Free Dead Over Heels by MaryJanice Davidson

to lose her temper, and, obediently, he did. She squeezed, and blood trickled into his mouth, over his silly flat teeth and down his throat. She squeezed the fish dry, then dropped it on the bottom of the boat. “Oh, hooray! You did it! Oh, well done!” She bounced and clapped, but quit when the boat started to rock.
    “Huh? Did what? Bleeeccchh! What the hell did you do?” He spit over the side.
    “You drank the whole fish!”
    “I did what ? No fair!” he accused. “You distracted me with your nudity.”
    “And a good thing, too,” she said primly, folding her arms across her chest and crossing her legs. “Otherwise you’d be dead of dehydration. Now. Ready to try another one?”
    “Another what?” he said absently, but opened his mouth again, and drank both fish, and afterward they had a terrific argument about the diabolical use of her feminine wiles—whatever that meant—and she jumped overboard and swam away again.

Chapter 6
    A n hour later, he was still spitting, but couldn’t deny he felt better. But it was pretty damn diabolical of her to use her body like that to distract him into—eecccch!—drinking fish blood.
    And it had all started so innocently, too! He’d been minding his own business, working on not staring at her tits, when all of a sudden she had legs (and like the song said, she knew how to use them) and was clambering into the rowboat.
    She was all flashing pale skin and long hair and silver eyes. Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying; he was too busy hoping she wasn’t noticing his hard-on.
    And the next thing he knew, his mouth had tasted like blood and she was cheering, which made her breasts bounce in a really charming way, but didn’t lessen his feeling of being tricked.
    So they had another fight, and off she went. And good riddance!
    But he wasn’t entirely surprised when she came back. It seemed she was doomed to always come back. This time she didn’t bother knocking, just popped up out of the water and said, “What are feminine wiles?”
    “They’re when you grow gorgeous long legs and flop into the boat like a wet dream come true, and I’m so busy trying not to stare at your bush and your legs and your boobs and your eyes that you can pretty much talk me into anything.”
    “And a ‘wet dream’?”
    “Forget about it.”
    “But you feel better now, yes?”
    “Yes,” he grumped.
    “Then I think it is past time you left.”
    He waved his arms around, trying not to fall out of the boat. “We’re in the middle of the South Pacific! And I’ve only got one oar.”
    “So jump in,” she said with barely concealed impatience.
    “I, uh, can’t swim.”
    She blinked and said nothing.
    “Okay,” he said, “I’m well aware of the irony of a survival expert who gets his ass stranded, can’t stand to eat raw fish, loses an oar, and can’t swim. I’m aware , ’kay? But see, I’m the star . I don’t have to do those things, I just have to be able to tell people about them.”
    “I had no idea,” she marveled, “that bipeds were so completely helpless.”
    “You shut up.”
    “And in fact,” she pointed out, “you do have to do those things.”
    “Well, I can’t,” he grumped, “so stop with the nagging.”
    “That’s all right,” she soothed.
    “ You’re in a good mood.”
    “I’ve never had a pet before.”
    He had just flopped back down, but now bolted upright in outrage. “I’m not your goddamned pet!”
    “You are a creature who would die without my help, who needs constant tending, and who cannot get out of trouble on his own. Is that not a pet?”
    He sputtered and fought the urge to seize a handful of her long hair and yank. Dimly, part of him realized that he was overreacting, that he was getting in real trouble and needed to get to land and protein pronto, but most of his brain was consumed with rage.
    “I am not your fucking pet!”
    “Oh, but you are,” she went on with maddening cheer. “Do not fear;