Isla, daughter of Captain Jones, and Harry are young kids aboard the M.S. Gallant when pirates attack. Placed on the one and only life boat, the two escape to a nearby deserted island where they live in solitude for more than a decade.
➝ TRAILER: ht...
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Harry takes the plunge and pulls away to confess his sinful thoughts and test his limits. "Isla... I don't know what to do but I don't want to stop."
"Then don't stop, Harry."
His hands roam her cloud-colored skin. He's thought of this moment countless times. He's looked at her from a distance and on instinct he's felt the extreme desire to explore the uninvestigated land in front of him. She is his own, personal island, with uncharted territories, untouched by man. A compass would be a blessing in this circumstance. There to help him navigate in a space he's supremely unfamiliar with. But at the same time, the excitement of going in semi-blind feeds his wants. A true explorer. He fears additional guidance would take away from the joy of feeding off her reactions.
Harry looks up at her eyes, the lids of which flutter with want. Want for him to go on. Want to feel sensations she's never felt before.
Locked on the ocean blue of her eyes against the sandy color of her skin, he continues, bringing his lips slowly to her chest. His tongue takes over the mission his brain and fingers quickly abandoned, knowing this is what will fulfill her wants. And his as well.
"Harry," Isla whispers.
Her breathy voice courses through his muscles, every one of them tensing in response to the hardened skin in his mouth. His tongue orbits. Pulsates. So innocent, yet he knows precisely what the moment calls for.
He halts and pulls back for a moment, asking "are you still okay?" with the sentimental, sweet look in his eyes. She nods and presses her hand against his hard chest, down to the muscles of his stomach and to his inner thigh.
Harry shudders, pressing his forehead against hers. He grits his teeth, trying with every fiber of his being to hold back what he feels is inevitably coming.
"What's wrong?" Isla asks as he pushes her hand away.
"I need..." He pauses with heavy breathing. "One second, please."
His ribcage heaves with confusion before he moves his hands up the sides of her thighs to lift her makeshift dress. He looks at her and she looks at him, both consenting to move forward before he leans her back on the damp sand of their sanctuary. Both are blissfully unaware of the explosions in the distance.
She grabs his hand — a beggar asking for him to continue — and places his fingertips in between her legs. Unlike Harry, she had never really tested this side of herself, save a few lonely days of adolescence during a time when the changes in her body were foreign. Pieces of a stranger on herself in her own eyes.
The ground against her skin is scratchy and uncomfortable but she pays it no mind. The sound of Bennett squawking is usually aggravating, but it sounds like the sweet, baritone sounds of an orchestra clarinet in this moment. The canons suddenly turn to the sound of celebratory fireworks.
He kisses her again as a myriad of thoughts run through his mind. At the forefront, he thinks about their safety. How her intensifying moans could be of danger to them in the midst of enemy battles. But the most pressing piece of his psyche simply wants the noises to be all for himself. He's a young, selfish creature, wanting to consume every bit of her being for his pleasure, but more importantly for hers.
Signs come in so many different shapes, sizes, textures. Some men are out on the open sea and hear the wind call to them, aiding them to go in a different direction than what the course on the map originally said to. The snap of a sail, egging a crew to travel with the unknown elements of the atmosphere. The call of a mythical siren, singing his name. Letting the captain know he's under her protection.
With fingers as damp as the ocean, Harry reads his own sign. A sign to go on and do an act that was never explicitly taught to him. A sign to consummate a bond he's felt for so long but never had the age or courage to complete until now. And he finally enters. Nestled between the milky texture of her legs, he breaches the final barrier that lay between them.
Her goddess-like wailing is unleashed into the open atmosphere, a result of the confusing combination of pain from the newness of the experience and utter ecstasy. Her loud voice reverberates off the wooden walls of their hut before seeping its way through the cracks, dancing through the leaves of the large trees. Rattling the fruit that hangs from the tallest heights and settles for final sleep at the roots.
The sweeping chaos of the moment comes to an abrupt halt as they finish. They both collect their thoughts. She counts every short breath left in her lungs as his body twitches until the brink of collapse.
"Princess," Harry whispers with heated breath against her cheek. His strong elbows, having never felt the exhaustion they feel now, give out from under him and he falls. The temperature of his chest presses against hers.
Enveloping his body, Isla wraps her legs around his waist and arms around his neck, bringing him in as close as possible. Harry's head goes to the side, his pinkened cheek resting against the goosebumps between her breasts. He could live here for eternity. Die happily in this very second and look down on it from heaven with no regret.
Isla struggles to speak between labored inhaling and exhaling before finally finding the words she wants to express. "I think I rather like that nickname now."
