Page 41 of A Game So Reckless

Only, for some strange reason, I find my relief evaporating the closer the vessel comes. Something cold and ominous clutches at my belly as the boat finally gets fully into view and starts to slow down. When it draws level with me, the engine cuts.

I know even less about boats than I do about cars, but this one is long and sleek, mostly white with silver and turquoise accents. The whole top is open to the air, with plush white seats gleaming in the sun. Most of the seats are empty. The only one that’s occupied is the driver’s seat.

“Stranded, little siren?”

Darragh’s huge body lounges in the driver’s seat of the boat, one arm propped against the back of his seat as he watches me over the side of the boat, the other languorously draped over the steering wheel. His hair is tousled from the whipping wind on the drive over here, little reddish bits falling forward into his piercing brown and green eyes. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him shirtless, and my gaze trips and snags on each hard plane of muscle, each inked line of his tattoos that stretch and twist from arm to shoulder, shoulder to chest, chest to abdomen. Abdomen to the low-slung waistband of his pale blue jeans.

I don’t bother asking him what he’s doing here the way I did last time at the club. I know I’m not going to get a satisfactory answer. Somehow, this man has the power to appear everywhere I am, to show up when I least expect it, and the more shock and unease I show him over this fact, the more vulnerable I’ll be.

So instead, I just pretend it’s the most natural thing in the world that I’m stuck out here in the middle of the bay and that he’s the one to find me. Tipping up my chin I say, “Nope, not stranded, thanks.”

A crooked smirk tugs at Darragh’s lips, as if that’s exactly what he expected me to say. The expression draws my gaze to his mouth, where I see a red mark just below his lower lip.

The place I bit him.

My stomach jolts, a hot spasm going from my belly to the place between my legs.

Darragh peels himself out of the driver’s seat, stands, and grips the edge of the boat, leaning over the side towards me. The slight smirk is still there, but there’s no laughter in his eyes. No, his gaze is all roiling hunger, all heat. Demanding. Predatory. I’m extra glad I didn’t do the bikini-top-flag-thing now, because even wearing my bathing suit, I feel tremendously exposed before him.

“Get in the boat.”

Four little words. Four corresponding slams of my heart against my ribs.

What would be more dangerous? To stay out here and pray that somebody else comes along to find me?

Or to voluntarily get into that boat with Darragh Gowan?

And what about the considerations beyond the simple dangers of the situation? What about the fact that I promised myself mere days ago that I would never willingly set foot anywhere that Darragh was? What about the fact that every time I obey one of his insane commands, I feel a little bit more of myself slip away. It’s like he’s cracking my defenses open with his bare hands and pulling the individual strands of my soul out, one by one.

“No,” I say, forcing myself to relax back against the sun-warmed surface of the tube. “I’m good.” I take my cup from the cup holder and take a long, lazy sip of wine, as if to prove just how fine I am.

Darragh watches me with silent, wolfish intensity. Then, he straightens with a suddenness that nearly makes me drop my wine. His smirk stretches into an ominous grin. He turns away from me briefly and bends down.

When he turns back to me, he’s holding a wooden oar.

For a terrible, time-stopping moment, I think he’s about to bash my brains in with it.

I shove my cup into the cupholder and twist away from him, covering my head with my arms as the oar comes down.

But it doesn’t hit me. Darragh has spun the oar around so that he’s holding the paddle part, and he hooks the long wooden shaft into the tube’s handle. His bare arms flex, muscles jumping beneath ink.

He’s reeling me in.

“Get off!” I cry, kicking at the oar’s handle. “I am not getting in that boat!”

“Noted,” Darragh grunts as he gives one final yank. Before I can try to kick or push off the side of the boat and away from him, he’s snatched back the oar and replaced it with his own hand. Strong fingers seize on the tube’s handle.

And then, a metal clip snaps into place on a loop of fabric between my feet. That metal clip is attached to a rope.

A rope that Darragh is now hooking onto a metal rod on the back of his boat.

Oh, hell no. He is not going to tow me to shore like some broken-down piece of –

That thought gets whipped right out of my head as Darragh starts the boat’s engine and takes off. The rope goes taut, and soon it’s all I can do to hold on for dear life as Darragh carts me over the waves. I swallow back a shriek, scrabbling for purchase on the tube’s handles, my body bouncing like a ragdoll’s. At this speed, the waves we hit feel like stone walls. My knuckles scream with tension as I grip the handles. My teeth clatter. My ass, thighs, and back feel like they’re on fire from the chafing of the tube’s seam.

I cannot believe that people actually do this shit for fun.

Maybe it is fun, when the driver isn’t a fucking maniac.

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