Read The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) Online

Authors: Aphrodite Hunt

Tags: #romance, #romantic suspense, #erotica, #scifi, #suspense, #mystery, #paranormal, #amnesia, #erotic suspense, #tornado, #hardcore

The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) (7 page)

BOOK: The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)
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All I know is
that I cannot allow Don to be taken in
like a common criminal when he hasn’t had the chance
to find himself.

I run up to
get a few supplies, including every bit of cash I have in the
house. My heart is beating wildly. What am I doing?
Oh yes – throwing in my lot with the
man I think I’m in love with.

Love
.

There, I said
it. As much as I want to deny it, it’s there. That cruel and
selfless word that makes you want to do crazy, dangerous
things.

I think I sort of
knew it when I saw the flowers.

But can it be?
Am I mistaking some other heady emotion for love?
Such as
lust
?

We
race to the black van. I delve into
the driver’s seat. We take off, leaving my house in the dust.
Somehow, I know that it’s the last I will ever see of it
again.

 

6

 

There’s no turning
back, I suppose. Once a criminal, there’s nowhere to go but mire
yourself deeper into crime.

We know we
have to ditch the black van. There’s no way we can waltz into Hertz
to rent a car because my driver’s license would be tracked. So when
a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair runs in to a CVS Pharmacy,
leaving her running car outside, we appropriate it.


Don’t worry,”
Don assures me.
“We’re going
to have to leave this car somewhere sooner or later and we can call
her to tell her where it is.”

You
see,
real
criminals don’t think of nice things
like these. I’m certain of it.

For now, we have a
goal.

Neverlake
,
Kansas.

Don
glances at me. My eyes are trained on
the road, but I can see him peeking.

“Are you angry with
me?” he says.


I was when I
thought you’d left this morning.”

He sighs. “I
was taking a
run through the
woods. I needed time to think.”

He falls silent and
I don’t prod him.

The farther we
get from home, the lighter my spirits become. It’s as though
I’m shedding my worries with each
mile, even though I’m sure they will all come back to roll over in
a bulldozer type of bamboozle.

We stop for
lunch at a diner somewhere
in
one of the little towns that pepper our route. Between bites of
greasy bacon and soggy burger, I say, “Did you have any more memory
flashes?”

He nods. “I’ve been
meaning to tell you. It’s the reason I’m not convinced I’m a
dangerous criminal.”

We are
interrupted by the buxom waitress, who leans over as she pours us
more coffee – showing off her deep cleavage. A cleavage I cannot
boast.
It’s obvious that she
knows exactly what she’s doing from the way she bats her eyelashes
at Don.

He’s
oblivious
to everything except
me.


I had a dream
last night, only it was as vivid as I’m talking to you
now.”

The air seems to
still around us.


I was in the
desert full of red rocks. A red sky streaked with golden clouds is
above me. I’m running through a hail of bullets and carrying
someone across my shoulder. I dive into a trench, thankful that I
was not hit. When I roll over the person I rescued, his blood was
all over the front and back of my shirt.”

I can well see
the entire scene.
It has a
hypnotic slow-mo quality.

Don
continues,
“With the life
going out of his eyes, he said to me in a very hoarse voice, ‘Thank
you, Captain, but it’s too late for me’.

“‘
No,’ I say
desperately, ‘stay awake with me. I can get you to a medic. It’s
just a few miles more due west’.


But he was
already dead.”

I nod,
clutching my coffee mug.

Don swallows.
“I don’t know if it was a memory or a dream, but I don’t think I’m
a criminal, Jean. I don’t think I’m deranged either.”


No, you’re
not.

He reaches for
my hand across the table. “I’m capable of kindness, that I know.
Maybe I was even a soldier.”


A
captain
.”

“I don’t think I
should surrender my freedom to the first government agent who tells
me otherwise until I’ve had a chance to remember what I’m here for.
You do see that, don’t you, Jean?”

“Yes.”

I’m perfectly
aware too that this might be exactly what Agent Sansky means.
A
political
criminal. A captured spy. And I am
consorting with the enemy of my country, which makes me a
traitor.

Oh God.

Sensing my
consternation,
Don says, “I
don’t think I’m your enemy either, Jean. You see, I don’t even know
who is at war, or even if there is a war going on right now. My
thoughts are not in a language foreign to what I’m speaking now.
All I know is that I owe it to myself to find out who I
am.”

He doesn’t
mention the obvious . . .
And why a government agency called the NPB is so
interested in me.

I
remark, “There’s an in-house computer
over there. Maybe we should Google the NPB.”

“Good idea.”

I have a Smartphone,
but I’ve switched it off. I’m well aware that any activity I
perform with it can be used to track us.

The waitress
comes back. I think she’s a little peeved that Don hasn’t paid her
any attention from the way she whisks our coffee cups away,
spilling a little on the table on purpose.

I decide I won’t
leave her a tip.

We go to the
ancient Desktop computer in an oak-paneled booth and drag two
chairs.
I type in ‘National
Projects Bureau’.


This Google
thing is really interesting,”
remarks Don.

I resist the
urge to flash him an ‘are you for real?’ look.

Nothing on the NPB
comes up.


I knew
it
! They’re a
sham.”


Search around
a little,” Don cautions. “Government agencies may not always make
themselves known to the generic public.”

I
Google a little more, typing in
variations of ‘NPB’, ‘National Bureau’, ‘government agency’ and
even ‘Pamela Sansky’. After twenty minutes, I can find nothing
except for an old blog post by someone who calls himself ‘The Grim
Reaper’.

The post
is
dated five years back. It
has a photo of a gangly young man with uneven teeth smiling into
the camera. His arm is around a young woman I immediately recognize
as Agent Sansky, albeit a younger version with fatter
cheeks.

The caption says:
“Pamela Sansky and Gregory Birkenstock back in college”.

Intrigued, I read
on.


Greg dated
Pam for two years before
the
incident. The last time I saw Greg was a couple of months back. He
was totally high and muttering something about Pam leaving him to
join the NPB or some top secret government agency she can’t talk
too much about, only that it involves the investigation of the
occult, paranormal and extra-terrestrial.”

I turn to Don. His
face is ashen.

“What does that
mean?” he says.

 

*

 

I have no
answers for Don, although I have begun to suspect as much. Don is
flesh and blood. I daresay he is even human. But his unusual speed
and dexterity is off the charts for any human I know. Even if he’s
a Shaolin temple kung fu super-expert (not a monk, I hope), there’s
no way he can move that fast.

He’s not some sort
of superhero, is he?

I’m not a
science-fiction geek. I don’t believe in ghosts or the paranormal
or anything I consider fantastical. I’m not even sure aliens
exist.

I’m doubting
everything I know now.

Am I afraid of
Don? Strangely, I
feel no
fear, even though my head tells me that I must be cautious. Don
gives off an aura of goodness and chivalry. In short, he’s
everything good and noble about humanity, even though his humanity
is suspect.

It’s the fact that
he remembers ‘Neverlake, Kansas’ that makes me pause. And the fact
that he speaks English so well. Don is tied up to our world
somehow. It’s the ‘how’ that I can’t articulate.

I continue to drive
until I feel the muscles in my neck protest. I won’t let Don drive,
of course, and I’m going fairly slowly, not wanting to draw
unwanted attention to ourselves. But by evening, my eyelids start
to droop.


Let’s stop
for the night
.” Don places his
warm hand on mine at the steering wheel. “Please. We’ll get there
tomorrow.”

I’m aware of the
implications of night.

My throat is tight
when I say, “Were you bringing me those flowers, Don?”

He averts his
eyes. In profile, he is
a
marble statue, crafted so finely by the masters that your breath is
stolen away.

“Yes.”

“What made you
change your mind?”

He is silent for a
long while.


I thought
about it. As I r
an in the
woods this morning, my mind kept going over what happened last
night.” He holds up his hands. “What do you see, Jean?”

A pair of beautiful
hands.

“Your hands,” I say
dutifully.

“What else?”

“Your nails. Your
fingers.”


What do you
see on my fingers? Or rather . . . what do you see an absence
of?”

I finally
catch on. I pull in a deep breath. “You don’t have any ring
marks.”

Indeed, there
is no band of pale skin around his ring fingers that suggest he
once wore a ring.

He says, “I
don’t know who I am. That much is clear. I don’t know where I come
from, or if I had a family beyond that dead soldier I
risked my life for. But I do know one
thing.”

He turns to
regard me with his brilliant eyes. I dare not take my gaze off the
road as the sky is darkening, but I know that if I
swivel my head, I will be transfixed
by the most beautiful face I have ever seen.


I’m
here
in the present. I may
never regain my memories. But I will be sorry if I don’t embrace
the here and now before my life gets twisted in some other way
again.”

My tongue
shrivels ever so slightly. “W
hat does that mean?”

In the near
distance, a shining neon ‘MOTEL’ sign beckons.

7

 

It’s inevitable.

I wanted Don
from the minute I saw him.
Little did I know he wanted me too.

We check into
the cheap motel and pay
cash
for the room, so that my credit card cannot be tracked. I’m aware
that this can’t continue for much longer. Sooner or later, I’m
going to need to withdraw more cash. But I’ll cross the bridge when
I come to it.

As soon as
we’re through the door of the dingy second-story room that
overlooks the car park, Don presses me against the door. His lips
devour me in a kiss that banishes all thoughts on whether this
would go further. Ecstasy unravels within my groin as I kiss him
hungrily back.

As his tongue
dips into my mouth, his hands
dart for my neckline. I’m wearing a butter cream-colored
blouse and he rips the top two buttons apart.

“No,” I gasp. “I
haven’t brought many clothes.”

Part of my
numbed brain can’t believe this is happening – that the most
gorgeous man in this world is inside this room with me, about to
make love to me.

He acquiesces
by slowing down to unbutton the rest of my blouse. He roughly
strips it of
f my shoulders and
arms in a manner that suggests his urgent need. I’ve never had a
man want me this way before. Kenneth always took his time, as if
lovemaking is an art to be savored. None of this raw, passionate
bodice, uh, blouse-ripping transparency.

Don pulls off
his own T-shirt with unseemly haste, revealing his
magnificent
body. I will never
tire of gazing at that body – those bulging pectorals beneath his
silken skin; those two erotically pointed nipples that make me want
to pinch them; and those wonderful bunches of overlaid abdominal
muscle that scream to be caressed, kneaded and massaged.

I perform all
this . . . and more.

My breasts –
which I have always considered unspectacular – are still cupped
within my Triumph Maximizer, which possesses an intricate floral
pattern.
Don’s fingers fumble
at the main strap to unhook it. I’m always been self-conscious of
how small my breasts are. But as soon as they are revealed under
the sputtering cheap fluorescent lamp, Don grabs them as if they
are the most precious jewels in the world.

He not only
grabs them. He runs his hands all over them,
perkin
g up my nipples so that
they become flushed and erect. He massages and gropes them and
bends his head to take my right nipple into his mouth.

BOOK: The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)
13.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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