Dollars (Dollar #2)(81)

Live or die, the world wouldn’t know or care.

Each crack of thunder sent my nipples pebbling and my tummy liquefying with panic. Every deep dark roll of the ocean as it vanished from beneath the boat only to surge upward with more power than any calamity stopped my heart then defibrillated it.

If I could survive this—bare as I was born and open in every way I could possibly be, I could survive anything.

I had survived everything.

And this was me claiming that life back by acknowledging that yes, I was small, yes, I was inconsequential, but I still breathed. The world still nurtured me even while its elements did their best to exterminate me.

I was worth living. I was worth surviving. And I would never again let nature or man take that away from me.

My arms spread into wings, wishing the wind would pluck me from gravity and haul me into its angry embrace.

I wanted to fly.

Give me your worst!

“Pim.”

The storm knew my name. My fake name. My slave name.

I’m here. I’m yours.

My head fell back in rapture.

“Pim!”

The wind snapped my name to pieces.

Take me. Heal me. Use my true name.

“Pimlico!” Something heavy and cross landed on my rain-soaked shoulder.

My eyes wrenched open.

Elder stood dripping wet, his black eyes wild as the wind. His lips moved, but the gale stole his words.

I frowned, watching his mouth, but he didn’t try to speak again. He dropped his gaze down my body, lingering on my breasts and stomach as the rain touched every part of me. His eyes heated every droplet until they sizzled against my skin.

I’d never had someone look at me that way before. A way full of violence but nurturing. Of want but protection. No teenage boy could’ve looked at me that way and no monster had the capacity to blend such right and wrong and make it undeniably acceptable.

Before I could stop myself, my arm fell, my hand groped for his, and I smiled.

Our fingers linked tight and unrelenting.

Hair plastered against my scalp, clinging like kelp to my collarbone, but I didn’t care. Elder swallowed; his face lit up by rouge lightning, his clothing glued to his delectable body.

His fingers suddenly squeezed mine as if a decision he hadn’t even asked himself yet was reached. Pulling me forward, he smirked as the rope around my waist prevented me from sliding between him and the railing.

Still holding my hand he bent down, wobbling as the waves wreaked havoc with his yacht and yanked off his flip-flops. Once bare-foot, he moved toward me.

My heart looked through the chasing raindrops in interest not fear. My body primed from the electricity of the storm, ready to accept touch rather than expect pain.

He wedged his body against mine, his jeans rough against the back of my thighs, his t-shirt unwanted against my naked shoulders.

Clothing. Barriers. Masks.

Letting go of my fingers, he clasped the railing on either side of me, wedging me safely between him.

His protection gave me mixed emotions.

I liked having him there, sharing the power of the storm and being free for the first time in my life, but he’d ruined the rapture I’d felt. His body heat was a trap, warming me when I wanted the rain to chill me because I chose it to, no one else.

He’d taken away my choice even after forcing me to make so many.

I did my best to lose myself in the wind again, but it remained tainted. My joy faded as minutes passed. We balanced and tripped, our ears throbbing with howling noise.

Perhaps I should push back and signal we’d go inside.

Maybe I’d tempted death long enough by laughing in the storm’s face.

But then, as if my thoughts trickled into him and he read my discomfort, Elder pulled away, letting the wind lash against me with wet-coldness.

I sighed with relief.

Looking over my shoulder, I expected him to order me into the suite where it was safe or point that he was leaving and to do whatever I wanted.

However, his arms went up and his hands latched around his t-shirt collar. With a black look, he ripped it over his head.

A thunder crash sounded at precisely the same time my eyes fell on his dragon tattoo. His ribs exposed, his organs painted so lifelike he was part man, part skeleton, part myth.

Never looking away, his hands fell to his belt buckle and undid it. Unbuttoning his shorts and unzipping the fly, he grabbed both the waistband of the beige material and grey boxer-briefs and pulled.

He stripped with grace even while fighting gravity, and the moment he was free, he threw away his clothes as if they offended him.

What is he doing?

The question was void the moment I asked it.

I understood.

He understood.

Clothing was not welcome when facing such furious power. We were merely human at the mercy of the weather. Who cared if we died dressed or naked? We had no armament against it—might as well give in to the inevitable.

I shivered and not from the cold as he moved toward me. His right hand landed on the railing where I gripped it. His thumb grazed my pinkie. His erection hung heavy as he took another step, placing himself behind me, aligning our pieces as if we belonged to the same chessboard with a long lost king and queen.

I stopped breathing as his other hand landed by my left. His thumb mimicking his other and pressing my pinkie. He didn’t lean forward or wedge his nakedness against mine. He merely stood there, letting the wind nip my spine and the rain lick my shoulder blades. The only contact was my pinkies and his thumbs, but it was the most contact I’d ever had with anyone.