Fever by Autumn Archer
12
Over the years, painful regeneration of nerve endings in my scars brought back a hazy perception of touch. With my hands always covered by gloves, I never took the time to focus on new sensations, to understand how my body was healing in ways I never thought possible. Unsightly, self-inflicted burns have mutilated my palms for what feels like an eternity, forever the reminder of what they stole from me. What they accused me of doing.
I’ve built an ironclad defense of tropical species and acres of woodland. Yet it couldn’t prepare me for the celebrated rebirth of touch. The explosion of a simple caress. Slick heat and pulsating flesh. Frenzied tingles enrage like a forest fire. Millions of sparks firing up new sensory cells, initiating a heightened awareness for something I'd once taken for granted—if I ever appreciated it before.
What the hell is happening to me? She’s nothing special. I’ve had Brazilian beauties who strut along Ipanema Beach with curves and G-strings, oozing sexual confidence. Sure, they were fun for a night or two, nothing I’d call earth-shattering. Then Iris collapses at my feet like a broken bird, boldly stands her ground like a defiant queen, and makes me all too aware of things I’ve long forgotten.
Either she has a death wish, or the woman really is an innocent Scottish ecologist with no clue.
After our meteoric encounter, I marched to her unoccupied suite and sunk under the surface of the crystal blue pool. She’d already scampered off with Sal to clean or do whatever the fuck he had planned for her. As she rounded the decking of the cabana, vanishing from sight, all I could think about was how she’d still be damp in those hideous trousers. I was solely focused on my fingers drying beneath my glove, absorbing her sweet-flavored elixir, and shocked at how incredible it felt when she let go. Even swamped in men’s clothes, she vibrates at a different wavelength to mere mortals.
I pushed her too far. I should’ve held back the desire to punish. Defined lips glistened with a plea to stop, but her soft curves flushed, willing me to continue. When my warped fingers were rewarded with wet folds, it took every ounce of temperance to stay calm and hide the electric commotion unfurling up my arm.
She’ll never learn how my newest obsession is beija flor, the stunning red-haired hummingbird with the power to snatch my logic. The four ill-fated lives have consumed my wretched headspace for years. I’ve planned deaths, then rewritten the plot because it wasn’t harsh enough. What’s deadlier than death? Perhaps an infatuation with a creature so magnificent that I’ll fall for her lies. Or worse still, that she’ll become important.
Sun-drenched water silences the permanent jungle fracas. It’s peaceful below the shimmering surface—a sanctuary for my busy mind. She’s filled the cabin with scents of femininity. Floral and sweet. Seconds turn into hours. Floating stills the fury within me. I should be researching and spying, trawling for a new guest, and hunting a worthy assassin to take out the last life. All the others are lined up, ready and waiting for my order. Instead, I’m surrendering to filthy fantasies encased in azure waters that mirror the sky. With my disguise abandoned at the door, I’m clear to lavish in my liberty—and her cell.
The unyielding grip on my throbbing dick doesn’t excite me as much as her constricting inner walls and fast breathing.
Wading out of the pool, I wrap a towel around my hips and stroll through the expansive cabana. I’m drawn to the immaculately made bed she’s slept in. Dipping my torso, I sniff the trace of vanilla and a unique fusion of female seduction.
She’s definitely been in this bed—I waited until she was sound asleep before skulking back through the forest to my private domain. The power gained from watching her through the window with an inconspicuous hot gaze thrums in my veins every time until I throttle my solid dick for being so deprived. It’s the same routine every evening. Follow. Observe. Shoot my fucking load in the shadows.
Her entire presence threatens everything I own, unless I can prove her worthy of trust. A niggle of doubt skitters under my skin. Could I kill her if it turns out she’s the one thing I hate the most? I’d have to. It wouldn’t be up for debate.
I swipe a hand through dripping hair, ignoring the indecision wringing out my stomach. There isn't a future for any traitor in my kingdom.
Wandering into the shower room, I scoop up the cami top and shorts left in a pile on the floor. The compulsion to bury my face into the fabric wins. I breathe in her natural scent, agreeing with the heady rush of blood rocketing straight to my dick.
It’s heaven.
With her garments seized, I stroke and choke my cursed hard-on. What I miss in fluid female traction, I gain in her fragrance combined with my spittle. Then I mop up the cum with her shorts and crumple the damn things into a ball.
Fuck!
Temporary psychosis pumps through my hard-working veins. A bead of sweat trails the span of my shoulder blades. This intense preoccupation is one-sided. She’ll never bow down to a man who’s keeping her hostage. But it’s that fight, that inner clash that raises my temperature a few degrees higher than normal.
I should stare at my reflection and talk myself out of my next plan, yet my oasis has no place for mirrors. Guests aren’t granted the privilege of mourning the person they once were, only greet the redesigned persona they’ve become. The transformation runs its course, and on the final day, they’re introduced to a new identity.
I’ll never leave. My inner turmoil will never be tamed or modified or even forgotten. There’s no hope for me beyond the realms of my territory. I'm the same man I was the day I landed, perhaps a streak more bitter and a lot more twisted. A reflection won’t show me what I know truly lives beneath my skin.
What I plan to do next is free her deception and cast my little hummingbird to the side.
