The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) (5 page)

My tongue goes dry.
“Where?”

“
Neverlake,
Kansas.”

A parched red
plain and a crimson sky? It sure doesn’t sound like Kansas. Don’s
memories – if they are even memories – are suspect. I ponder what
he said anyway.

He sits up
urgently. “Jean, I know
it’s
real. That place must have meant something to me. This is the first
lead I have.”

“
I’ll Google
it,” I say
, pressing his chest
down. His skin is warm and his flesh very firm. Just touching him
sends a tinge of electricity through my fingers. “You just lie here
and don’t move.”

“What’s Google?”

“Just lie
there.”

I go to my
bedroom
to power up my laptop.
I link to the Google Search engine and type in ‘Neverlake,
Kansas’.

Out comes a map.

Excitedly, I
go back to Don
and fling
myself onto the bed beside him.

“It’s real.” I show
him the Google map.

A smile lights up
his heavenly features.

“
I knew it!”
he says. “I knew I’m not a lost cause.”

“
There are no
pictures of it on Google. Maybe it’s too small.”

“
Don’t you
see, Jean? I
do
belong
someplace.”

“
I never
doubted it. You just have to give these things time. Tonight,
you’ll probably remember something else. The memories snowballs,
and then they will be an avalanche.”

He nods,
beaming.

“
Kansas
isn’
t too far from here. I can
drive you there tomorrow. It only takes eleven hours or so to get
to the Kansas border . . . after we get you checked out at the
hospital, of course.”

He makes as if to
protest, but it’s too good an offer to say no to. So he
enthusiastically nods again.

“
Jean?” His
beautiful eyes are shining. He reaches out and clasps my hands.
“Thank you.”

“
It’s no big
deal.
”

His hands are
large and warm. For the first time, I feel the calluses on them, as
though he is a working man, w
ell used to physical labor. But every part of him doesn’t
compute. He has the face of an angel and the body of a god, and yet
he does manual labor? I recall the way he stacked the branches
earlier today. The calluses couldn’t have come from that,
surely?

The air is
still between us as our eyes lock. I’ll be the first to admit I’m
no great beauty. I’
m
reasonably attractive, yes – with my clear brown eyes and upturned
nose. Kenneth was attracted to me because he thought me ‘cute’. I
have a sprinkling of freckles around my nose that won’t go away no
matter how hard I dab anti-freckle cream on it. My hair is a
reddish blonde and possibly my best feature. But I’m no Aphrodite
and I never have been.

Still, Don
never takes his gaze off me as if I’
m the most mesmerizing woman in the world. Then I
realize it. I’m the
only
woman in the world
for him. He has no one to turn to, no home to call his own. It’s
only natural that he –

His lips move
towards mine
before I can say
anything.

I know. I’m just as
shocked as anyone.

He locks me in
a kiss that makes every part of me – not just my toes – want to
curl. His lips are moist and soft and so insistent in the way they
engage mine. There are a hundred nuances in those lips. A thousand.
They move and undulate in a way that leaves me breathless. A quiver
of longing shoots through my body, culminating in a flower of need
in my loins.

Kenneth has never
made me feel this way.

I swear no man
has.

My hands can’t
help but creep around his neck. Oh, his neck. The cords of muscle
stand out, and the soft tendrils of his hair at the back brush my
trembling fingers. We’re both sitting down upon the bed – he with
his legs up, and my body at an angle to his. He smells of . . . oh,
I don’t know. Man musk and tap water and everything
fresh.

I feel his
arms
go around me to clasp the
small of my back. I part my lips a little, and his tongue
tentatively darts in. He licks my lower lip – a long, sensuous
flicker that promises so much more. His lips close in on my mouth
again as his palms rub my lower back.

I suddenly want
more. Much, much more.

He
presses my body closer to his so that
my breasts – rolling in their brassiere cups – are crushed against
his chest. His body heat melts into mine so that we’re one
continuous ebb and flow. His tongue is now in my mouth – warm,
clever and moist. He entwines my own appendage with it in an
erotically-charged gesture that has my knees go weak.

His hand reaches for
the neckline of my blouse. Then it stops. His lips freeze against
mine.

I’m already
aroused to fever pitch, and I barely register this sudden cessation
of activity until moments later. His lips part from mine and I’m
left hanging, my mouth still open.
His flushed face pulls away. His eyes refuse to meet
mine.

My blouse is askew
and my skin still tingling from his touch.

I can only manage a
whisper, “What’s wrong?”

“
I’m sorry,
Jean,” he mumbles. “I can’t do this.”

“But why?”

His perfect
features are stricken. “I just thought of something. What if I’m
not . . . free? What if I have someone waiting for me out
there?”

He lets the
possibility trail.

Yes, of
course. He’s making perfect sense. He might be attached . . . or
even married. He might have a family of two kids. Everything about
him screams ‘single Greek god’ and not ‘father’, but with my damned
luck, you just never know.

I feel like a ledge
beneath my feet has just crumbled into a yawning abyss.

“I’m sorry, Jean, I
didn’t mean to kiss you.”

That just makes it
worse. Yes, what he says is rational, but somewhere in the cobwebs
of my brain, a little nagging voice from a tiny image with red
devil wings says ‘It’s because you’re not pretty enough. You’re not
good enough. You never will be’.

With a sinking
feeling, I know that the voice is right. Kenneth saw through me and
rejected me. Now this gorgeous, beautiful man who has me as his
only lifeline sees through me as well. Well, technically, he
doesn’t even have to see
through
me. He
just has to look
at
me, and know that I’ll
never be good enough for the likes of him.

“It’s OK,” I mumble.
“I’m sorry to have kissed you back.”

“I wish it weren’t
so,” he says anxiously.

“Yeah.”

I rise from
the bed. My limbs
are like
lead weights. I notice that the front of his jeans has tented
again.

He notices me
noticing this, and blushes.

“I’m sorry,” he says
again.

I swear that if I
hear those two little words one more time, I’ll scream.

I lift my head
up high and say as calmly as I can. “Goodnight, Don.”

“
Goodnight,
Jean.” He pulls the coverlet across his legs to cover his erection.
His expression is bruised, pleading.

I walk quickly out
of the guestroom lest I embarrass myself further.

5

It’s fair to say I
got very little sleep that night.

Don’s beautiful face
and sensuous body haunts my thoughts and visions.

In my dreams,
he doesn’t let go of the kiss. He prolongs it, kissing me over and
over – slow, probing, delicious kisses that turn my stomach into
jelly.
His hands roam all over
my clothed body before pausing at the swell of my neckline. His
right warm palm makes a sweep of the heated flesh. Then it dips
down to my left breast and cups it.

I moan softly
against his lips, and he squeezes my tit harder.
His erection strains against my leg – firm and
pressing in its obvious need.

You’re not
good enough, says the sly voice in my head. Look at him. I mean,
just
look
at him. He’s a stallion, a
magnificent bird of paradise.

What the fuck
would he want with someone like
you
?

When I’m not
dreaming of Don
and when I’m
halfway in that land of half-awake and half-asleep, I’m thinking of
him in the next room. I have forgotten to buy him pajamas. So is he
sleeping naked – his gloriously muscled body draped across the bed
with his arms carelessly thrown back above the pillow? Has he
snuggled under the quilt or is he on top of it, with his stiff
penis standing like a flagpole above his sleek pubic
hair?

Is he thinking of me
as well and feeling as hot and bothered as I am?

My
thoughts and dreams spiral away in
wisps as the thudding in my head continues. I drift awake. The sun
is shining through my bedroom window. The birds are loud in their
celebration of morning.

The thudding
continues.
It sounds like
pounding fists against some sort of wood.

A little
dazed, I sit up in bed.
I’m in
my sleepwear – a patterned blue elongated T-shirt that comes down
to my knees. I didn’t ‘dress up’ for bed last night because I knew
there was no chance of Don changing his mind.

Downstairs, the
doorbell rings – insistently and rudely.

I pad to the window.
Outside, parked close to my front door, is a black Mercedes-Benz
van with tinted windows.

I frown. Where
have I seen that before? It looks awfully familiar for some
reason.

Then it hits me.

On the road
yesterday. The black van
veering past us from the opposite direction, almost forcing me
into the ditch.

Oh shit. I’m
suddenly frightened. Have I annoyed a
road bully and is he now taking his revenge by
tracking me down in my own house?

Thank God I have
Don.

I quickly
dress in a sleeveless blouse and jeans. I debate whether or not to
get Don to come down with me, but his door is shut.

Come on, Jean,
I tell myself sternly. You didn’t have a man for months and Don
isn’t going to be around much longer. You can and
will
take care of yourself.

I hurry
d
ownstairs as the pounding
starts up again. I wonder why Don hasn’t been awoken, and then I
realize that the guest room is a little way back from the front and
sounds don’t carry there so well. Going to the front door, I peer
through my peephole.

A woman and
two men stand outside my porch. The men are dressed in
officious-looking suits. The woman wears a
light purple jacket over a matching skirt. Her red
hair is shoulder-length and her lipstick is a bright
red.

They don’t look very
dangerous, but looks can be deceiving.

I open the door. I’m
aware that my hair is slightly mussed and I’m not wearing any
makeup.

“
Good
morning,” the woman says. Her complexion is slathered with a mask
of thick foundation to make it appear flawless. Her vivid blue eyes
are sharp and bright. She holds up an identification badge. “I’m
Agent
Pamela Sansky from the
NPB.”

Her tones are
clipped and military.

“NP what?” I say,
squinting in the sun.

“
National
Projects Bureau. We found you through the police report you made
yesterday. We see fit to warn you that you may be inadvertently
harboring a dangerous criminal.”

The floor falls from
under me.

“What?”

Suddenly, the sky
seems too bright.

“
The man –
the
amnesiac
– currently
staying with you,” she explains, as though to a person hard of
understanding, “is a psychologically deranged criminal who has been
incarcerated with us under the Security Act. He poses a severe
danger to national security.”

OK. Too many
big words I can’t wrap around my head.
Don? A psychologically deranged criminal? Whose lips
are beyond sublime and whose body elicits lust pangs in me whenever
I gaze upon him?

My head is
throbbing.
The lounge
threatens to spin around me but I refuse to give
quarter.

“
I, uh . . .
he didn’t seem very dangerous to me . . . ”

His mouth
against mine. His tongue, probing wetly and deeply. His cock
nestling against my side when he was
asleep beside me in the storm shelter.

“
His
personality and looks can b
e
very deceiving, Ms. Mansfield.” Agent Sansky’s facial muscles ease
a little and her expression turns softer. “Look, you’ve been
through a difficult time with this man, and we’re here to take him
off your property. The sooner you lead us to him, the sooner you
can get back your life.”

“
But we were
with the police. They have no
record of him being a criminal,” I insist.

If he’s so
dangerous, there would be some sort of record
on him being put out with every squad car in the
vicinity, right?

Agent Sansky
eyes me pityingly. “Certain top secret
political
prisoners are not openly advertised on police records, Ms.
Mansfield.”