seated. “Is something wrong?”

I clench my jaw so tightly that my teeth complain. El Fantasma extracts a replacement handheld radio from his camo pocket. “Here.”

That one word riddled with supremacy bites my attempt to stay quiet. I want to scream at him. To slam my fists into his chest and demand impunity. But I keep perfectly muted, nipping my tongue so hard I nearly draw my own blood this time.

There’s an eerie hush until he speaks again. “I don’t want her anywhere near the new guest. Understood?”

“Of course, sir. I have her on the cleaning rota until she gets the hang of things.”

“Excellent. Will that please you?”

Silence creeps in. Every breath around us pauses. I’m certain he directed the question at me, yet my lashes remain lowered.

“She’s happy with that,” Sal hurries a response.

“I asked her.” El Fantasma takes one powerful stride and dips his shoulders, bringing exotic scents to the table. “Does that please you?”

My stomach flips. I refuse to bend at the knee for this atrocious man. He instructed me to keep a low profile, yet here he is, taunting me with slavery.

The fork rattles on the edge of the plate when my hand trembles with rage. Just because he’s given me a well-appointed cabin and arranged for his staff to nurse me back to health, it doesn’t mean he’s anything less than a kidnapper.

For the longest moment, his mouth stays closed, waiting for a reply that doesn’t materialize. He cocks his head. Slow controlled breathing sounds louder, as if I’m attuned to his every move. “I’m talking to you.” A leather finger hooks under my chin. He pinches my jaw, dragging my face to meet his. I roll my eyes to the overhead fans, adamant about ignoring his question. “This childish attitude won’t do you any favors,” he says all too calmly.

My chest thumps when he snaps upright, dropping my chin like it’s covered in acid. He flexes his palms, smoothing the cap down on his curls. I dare to glance at the audience behind him. Wide eyes watch as he ever so serenely secures my elbow.

“Stand,” he orders.

The livid grip, felt only by me, threatens a temper on the verge of my destruction. My knees quake when I lift off the chair, peering up at him from my cap. If his eyes were lasers, they’d burn through the high-tech plastic shielding his rage. Fully aware of the loyal employees surrounding us, he skates his hand to my forearm and squeezes. With a steady and composed gait, he ushers me past ogling eyes, forcible guiding me into the open with one unforgiving strong-arm tactic.

His palm strangles the bones in my wrist. Whatever level of self-control he thinks he has is slipping. We leave behind oblivious spectators, who’d happily accept a financial bonus to look away. Three quick steps match one confident stride, marshaling me along the deck to a secluded area at the rear.

He corners me against the timber outer wall, trapping me like a startled animal. An injured bird caught in the jaws of a wildcat. I knew what I was doing. Standing my ground. Poking the hornet nest. Taunting the beast.

His shoulders tense. Early morning parrot twills and whistles burst from the high trees. “I don’t pretend to be the king of my jungle. I am the fucking king. Ignore me again, and I swear to fuck, I’ll—” The orchestral melody is powerless to subdue the sharpness to his voice.

“You told me to stay out of your way. Now you want a conversation?” I shudder when he purposely drags the frames off his face with his free hand. Amaranthine green eyes snare with mine, then dart to the corner of the cabana, ensuring we’re alone. The second they release me, I inhale again. A quick intake of air to keep me alive, laced with tropical tones of pure earth and raw seduction.

His gaze returns, stripping me apart piece by piece. Kinetic pools mirror the tint of thickset trees beyond him.

The ruthless hand holding me prisoner gradually uncurls. “I said stay out of my way, not disrespect me in front of my workforce.”

“Why should I show you respect when you think it’s okay to trap me here against my will? What have I ever done to you?”

“It’s not what you’ve done. It’s what you’re capable of doing. What you plan to do.”

Covered fingers skate along my biceps. The fine ridge of stitches binding leather invites a squall of prickles, so ruthless and unwanted. But they’re there. All over me. An unsolicited reaction. A wanton mistake.

“Don’t touch me,” I spit out. “Back the fuck up and give me space. The only thing I plan to do is leave.”

Rather than obey, he steps even closer, darkening the morning blush. All I can see is him.

One by one, sheathed fingers slip between his teeth, deliberately nipping the leather until the veil of concealment comes away. With supple black leather hanging from his mouth like a dead crow, he snatches it away and pockets the glove. I’m frozen, locked in place. He teases my shirttails loose with his opposite hand. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“What game?” I shiver at the contact.

He chuckles darkly. “The sort of game where you try to ignore me.” Fingers glide under the material, tracing the waistline of ill-fitting trousers. My stomach jerks at the intrusion. “Let’s see if you’re truly capable of staying quiet.”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” I hiss.

His one gloved hand swathes my throat, lengthening the bones so I’m staring directly into his eyes. I squeeze the lids shut, doing my utmost to block out the sensation of weight pressing against my breasts while his fingers pop open useless buttons holding the slacks to my hip bones. His breathing picks up pace, puffing in blasts over my cheek as he angles the wounded side out of his way. Dipping to my ear, he hums out a savage growl. I could dare to think he’s battling with desire, but the cruel noise is actually the king claiming his authority. Nothing more.

“Can you ignore this?” He caresses the contours of my quivering stomach, traveling between us to find my nipples.

I’ve nowhere to hide as his gaze drills into mine. I swallow in a gulp, begging my body to show repulsion, to become immune to his wicked torment. I can’t prevent waves of gooseflesh or the mounting swell between my thighs, and the bastard knows it. I’m only human. My senses answer to stimulation, but it doesn’t mean I’ll enjoy it.

“While you’re trying so very hard to ignore me, tell me one thing.” Tracing my waist, fingers skim to breach the loose material draping open at my belly. His spine stiffens. Unforgiving inky pupils liquify when he finds I’m not wearing panties. They weren’t part of the welcome package. In a man’s world, they fail to consider feminine basics. Underwear. Tampons. Razors. Simple necessities.

“Why did you fly to Rio last year with a Mr. Campbell?”

My spine locks. Keith.

“It was my honeymoon.”

His head yanks back like the announcement tugged the taut thread to his gravity. “You’re married?”

“No. I backed out,” I declare under a shaky breath. “We never made it to Rio.” The words spill out like a confession.

I can’t lie and pretend I’m married, to wish for a shred of clemency, a reprieve to this unfair charade. If he knows about Keith, then he already knows I’m not with him anymore. To be dishonest now would be the worst decision of all.

His bare hand doesn’t still for long, reaching behind me to grab my ass, rough and hard. I twist, straining my neck to turn, angling my hips to break away.

Keith asked me to marry him. He knew who I was. He understood the long hours and sheer dedication required to excel in my career. Or so I thought, until he accused me of working too much, ignoring him, and neglecting his needs. A month before our wedding, I walked away from a future I wasn’t sure I wanted in the first place. Regardless of his insecurities, he was kind and generous, not barbaric and intoxicating.

He pulls back an inch. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? Perhaps that man is my enemy too.”

“Keith? He’s never heard of you. How could he be your enemy?” This man is delusional. Keith never left the highlands, let alone conspire with strangers. The only danger he welcomed was trudging through a stream without wearing waders.

“Is there even a Keith Campbell? Or is he a decoy? I’m guessing you flew to Rio to meet a contact, and you’re lying to me.”

I suck in sharply, and as I prepare to scream, leather slams over my mouth. The effort to wrangle my jaws goes unrewarded when all I can do is nip his glove.

“Not quite so confident in your ability to ignore me now.” He chuckles, muting my squeal from the world.

Firm movements knead my fleshy buttocks, sliding roaming fingers into the crack so his handful encompasses more. The guttural noise deep in his chest reverberates from his body to mine. It tingles through me, both spurring my struggle and spiking my own inconvenient sunless craving.

“Let’s find out if you can tell the truth. A simple yes or no.” He ruts his thigh into my pelvis, forcing my legs apart, almost lifting my feet from the deck. “Are you wet?”

I am. Desperately and unintentionally wet. The pressure over my mouth decreases to permit my answer. “Not for you,” I spit out.

There’s no hiding the slick heat forming between my thighs, and no matter how hard I try to clamp them shut, he manages to invade.

“Then who? Your ex?” he hisses with a bitter rasp. Our gazes draw swords. Mine furious, his oddly possessive.

I shake my head, breathing wildly when he finds me perfectly lubricated. “You like this little game, don’t you?” He laughs deep within his chest, riddled with vanity. This time he bites his bottom lip and inhales in tandem with his one-handed search. Neither of us misses the perversion. He drags his mouth to my earlobe, making me shudder. “Your mind might lie, but your body, that’s a whole other creature entirely.”

My heart frosts under the smug tone of his voice. “Leave me alone.” I slam fists into unyielding strength, powerless to move out from under his weight.

A finger slips into my entrance, rendering me speechless. The throaty groan that flees past my lips betrays my soul. He’s manipulating my body against my understanding of sex and sin, wedding the two with a ring of peridot flaring in his eyes.

Tears glaze my vision. The warmth of his pillage blossoms within me, hijacking all the reasons this scenario is depraved. Poor Keith was underwhelming in comparison. Our nights together failed to stir a synergy even remotely similar to the uprise of scandalous arousal taking over me.

Indignation rolls with my eyes. The grunt that escapes me is part bubbling rage, part seething madness. I moan without reserve when a finger pushes higher. Unwanted sensations tingle from my scalp to the rise of my buttocks. A damnable tongue skates over the shell of my ear, making me quake.

“Don’t do this to me,” I beg.

I tense up my internal muscles, refuting the wicked sensation his angled wrist creates. The impulse to hook my leg around him is a fleeting back draft. I suck in the degrading atmosphere and let the idea devastate my soul. It’s a lie. A fever.

His workforce spills out of the cabana, filtering from the entrance only a few meters away. Their voices hum around the open expanse, unaware of our secret encounter.

“Don’t make a sound. Earn my trust.” His command snaps at my ear.

“I don’t want your trust,” I growl. “If this is what it brings me. You’re disgusting. A wild animal wouldn’t be so underhanded.”

Boots clatter. Conversations continue in the distance, ignorant to my imminent sexual spiral. Warm lips brush along the curve of my jaw while fingers continue to slip inside me. It’s not brutal or painful punishment, more hungry, like he’s savoring a gourmet meal after years of basic rations.

Hot breath, sharp citrus, and manly coiled energy all combine in an overwhelming rush of endorphins. It’s a debauchery riddled with pleasure.

I wince when he circles engorged flesh. “No. No!” My head shakes, fighting the thrill building in my core. He releases my jaw and grabs the twisted hair at my nape, fixing my gaze to his. Feathery hairs prickle over my chin. Sultry breaths separate our mouths. It’s intimate and intense. A prisoner held hostage to a need for satisfaction. The divine devil is claiming his property.

El Fantasma studies the precise second I unravel, humming out approval when my insides convulse around his fingers. He doesn’t stop until I’m tumbling down from the heights of a shocking orgasm. Trembling against aged planks, his grip remains firm, locking me in place as the lightheadedness subsides. Whiskered lips hesitate as if he’s debating a kiss. I hold my breath, secured in place for more torture and waiting for the fall out. Instead of owning my mouth, he removes his hand from between my legs and pushes away.

Flushed and ashamed, I cling to the last shred of tattered dignity and spit on his face. With a stride of space separating us, he glares at me with crippling intensity. A gloved hand swipes over the short hairs coating his jaw, removing all traces of my pathetic attempt at revenge. I ache to claw out his pretty eyes, scratch his immaculate composure, and heave my knee into the magnificent, proud dick bulging behind his shorts. But I know better than to light a fire under the man who would douse the scorching flames with fuel and burn us both.

“Get to work,” he commands with skin-crawling detachment. He flicks his one bare hand with a dismissive wave.

“I’m not your plaything. You can’t abuse me on a whim.” I chance a last-minute outburst of pride. My hands ball, and a queasy wave of hot anger creeps up my neck. “I have feelings. This is mine.” I thump my chest. “Not yours. That display of authority wasn’t kingly or just. It was the most hideous experience of my life.”

In a blink, overwrought muscles huddle me into a corner. Coconut. Lime. Sin. A slippery finger glides over my lips. His breath catches when I taste my own cocktail of vanilla and musk.

“All lies.” His teeth peek through a heartless smile. “I was witness to them.” He carefully removes the finger and slides it across his tongue. His gaze spears me with venom and greed. I can’t quite tell if he needs to kill or fuck. The indecisiveness tightening his features petrifies me. “I felt everything. Every spasm, every contour, and every fucking gasp of pleasure. You fucking loved it.” Then slowly and ever so controlled, he backs away as if he’s fighting within himself, afraid of his own boundaries.

Nausea showers me in a tide of sweat. I grapple with the buttons on my trousers, hurrying to cover my private parts. He shields his eyes, drawing a barrier of darkness, and covers his hand again. After repositioning a pronounced hard-on, he pulls an amber bottle, no bigger than a pinkie finger, out of his pocket. “Catch,” he snaps out, tossing the gift through the air. “Apply it to your scar twice a day.” The corked offering shakes in my unsteady hand. My brow creases. “I don’t have to hurt you. But if you lie to me, this oasis will be your living hell.”

Hatred and disgrace prick and twist around me, creating a heavy crown of thorns. Trapping me under its weight, snagged by potent desire and riddled with remorse. I push past him and storm over the decking. Away from sin. Carrying the secret of my dirty orgasm closer to my chest than the brown ointment in my palm.