Chapter 18: Fucking Rebekah
The salt from Lena’s mouth was still a phantom taste on my lips as I walked back across the island, the temple’s cool shadow giving way to the oppressive midday glare. The jungle chirped and hummed, a living veil between one world and another. My body felt loose, spent, but my mind was already elsewhere, pulled forward by the simple, primal needs of the camp: water, food, the fragile order I was maintaining.
I broke through the tree line onto the blinding white beach. The turquoise water shimmered, a mirror to the cloudless sky. And there, about fifty yards down the shore, was Rebekah.
She was alone, standing knee-deep in the gentle surf, her back to me. The sun poured over her, turning the droplets on her skin into countless diamonds. She was rinsing a piece of cloth, her movements slow, almost ritualistic. Even from behind, her silhouette was a provocation. The absurd, lush curve of her hips flaring from a slender waist, the dramatic swell of her ass barely contained by the remnants of her Hooters shorts, now frayed and faded. Her curly brown hair was piled in a messy knot atop her head, exposing the long, delicate line of her neck.
She must have heard my approach over the gentle lap of waves, because she turned, one hand lifting to shield her eyes. Her expression didn’t change. No startled surprise, no welcoming smile. Just a cool, assessing look, as if she’d been waiting.
“Look what the jungle coughed up,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of Lena’s playful girlishness. She waded out of the water, the wet fabric of her shorts and her simple, torn tank top clinging to every impossible inch. Water streamed down her legs, carving paths through the fine sand on her feet.
“Just checking the perimeter,” I said, stopping a few feet from her. The heat between us wasn’t just from the sun.
“Right. The perimeter.” A faint, knowing smirk touched her lips. She dropped the cloth she was holding—it was one of the spare shirts from the yacht’s emergency kit—onto a dry rock. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached behind her neck and gathered the hem of her soaked tank top. “It’s a thousand degrees.”
In one smooth, unconcerned motion, she pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it onto the rock beside the other.
The breath left my lungs.
She stood there, completely topless, as if she’d just done nothing more remarkable than adjust her hair. The sun worshipped her. Her skin was a smooth, creamy olive, dusted with a few faint freckles across her collarbones. She was slim, almost delicate through the ribs and shoulders, but that only made the spectacle of her breasts more profound. They were shockingly large, full and heavy, with pale, pink nipples that hardened visibly in the warm air. They seemed to defy gravity, a perfect, weighty symmetry that drew the eye like a physical force. The contrast was breathtaking: the slender frame of a dancer, surmounted by this lavish, voluptuous offering.
She saw me looking. Of course she did. She placed her hands on her hips, her expression still that cool, unfazed mask, but her eyes held a challenge. “Something wrong, James? You look like you’ve never seen a pair before.”
“Not like those,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I intended. I took a step closer. The scent of saltwater and her own clean sweat filled the space between us. “You’re just… standing there.”
“They’re just tits,” she shrugged, the movement causing a mesmerizing shift. “I worked at Hooters for three years. I’ve had more people look at these than look at my face. You get used to it.” But she didn’t cover up. She stood her ground, letting me look my fill, her gaze steady and calculating. “Out here, what’s the point? Clothes rot. Modesty is a luxury we lost with the yacht.”
It was a practical statement, but the delivery was pure seduction. This wasn’t an invitation; it was a demonstration. A display of assets, of power. She was showing me what she had, forcing me to react.
“So this is just… practicality?” I asked, closing the distance until only a foot of shimmering heat separated us.
“Call it what you want.” Her eyes dropped, noting the obvious effect she was having on me. A flicker of satisfaction. “You’ve been busy playing king of the island. Lena follows you around like a puppy. Tera can’t speak three words of English but she gets the message well enough, huh?” Her voice was low, devoid of jealousy, merely stating facts. “I’m not like them. I don’t play cute.”
“I can see that.”
“Good.” She finally moved, but not to retreat. She reached out and placed a hand, cool from the sea, flat against my chest. Her touch was deliberate, firm. “You keep us alive. I get it. This,” she glanced down at her own body, then back at me, “is a commodity. A trade. You want to inspect the goods?”
Her bluntness was a shock, a cold glass of water that somehow stoked the heat. There was no pretence, no game of flirtation. It was raw, transactional, and unbearably honest. It stripped everything down to the bone.
My hand came up, covering hers, pinning it to my chest. With the other, I traced the line from her shoulder down to the astounding curve of her breast. Her skin was fever-warm. She didn’t flinch, didn’t sigh. She watched me, her breathing slow and even.
When my thumb brushed over her nipple, it was already a tight peak. A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her. The only crack in her armor.
“The goods are exceptional,” I murmured.
“Then quit talking about them.”
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision of heat and intent. Her lips were full and soft, but she kissed back with a fierce, matching pressure, all pretense of cool detachment burning away in an instant. Her tongue met mine, and a low, ragged sound escaped her throat. It was the first real, unguarded thing I’d heard from her.
I walked her backwards, out of the wet sand, onto the softer, dry powder beneath the palms. We sank down together, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. The sand was hot against my knees. She lay back, her curls fanning out around her head, her body a stunning landscape of curves and planes in the dappled light. She reached for the button of my shorts, her fingers efficient, not fumbling.
“You’re not delicate,” I said, stating it as I saw it, my hand sliding down the incredible slope of her waist, over the sharp jut of her hip.
“Don’t treat me like I am.”
I didn’t.
When I entered her, it was with a single, deep stroke that made her arch off the sand, her back forming a perfect, tense bow. Her eyes flew open, wide, her cool facade shattered into a million pieces. A sharp, gasped “Fuck!” ripped from her, loud and honest in the empty air.
She was tight, impossibly so given her lushness, and hot, a slick, clutching heat that drove thought from my head. Her legs came up, locking around my back, her heels digging into my spine, pulling me deeper. There was no gentle rhythm, no slow build. It was a frantic, driving pace set from the first moment, a raw contest of need.
Her nails scraped down my shoulders. Her breath came in hot, panting bursts against my neck. Every thrust rocked her whole body, her breasts swaying with a mesmerizing, heavy rhythm. She watched me, her dark eyes glazed but focused, as if studying my face for every reaction.
“Is this,” she gritted out between clenched teeth, her body moving in perfect, demanding counterpoint to mine, “part of your… survival plan?”
“Right now,” I grunted, driving into her, feeling her clench around me, “this is survival.”
A harsh, ragged laugh escaped her, lost in a moan. She was close. I could feel it coiling in the tension of her thighs, in the way her internal muscles fluttered and gripped. I slipped a hand between us, my thumb finding the hard, swollen nub at her core. Two circles, firm and fast.
Her composure exploded. She cried out, a sound that was half-sob, half-triumph, her body seizing into a series of violent, rippling contractions. Her head thrashed side to side in the sand, her curls becoming a wild, dark halo.
Her climax was a silent, shuddering vortex that pulled me down with her. I felt every convulsive pulse, a deep, rhythmic milking that stripped away my control. My own release gathered, a storm surge at the base of my spine, undeniable and urgent.
I pulled out of her suddenly, the wet sound stark in the quiet.
Her eyes flew open, clouded with confusion and the lingering haze of pleasure. "What—?"
"Open your mouth."
The command left no room for debate. Her cool demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, pliant awareness. She understood instantly. A flicker of something—surprise, defiance, submission—crossed her face before settling into resigned acceptance. This was the trade.
She propped herself on her elbows, her large breasts swaying with the movement. Her lips, still swollen from kissing, parted. Her tongue rested behind her teeth, a pale pink promise.
I didn't give her time to think. I fisted my hand in her curly hair, not gently, and guided myself back to her lips. I pushed past them, hitting the back of her throat in one solid thrust. She gagged, her body jerking, but I held her there. Her eyes watered, glistening as they looked up at me.
"Swallow," I growled, my voice thick and strained.
Then I fucked her mouth. Hard. Each thrust was a short, punishing piston, my hips driving forward, the grip on her hair keeping her still. The wet, choked sounds she made were muffled, rhythmic. Her throat worked violently around me, trying to accommodate, to breathe. Tears carved clean lines through the sand on her cheeks.
The sight of her, used like this, her incredible body splayed and accepting, shattered my last restraint. The pressure exploded. I shoved myself deep and held, my release pulsing hot and bitter down her throat in relentless waves.
She swallowed convulsively, her throat muscles fluttering against me, taking every drop. I didn't let go until I was spent, soft, and her frantic swallowing had slowed to weak, reflexive clicks.
I released her hair. She collapsed back onto the sand, turning onto her side, coughing, a strand of saliva and spend connecting her lip to the beach before it broke. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her breathing ragged and wet. She didn't look at me.
The jungle watched, indifferent. The waves kept their endless, patient rhythm.