Beyond the Horizon Read online

  “Go,” he orders, pressing his hips against the sink as he deals with the wound. At least there’s no danger of the towel falling off now. That would’ve been awkward for the both of us.

  “I think you’ll need stitches for that,” I say, stepping closer rather than turning away.

  I notice how his silver rings glint in the sunlight streaming through the portlight and that on his wrist is a bracelet that he wasn’t wearing yesterday. It’s thick and made of a dark tan leather and small silver beads held together with tiny knots. His forearm muscle tenses as he sucks in air through his teeth and the veins on his thick forearm bob as he moves his hand beneath the water, cleaning the cut. For a moment I’m mesmerised. I know I’m staring, gawking, again. But I can’t seem to help myself.

  “I’ll be fine. Just leave,” he bites out, drawing my attention back up to his face and the hard grit of his jaw.

  I should leave. Except, I don’t. I take another step towards him.

  He snarls. Literally. His top lip curls up, revealing a flash of his white teeth as he turns to look at me. “Get out,” he repeats, darker, harder this time.

  Disobeying him and ignoring my own frantic heart, I take another step closer, then another before I’m reaching for his hand and inspecting the cut. Apparently he’s so shocked by my actions that he stops snapping and snarling like a beast and draws in another sharp breath instead. I ignore the electric current that prickles my skin at the contact and force myself to remain calm.

  “It’s a deep cut. You’ll definitely need stitches,” I comment, noticing a tea towel on the draining board. There doesn’t seem to be anything else available to wrap his finger up in apart from the towel wrapped around his waist and I’m not about to use that. For obvious reasons. “Is that clean?”

  “Yes,” he grunts, dragging in a breath with that one muttered word.

  Nodding my head, I pick up the tea towel and wrap it around his hand. When I’m certain it’s covered enough, my fingers slide over his forearm as I gently urge him to raise his hand and press it against his chest. My fingers hover over his skin, over the leather bracelet and the heat that builds between the centimetre gap.

  My chest heaves, and words fill my head.

  Electricity runs through fingers fast, lights up like the blue in a spark…

  That’s how he makes me feel, like an electric current has run between us, sparking the flame within me. I’m acutely aware of his stare, of his heat, of my heart stuttering, my fingers shaking, my body heating. I feel his gaze burning my skin, licking over me just like the intense heat of a blue flame, but I turn away from it and start opening the cupboards lined up in his small galley kitchen. He doesn’t utter a word, just steps out of my way as I hunt for a first aid kit. I need something to do with my hands, otherwise I might do something stupid like touch him again.

  “It’s in the shower room. Other end of the boat.”

  “So you do have a first aid kit then?” I ask, looking up at him but resting my eyes on his lips, and the dark stubble that shadows his skin. It has suddenly gotten difficult to breath in the tiny space. I need to breathe.

  “In the cupboard under the sink.”

  “Give me a second,” I say, having to squeeze past him sideways given there’s not enough room for the both of us to move freely in the small galley kitchen. Even then, I want to lean in close. I want to rub the tip of my nose over his skin and smell him, like an animal would do with another in greeting. It’s feral this need. I bare my teeth, glad that I have my back to him now. I’ve never wanted to bite another person, not ever. But I want to bite him. Taste him.

  I walk quickly to the shower room and crouch down, fishing around in the cabinet glad to have a distraction. There’s a lot of stuff crammed into the tiny space, but eventually I find what I’m looking for. When I stand, I catch my reflection in the small rectangular mirror fixed to the wall above the sink. My face is flush, my lips pinker than I remember and my pupils are large, practically taking over the whole of my irises. I look like I’ve just been fucked or want to be. Is this what love looks like?

  “Did you get it?” he yells impatiently.

  “Yes,” I respond, returning to the tiny space, my heart pounding in my chest as though I’ve just run a marathon. I really should get off this boat.

  Malakai’s sitting on a low two-seater booth behind a small table fixed to the floor and has somehow managed to put on a t-shirt, the ridiculous towel riding higher on his thigh and showing off the tribal tattoo that apparently runs up the whole side of his body from his right thigh to his neck. I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from it, from him. The swirling ink only seems to highlight every inch of firm muscle, but as I peer closer there seem to be small patches of raised skin… are they scars?

  “I can handle it now,” he grunts, forcing me to look back up at him. He’s still glaring. Such an angry man. I almost say, ‘if the wind changes, your face will stay like that,’ but don’t.

  “You’re going to sort that cut out one handed? I’d like to see you try,” I say instead, sitting down. Placing the first aid kit on the seat between us, I flip open the lid.

  “I’ve been alone on this boat for a long time. This isn’t the first time I’ve hurt myself. I didn’t have some little girl to fix me up then and I don’t need your help now.”

  My fingers hover over some antiseptic wipes. Little girl? I bristle at the insult, at the dismissiveness of his remark. I’m not a little girl because little girl’s do not have dirty, lustful thoughts about obnoxious, rude, man-gods like I’m having right now. A brutal, toe-curling thought enters my head, of me straddling his lap and pressing my tits into his cross face. That would show him. I push it away, blushing furiously but not for the reason he thinks.

  “Well it’s lucky you don’t have a little girl now then, isn’t it,” I quip back, snatching up the antiseptic wipe and tearing the packet open, then grabbing his injured hand none too gently before unravelling the tea towel.

  He winces when I press the wipe against the cut, but I don’t ease up the pressure. I can hurt him too. That thought is just as disturbing as my other one.

  “It’s deep. I’ll cover it with gauze and wrap it up. Then you might want to take a visit to see Dr Fuller, he lives just off the harbour and will be able to stitch you up.” Better to remain civil, this is his boat after all and I’m the intruder.

  “I’ll stitch it myself.”

  “Are you left-handed?” I ask, refusing to look up at him and concentrate instead on cleaning the cut and wrapping it in a pad and some gauze.

  “Ambidextrous. I’m good with my hands,” he comments, and I’ve no idea whether he’s joking or flirting, given his tone is still caustic and his face unreadable.

  I’m betting neither.

  Ignoring my racing pulse, and the fact that the air has grown so thin I can only take small, little breaths, I wrap up his finger as best I can, given he’s not making the job easy. He stiffens under my touch. Everything about him is rigid and guarded. But I continue on, regardless. I’m not about to leave him to bleed to death.

  Okay, so that’s a little dramatic and not entirely why I feel the need to touch him.

  When I’m satisfied, I gather up the empty wrappers and close the lid to the first aid box.

  “That should keep it clean until you go see Dr Fuller.”

  “Like I said, I’ll stitch it myself,” he grinds out, taking the first aid box from me. Clearly he thinks I’m a nuisance, but a thanks would’ve been nice.

  When I look up at him, he’s staring out of the small window opposite. He has a beautiful profile. A strong jaw, high cheekbones and heavy brow, but from this angle it’s his lips that fascinate me the most. They’re full and plump and entirely distracting. Heat blooms once more.

  “I should go. I need to get back to work,” I explain, fumbling for words, finally seeing sense.

  “Work?” he snaps, turning to look at me.

  “Yes, I’m working with Lola in t
he shack.” Did he think I just swung by with breakfast for the hell of it?

  “Just perfect,” he mutters, his gaze boring into mine, before it drops briefly to my lips.

  My heart thunders as his mouth parts and his tongue swipes at his bottom lip. I don’t think he realises that he’s doing it, but when my skin flushes, again, he clamps his mouth shut.

  Thump. Thump. Thump, goes my heart.

  “It’s the breakfast rush. All the trawlers will be coming back soon. Lots of hungry fishermen to feed,” I say, forcing myself to act normal when inside I’m anything but. “I’ve been gone too long already.”

  “I told you to leave ten minutes ago.”

  “I’m not very good at following orders…” I state, wondering why the hell I said that when I’m such a good girl, or so everyone assumes.

  He growls, sitting up abruptly and leaning close enough that his face is inches from mine. If I was braver, I might just lean in and kiss his plump lips just to see what he’d do. As it is, I’m nine years old again and I can’t move. I’m a stone statue afraid to make a sound in case the monster finds me in the dark.

  “And I’m a man who punishes those who ignore him…”

  Fuck.

  Is it wrong that I’m clenching my thighs together at his nearness, at the tone of his voice, at the sudden need I have for him to touch me in places that he shouldn’t? Is it wrong that I want him to kiss me like he kissed Lola, that I would give him myself right here, right now without a second thought? The throb between my legs aches. Wanting.

  I want him.

  Silence stretches out between us as I remain fixed to the seat. Something flashes in his gaze. Anger, definitely. Confusion, maybe? Then his pupils widen and for a moment I see my reflection in the black circles.

  Is he feeling the same attraction too? Or does a person’s pupil enlarge with anger just as much as lust? I don’t know how I know. I think Alice might have told me once, but I’m pretty sure she said that when you’re faced with someone you’re attracted to your pupils enlarge as though you suddenly get tunnel vision and the world around you darkens until all you see is each other. Then again, I’m not really well-versed in that kind of thing. I’ve only slept with one person, and that was a quick fumble which was over before it really began. No heat, no passion, no enjoyment, really. I lost my virginity in the dark with a boy I didn’t love. Don’t love.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Stupid.

  “Leave,” he bites out. That one word is like a tiny bullet straight to my heart.

  This time, I get up and leave.

  Eight

  Malakai

  For the remainder of the day, I work on my boat and do all the things I usually do when I moor up. I’ve got to wait a couple of days until I can get Princess into the boat shop to be fixed so I’m using my time to declutter and organise. I’ve been at sea for a month travelling around the coast of Scotland and Ireland, spending time in small fishing villages, visiting remote islands in the Hebrides. I hadn’t intended on heading this way and was fixing on sailing across the English Channel to Cherbourg, but for some reason that I still can’t fathom, I changed course, deciding to head to Calais instead. When I got into trouble around the Strait of Dover in that sudden squall that wasn’t predicted and seemed to come out of nowhere, I had no choice but to head inland and get Princess fixed.

  Funny how the nearest land mass was the island I once lived on.

  A better, more honest man, would admit that I hungered to return to a place that had once felt like home. I’m neither.

  I’m a beast. An untameable, unlikeable beast.

  With needs…. evidently.

  I’m still hard. Rock hard. For that girl.

  Connie Silva.

  No amount of scrubbing and tidying and hauling and lugging has prevented me from remembering how her touch burned me. Flayed my fucking skin.

  I could’ve fucked her right here in my boat.

  I wanted to.

  I wanted to bite her sweet, rosy lips. I wanted to plunge my fucking tongue into her smart mouth. I wanted to wrap her hair around my fist and force her to her knees so she could take my cock between her lips and suck me until I saw stars.

  I wanted every inch of her skin naked.

  It took all I had not to act on these base feelings.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I need to get laid with someone who is nearer my own fucking age.

  I need to find a way to get Connie out of my system because she’s dangerous.

  But most of all, I need to get off this damn island.

  Growling I yank at the sail, pulling on the rope to bring it down and secure it. I don’t want it catching wind, not that there is any. It’s so hot. Why am I so hot?

  The heat of the sun is still scorching even this late in the afternoon, but I’ve suffered worse on my travels. I’ve moored in harbours like this all over the world. I should be used to it.

  But I know the kind of heat I feel isn’t from the elements, it’s from within.

  Because of her.

  She’s a fucking siren.

  Snarling, I lean down and grab the wet sponge from the bucket of soapy water and start washing the hoarding. It’s not particularly dirty, but like I said, I need the distraction.

  “Hey, Malakai. You gonna come and have dinner with me before those rowdy sailors return to The Shack tonight and I’m busy again?” Lola asks as she climbs onto the deck and leans against the railings, watching me.

  There’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, as well as hope. She wants to reconnect. I owe her that time. I do. But I’m still fucking hard. Kneeling down so she can’t see my discomfort, I start washing the deck before me.

  “I can fix my own dinner,” I retort, instantly regretting it when I peer over my shoulder and see the disappointed look in her eyes.

  “I’m sure you can, but I’d like you to have dinner with me. I’m closing up The Shack for a couple hours before I reopen at nine. Thought you’d like to come home, see Clayhill, given it’s yours. I’ll drive.”

  Sitting on my haunches, still with my back to her, I bite out my response. “Sure, fine. But I’ll make my own way there. I could use the walk. What time?”

  “About seven pm?”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay,” she responds, hesitating. “And Malakai…”

  “Yes?”

  “You might want to not be a jerk.”

  “What?”

  “Connie looked like she was about to cry when she returned this morning. Just because I’m used to you being a dipshit doesn’t mean you have to be like that to her. She’s just a kid.”

  I stiffen. I’m well aware that she’s just a fucking kid, even if my dick clearly isn’t.

  “Can’t help who I am,” I respond.

  “Well, tonight, for me, just try to be nice,” she retorts, climbing down from my boat.

  Standing, I pick up the bucket of water to cover my uncontrollable dick and turn, calling after Lola. “What do you mean, tonight be nice?”

  “I’ve invited Ma Silva and Connie over for dinner too,” she calls over her shoulder. “The girl deserves a reward after all her hard work today.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

  “Nope, no joke. Just try not to bite her head off again, okay?”

  As she walks away, I don’t respond. I can’t. How the fuck am I going to get through dinner without wanting to throw Connie up against the wall and fuck her until she can’t see straight?

  I need to get a damn grip. She’s off-limits.

  “Okay?” Lola presses, her voice ringing out from the other end of the dock, oblivious to my distress.

  “Fine!” I shout back. Not fine at all.

  Ma Silva and Connie arrive just after seven pm.

  “Be nice,” Lola warns, peering into the lounge and throwing me a warning look before heading to the front door to let them in. I’m sitting in the same old beat-up leather arm
chair I used to sit on as a kid, trying to calm the fuck down. Somehow it’s survived all these years. The room is surprisingly cool, with the thick stone that is common on the island and used in all the buildings to keep the heat out in the summer and the warmth in during winter, but my body is hot. So damn hot that I’m starting to think I’m coming down with something.

  I hear Lola open the front door and stiffen, forcing myself to concentrate on anything other than who’s about to enter, like the décor. Lola has painted all the internal walls white and has styled Clayhill to suit her preferences. Images hang on the wall, photos of all her travels over the years framed in black. A few of them have me in them. Well, a younger version at least.

  I’ve gotten older.

  I was always worldly, being submerged in the kind of environment I was in meant I had to grow up fast. I heard things, saw things that no person, let alone a kid, should ever witness. Even here on this island my mother was never able to keep me away from that life back in London. She tried hard to shelter me from it, bringing me here when I was twelve, but when you’re born into the kind of family I was born into, running isn’t so easy. Hiding even harder. It’s one of the reasons I love the ocean so much. I can get lost out there, or at least it feels that way.

  “Come in, come in. I’ve got a few dishes to finish putting together, so you might want to take a seat in the lounge,” I can hear Lola say from my spot in the armchair.

  “Can I help with anything?” Ma Silva asks.

  “Sure, that would be perfect, actually… Plus I have a bottle of port especially for you.”

  “Well then, sounds like the kitchen is the place to be.”

  I hear the smile in Ma Silva’s voice, but my stomach isn’t churning in anticipation of dinner, and my fucking throat isn’t dry because I’m thirsty for alcohol. Though a bottle of beer, or ten, might help to take the edge off. I’m feeling like a fucking teenager again, because of her.

  “I can give a hand too…”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter under my breath, hearing Connie’s voice has my cock jerking in my pants. I can use a hand… My dick certainly seems to think so.