I hurried toward her, and the moment I got to the boat, now bobbing in the shallow waves with her wading knee deep beside it, I heard the men’s voices.
I looked over my shoulder at them as they came rushing toward us with long spears in their hands.
Curses of the gods. This was not good.
Happy yelled frantically, and I had to choose. She would most likely die if we shoved off and tried to cross that ocean. If she stayed, I might be able to bargain with these people and convince them this was my doing. Perhaps I could make them think that I had bewitched her in some way.
I grabbed the boat and gazed into her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t take you on that ocean. I care too much for you.”
She frowned at me and a look of hurt showed in her eyes. She didn’t understand, and there was no way to explain it.
The men surrounded us, and that was when I knew that I had once again made a mistake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TEDDI
Why did he stop? Why the hell. Did. He. Stop? I realized I’d scooted forward, literally sitting on the edge of my seat, hanging on every word in that dark room. Yes, it was a fictional story—obviously—but as he wove his tale, using that deep, hypnotic voice, I had been transported to another time and place. I saw every detail he spoke of plus many more he hadn’t—the earthy smells of the jungle, the thick texture of the air, the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy—as if I were right there with him. My heart was even pounding and my palms were sweating. I felt torn for the two of them. And the sex—dear God, had he been trying to torture me? It took everything I had not to drool on my lap. No, he hadn’t gone into too much detail, but it wasn’t necessary. Like I said, my mind felt plugged in to his memories, and anything he didn’t say, my imagination filled in.
You’re an idiot, Teddi. The story’s not even real. Just like that cheese you ate yesterday. Regardless, my heart genuinely ached for this couple.
I cleared my throat and settled back in my chair, trying to gather myself. “S-so what happened next?” I asked, sounding only slightly less desperate than I felt.
It took him a while to respond. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear this?”
“I’m asking, aren’t I?”
“You’re a bit of a smart mouth.”
I was really more of a person who lacked experience in the couth and diplomacy department. One needed to be finely attuned to the feelings of others in order to excel in those particular areas. But that was neither here nor there, and I wasn’t about to talk about my issue.
“Yes. And don’t change subjects,” I reprimanded.
He rose from his chair, and the action startled me. His place was over there on the other side of the room. My place was over here close to the exit.
I was about to get up and head for the door, but then he walked over to the window away from me.
“I’m not changing the subject,” he said, his voice quiet and pensive. “I’m merely being a gentleman and warning you—the rest of the story is not a pleasant one.” He cracked open the curtain and gazed outside at the plum tree in the courtyard, shattering the intimate cocoon of our little world and bathing the institutional white walls and marbled tile floor with bright light.
Begrudgingly, my eyes adjusted, and once they did, I sucked in a quiet, appreciative breath. Dear God. The light filtered around him like a seductive aura, giving me my first breathtaking glimpse of his masculine, godlike silhouette and the back of his tall—six three or so—body. His shoulders were powerhouse broad and tapered down into a tight waist. His legs, incased in dark jeans, were muscular and long. His hair was dirty blond and a bit shaggy in the back, just enough length to run one’s fingers through while fucking like two sex-starved animals with only hours to live.
Wow. Why the hell had I thought that? The “two hours to live” part, I mean. The part about animals was obvious. The man was huge. Or, maybe huge wasn’t the right word. He was more like impressive, the sort of guy who walked into a room and drew everyone’s eye—the men because they’d see him as a threat. The women because they’d be wondering if he looked just as good naked as he did clothed.
As I ogled and he stared out the window, he lifted one arm against the glass and rested his forehead for a moment. That was when I noticed his heavily inked biceps with what look like dates and symbols and such.
“What do the tattoos mean?” I asked.
“I thought you wanted to know what happens next in my story.”
“Can’t I ask about both?”
“You can ask,” he replied, his tone indicating that he wouldn’t necessarily answer.
Pill. This man is a pill. Yeah, but he’s a sexy pill, so there is that in his favor.
“I choose story,” I said. “Your body art can wait for another day.”