The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) (3 page)

I debate whether or not to remove my limbs.
He is still breathing deeply and (I think) caught up in the realms
of sleep. He does not snore, unlike Kenneth, so it is difficult to
gauge his level of consciousness.

I attempt to remove my leg by gingerly
bending and lifting it. My knee brushes against something long and
hard and I freeze. Is that his – ? No, it can’t be. My heart is
thudding so hard against my ribcage that I’m afraid I might wake
him on its sheer drumbeat itself. The appendage on my knee (not my
most sensitive body part, I can tell you) feels fleshy and warm,
and yet stiff. I daren’t put down my leg just in case I disturb
him.

And
it
.

I do the only thing I can. Vaulting my leg
up and around, I lift the quilt above our bodies with as little
disruption as possible. His bicep is iron hard and just as warm. I
long to run my palm over it just to feel the solid flesh within
because I reckon I will never touch anything so beautiful again.
But of course, I don’t. I withdraw my hand, hoping and praying that
I did not wake him.

My movements cause the quilt to rearrange,
and he stirs. I freeze again, wondering why I never had the
compunction to let Kenneth lie undisturbed in bed this way. He
mutters something I cannot hear, and rotates his entire body
towards me. Oh shit, shit, shit. His body edges into mine, and his
right leg comes up and straddles me. The rock hard appendage that I
felt earlier appears again, pressed against my right side – an
unmistakably woody presence that leaves me no doubt as to what it
is.

I don’t believe it.

He’s having a hard-on with me in bed beside
him.

Me?
I caused this?

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I didn’t
elicit his erection. He’s still asleep and no doubt dreaming of the
beautiful woman (possibly a goddess herself) who shares his bed in
the life he left behind. In fact, he’s probably jolted into
remembering who he is now.

I lie there, the blood thundering in my
head. The pulse in my neck is doing a two-beat gallop –
ta-thup,
ta-thup
. The head of his cock in my side jabs my flesh as it
moves in tandem with his slow breathing. It’s a prod-withdraw,
prod-withdraw kind of back-forth movement that sends feverish
images to my brain.

Oh yes. I remember his massive cock quite
well. I envision its smoothness, its perfect lines, its ripe
masculinity. Then, it had been flaccid. Now, it is completely
awoken (even when he has not), raring and charging to go where it
usually goes.

I have no delusions that he finds me
attractive, or that he is taking advantage of me in any way. No,
no. This is a completely unconscious position on his part, just as
I was unconscious when I carelessly put my leg over him.

Outside, I can hear birds twittering. Oh
good. This means the storm has abated and we can be free to go on
with our lives. Separately. Without sticking our appendages into
each other’s faces.

I should wake him up.

I really, really should – even though it’s
nice
to sleep beside him. It’s like lying down next to a
fantasy made flesh. Like, how often do you get to do that,
right?

OK.

Time to get back to real life.

“Don?” My voice sounds squeaky in the dark.
“I think the storm is over. We can go out now.”

His breathing stills for a while.

Then, “Huh?”

I clear my throat. “I said the storm’s over.
We can go out now.”

Unless of course you prefer to stay in here.
All day. With me.

He jumps higher than the ceiling would allow
him. At least, that’s what I think he did from the sudden upheaval
of the quilt. There’s a mad scramble by both of us to turn on the
flashlights. He gets to his first while I’m still groping in the
dark. The beam cuts a swath through the murk.

“Who are you?” he says.

His glorious nudity is once again revealed,
along with his impressively tumescent cock. Oh boy, but it’s huge.
It rises like the head of a cobra from his tufted pubic bush,
displaying his luscious balls underneath. The aperture on its
shining head points straight at me.

I’m transfixed by it, him . . .
everything.

“D-don’t you remember?” I say. His face is
as chiseled as a marble statue’s. Oh God, I don’t what to look at.
Every part of him screams out to be gazed upon, admired,
adored.

“Oh. Right.” He’s calming down despite still
seeming bewildered. “Jane Mansfield. The storm. It’s all coming
back to me now.”

“Yes.” My own breathing is hurried. Being
with this man is like riding the rollercoaster. “Do you remember
anything about yourself?”

I wait as he pauses, the flashlight in his
hand lowering slightly.

He says, crestfallen, “No.”

“It’s OK. We have Plan A, remember? The
police. The storm’s over.”

He cocks his head to listen. “Yes.”

“So . . . we should get going, don’t you
think?”

He seems relieved. “Yes, uh, we should.”

I calm my racing pulse by walking slowly but
steadily up the stairs. I crouch beneath the slanting door and push
it upwards. It won’t budge. As I try again, I am joined by Don’s
hefty shoulder. Together, we heave and concentrate our strength
upwards with all our might.

My eyes are fixed upon the door. I refuse to
look down at his wobbling manhood, which is now deflating even as
we exert.

So it wasn’t because of me.

Bummer.

The door groans open. In the crack of
daylight, I glimpse the spiky offshoots of a branch and hear its
creak as it slides off the yawning door. I’m almost afraid to look
upon the devastation. Yes, I have tornado insurance, but it’s a
total bitch to claim anything and start afresh. I’ve really got to
move to Florida. I’ll take gators over hurricanes anytime.

Don joins me outside as I gaze upon the
scattered debris upon the considerable expanse of my lawn. There
are branches and leaves everywhere, along with ripped wood planks –
their sharp nails sticking out. A twisted metal road sign lies
forlornly amongst the heap.

My house is still intact, thank goodness.
The roof is missing several tiles, however, and the entire front
gutter has been torn from its moorings. The garage has definitely
not been demolished. The only major casualty seems to be my car.
Its entire windscreen has been smashed in by a massive branch.

“Is this your house?” Don says
sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. This is good compared to what I
went through the last time.” I glance at him. “I’ll fetch you some
clothes.”

We wade through the detritus, taking care
not to step upon the nails and sharp objects littering the ground.
I’m very, very lucky, I decide. I open the front door, unlocked
from yesterday, of course. A pathetic meow greets me at the
doorway.

“Derek!” I cry in relief, picking the orange
and brown striped tabby up.

Behind me, Don looks on as I hug and make a
huge fuss of my cat. I put Derek down on all fours again, a little
embarrassed.

“Your cat?” he says.

“Yes. I couldn’t find him yesterday when the
storm, uh, hit.”

Great. Now the most wonderful-looking man in
the world thinks I’m an animal abuser.

If Don is accusatory, he doesn’t show it.
Instead, he pronounces, “I’ll help you clear up your gardens, Jean
Mansfield.”

The way he talks is definitely a little
off.

“Jean would do,” I reply hastily.

His cock has deflated to its normal state,
thank goodness. The morning air has a bite to it but he doesn’t
seem to be perturbed.

“Why don’t you come in and make yourself
comfortable while I find you some clothes?”

“Sure,” he says.

Feeling self-conscious, I pad upstairs to my
guest bedroom to get Kenneth’s old clothes. The ones I haven’t
thrown away in the trash, of course. Confession: I threw most of
Kenneth’s clothes out – the load he didn’t take with him when he
left. But midway through the emotional and physical baggage
clearance, I decided that I should embrace recycling. So I piled
Kenneth’s remaining clothes into a garbage bag, stuffed them into
the guest closet and promptly forgot all about them.

Until now.

I rifle through the garbage bag, picking out
two pairs of jeans and two T-shirts, together with a jacket (hmmm,
I think Don will look nice in faux leather) and two pairs of
briefs. I pause to finger the cotton fabric of the briefs. The
image of that enormous erect cock filling this sends a frisson of
pleasure up my spine.

A sharp crack outside catches my attention.
I go to my own bedroom’s window where the sun streams through the
glass, lighting the wallpaper into a hue of bright lavender.

Don is hefting large branches and dragging
them to a pile at the side of my lawn. He’s still naked.

My jaw drops.

It’s not the sight of him naked that does it
this time, though that is delectable in itself. It’s the
speed
at which he does this.

He walks quicker than any man I have ever
seen, and he’s not running either. I can see every step that he
makes, but it’s as if I’m watching a movie in fast forward. Not
superfast fast forward (like in the 32X button), but certainly
faster than the average human being. He goes back to collect
another branch. My throat goes dry as he snaps the smaller branches
away with such alacrity that his movements are a blur. When he has
finished trimming whatever he wants, he repeats the hauling
process.

An alarm bell clangs at the back of my head.
Does he know I am watching from the window? Am I supposed to be
watching? And if he catches me watching, what will he do?

Don’t be silly, I scold myself. Of course he
knows I might be watching.

As though my telepathic thought has beamed
out, Don pauses and looks up at the window. I immediately melt into
the shadows of the bedroom. My heart is thudding painfully.

If Don is human, then he’s unlike any human
I have ever known.

What does this mean and what does it portend
for me?

4

We are in my car, the one whose windshield
is smashed into a matrix of broken glass. I have no choice. I can
only thank my lucky stars that it suffered no worse damage. We have
made a makeshift windshield out of transparent plastic bags and
duct tape. It flaps loudly and unconvincingly, threatening to tear
off at any moment in the wind.

It’s the reason I’m driving at thirty miles
an hour. Moreover, the road is littered with fallen branches and
trees. Now and then, I have to circumnavigate an obstacle by going
around it.

Around us, every property bears the blows of
last night’s terrible weather. Some homesteads have been primarily
unaffected, like mine. Only their lawns and fields bear the litter
of smashed flora. Other houses are impacted by trees which have
crashed against their windows and walls. Cars and other vehicles
are grounded in ditches and furrows, or smashed against barns and
houses.

People are up and about, looking glum,
clearing fallen trees off their property with chainsaws and
hacksaws – one cut at a time. We pass a whole house which has been
unroofed, leaving only its bare skeletal frame on top. A twinge of
guilt scurries through me when I see this.

Mobile homes are completely crushed, and
several trees have been splintered at their barks as though a
monster has birthed within and clawed out into the world from their
cores.

Don is beside me in the passenger’s seat,
dressed in Kenneth’s old clothes. He looks good in them. Then
again, he would look good even if you put him in a patchwork made
out of old rags. The clothes don’t quite fit him as he is a much
larger man than Kenneth. The T-shirt strains at his pectorals and
biceps, the thin fabric threatening to rip at any moment. In fact,
one such tear has occurred already at the front of his right
sleeve. His nipples and muscle contours are so pronounced he might
as well be wearing a wet T-shirt.

His lower body is far worse off. His jeans
are now so tight that he is practically not breathing. The zip
refuses to go all the way up and the bulge in his crotch is
bursting at the seams.

Don is extremely uncomfortable, I know, but
he flashes me a heavenly smile anyway. Did I mention that he has a
gorgeous smile?

“Thank you for everything,” he says.

“No. Thank
you
. I wouldn’t have been
able to clear everything away by myself.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“No, I really, really wouldn’t.”

As it is, the whole eight acres of my
property has been stripped of major debris . . . in the span of a
day. All the larger branches have been broken up and piled in one
humungous heap. The wooden planks and metal from other people’s
yards have also been placed there. Only the tinier branches, twigs
and leaves are now left, and those would have to be swept away in
the next few weeks, or just left there to rot in the loamy
soil.

It is not a feat that could have been done
by a single man in a single day.

I do not bring this up.

Don on the other hand seems to be very
nonchalant about it, as if it is of no consequence. I’m very aware
of him beside me – the way he drums his fingers on his thigh, the
way he keeps examining every feature on the dashboard.

The radio is on, relaying news of the
destruction. There were apparently two twisters snaking through the
land – both were marked FE4 on the Enhanced Fujita tornado scale.
Thousands of homes have been affected. Dozens of houses destroyed.
The damage is estimated in the millions.

“Not good, huh?” Don says.

“I was lucky.
We
were lucky.”

He seems so out of place in his seat that I
tentatively say, “Is anything wrong?”

Are your clothes affecting your oxygen
level?
(But of course I don’t say this aloud.)