My breath stalls while my heart rockets up into my throat.
“Careful, bella,” he warns darkly. “You may not have forgiven me yet, but I have plenty of methods to ask for it.”
The only response I’m capable of is an embarrassing wheeze. He squeezes me tighter.
“I can get on my knees again and show you a blessing from a different type of god,” he purrs, his accent thickening and only making the words sound more salacious.
That. Is. Illegal.
The oxygen has evacuated from my lungs, and I quite literally can’t breathe. I wiggle out of his hold, casting a sassy look over my shoulder. Or at least I try to. I’m too distracted by the intense throb between my legs.
“You would sooner give yourself a concussion trying to fuck me in here rather than actually making me come.”
His spine straightens, and the look on his face solidifies into cool marble.
Oh, shit.
I dart out of the closet before he can make good on that challenge. I can’t let Enzo and his big dick distract me. The energy in this decrepit lighthouse is decaying as quickly as the structure.
Sylvester and Enzo positively hate each other—not that they ever cared for one another to begin with—and when Enzo isn’t around, Sylvester talks to me as if I’ve agreed to stay.
I've only decided to leave last night, but I can’t find the words to tell him that. I’m scared of what will happen once I do. So, in true Sawyer Bennett fashion, I keep my mouth shut and let him dream. Even if those dreams are nightmarish.
I know Enzo is aware of Sylvester’s growing obsession, but I haven’t told him how bad it’s gotten. They both have tempers, and I don’t want anything jeopardizing our chance to find the beacon and in turn, hopefully, get a one-way ticket off the island.
Ignoring Enzo’s heated stare from the closet, I peruse the short hallway. And then I pause, tripping over an idea I hadn’t considered before.
“What if the entrance isn’t on the second floor?” I wonder aloud. Then, I turn toward Enzo. He gazes at me with a furrowed brow, waiting for me to continue.
“I assumed the entrance would be up here because that’s logical, right? You get to the third floor by the second… But what if it’s on the bottom floor and leads all the way up?”
He tilts his head, considering that. After a moment, he purses his lips and nods, walking toward me and notching my chin with his knuckle as he passes.
“Good thinking, bella,” he croons, a devilish glint in his eye. As if answering a mating call, my clit pulses, and arousal gathers between my thighs.
It’s that fucking easy.
“Sylvester is downstairs still. We’re going to have to wait until he leaves,” Enzo continues as if he wasn’t two seconds away from staring down the center of my spread legs.
”It's about to storm, and we're supposed to get another tomorrow. How are we going to get him out?” I question, making sure to keep my voice quiet.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t figured that out yet. But we’re getting to that damn light.”
Pinching my lips, I nod and glance at the steps leading downstairs.
“Until then, I need to make nice with him.”
He gives me a sour look, as if I just shoved a lemon down his throat. Not very far off from its natural state. Enzo has a bad case of resting bitch face.
“That would only encourage him.”
“Yeah, encourage him to trust at least one of us,” I argue. “If he believes I might stay with him, he’s more likely to give me space. But if he thinks I’m not, he will cling harder.”
“I'm not leaving you alo—”
“You are because I asked you to,” I cut in. “Believe it or not, I haven't made it this far because I'm incapable, and he isn't the first creepy man I've dealt with.”
He studies me closely, an indecipherable emotion in his eye.
“I’ll trust you can handle yourself, Sawyer. But the second he takes it too far, or I feel you are in danger in any way, no more. I’m stepping in, and I’ll fucking kill the man. There won’t be any sneaking around then.”
My mouth parts in shock, and my eyes round.
He’s serious. Absolutely serious.
With one last heated glance, he warns, “I’ll be in the room.”
Did it get hot in here? I’ve begun to sweat, little beads forming along my hairline.
Attempting to shrug it off, I say, “You got it, dude.”
And then I take off toward the steps, needing air as much as I need fucking Jesus in my life.