The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) (8 page)

Oh, the
exquisiteness of it!

I haven’t had
sex with a man since Kenneth left me, and even so, we haven’t had
sex for six months before the end. So I have been starved for a
good twelve months. Twelve months of feeling like I was a pariah –
unwanted and undesired, passed over because I was inadequate
somehow. Deficient. Lacking in femininity. It’s no wonder I became
depressed.

But now, this
magnificent stallion of a man – the most desirable on the planet –
wants me. It’s a rush like no other. Warmth – electric in its
velvety softness – courses through my body with the rising of my
own need.

His mouth
suckles at my teat as though he is trying to milk it. I can only
see the top of his head, but my hands press against his wonderfully
strong back – undulating with muscles that would make a bodybuilder
envious. A piteous moan escapes my throat.

His hot
tong
ue circles the tip of my
nipple and around it again and again, depressing the flesh and
letting it bounce back. His left hand squeezes the mound of my
right breast to raise it even further to his mouth. As for his
other hand . . . ah well –

His other hand
slides down to the front of my jeans to fumble at the zipper there.
He’s clumsy with need, and so I help him. With his mouth still on
my breast, we roll my jeans over the crests of my hips, those
jutting pair of bones that prove to be my widest obstacle
point.

He transfers
his mouth to my left nipple as
my jeans drop to pool around my ankles. I’m still wearing my
shoes. Unspectacular shoes that in no way would tease any man with
a well-turned heel. He repeats the same lazy flickering of his
tongue, as if my nipple is a teat that must be whipped back and
forth to coax it into submission.

His hands now
grab my panties at my sides.
They are plain cotton. I had no illusions I would be making
love to Don on this trip after his rejection last night, and so I
didn’t want to court fate by dressing up. (Not that I had any
naughty stuff to dress up in.) But Don doesn’t seem to mind that I
am not dressed to the ninth circle of temptation, and he tears away
the fabric from my hips like it’s a shred of tissue.

I gasp,
exhilarated by his passion. If this goes on, I’ll be running out of
clean underwear.

I step out of
the crumpled mess of my jeans as he
removes his mouth from my nipple. In a sudden move
that takes me by surprise, he scoops me up by my shoulders and
knees. I squeal as he carries me and flings me upon the bed – that
rough, musty-smelling synthetic coverlet that has seen plenty of
lovers before us.

I am
completely naked to his gaze
.
His scorching eyes take in every exposed part of my flesh – from
the tits that I am ashamed of to the flat expanse of my belly
(thank goodness my depression has caused me to under-eat), to the
untidy mount of my blond pubic hair.

I am by nature
a shy woman. Shy of my body, that is. Men scarcely ogle the
wallflower than I am. But Don stares at me with such voluptuous
hunger than a furious blush shoots through my cheeks.

I make to
cover my
exposed sex, driven
by my natural prudishness.

“No, no, no,” Don
says, moving my cupped hands away. “You’re beautiful. Just look at
you . . . just stay there and let me look at you. Don’t cover
yourself.”

“I’m not beautiful,”
I say in a breathless tone.

“But you are. You
just don’t realize it.”

He is so sincere and
fervent that I almost believe him.

He climbs onto
the bed. His knees indent the hard mattress as he wrests my shoes
off my feet. He tickles my insoles as he runs his fingers down
them. I giggle. He parts my legs. I’m so embarrassed for him to be
looking at my pussy, which is no beauty in my definition. But he
gazes at it in rapture, as if it’s a long-coveted holy grail that
he has been searching for.

His hands
are
at the insides of my
thighs, holding them apart. I try to close my legs but he pushes my
knees wider.

“Jean,” he warns me
in a teasing tone, “don’t.”

The flush on my
cheeks, neck and upper chest says it all.

His fingers go
down to his
button fly. I
already know how his cock looks like, but I’m still mesmerized as
he undoes each button in a slow, prolonged way, his burning eyes
never leaving my pussy. He is not wearing any briefs. Not even
those I bought him yesterday, so his marvelous dick springs out
like a Jack-in-a-box, finally freed from its tight denim
prison.

I will never
tire of
feasting my gaze upon
Don’s cock. Fully erect, it is a magnificent beast – solid and
ramrod straight. It rises at a one-hundred-and-fifty degree angle
from its usual plane, its massive head proud and regal. The veins
that delta across its wide tubular shaft are filled to
bursting.

He rolls down his
jeans and eases his feet out of his shoes.

My legs are
bent at
the knees and still
wide open as he mounts the bed again. Oh, but he is so beautiful,
so splendid – the stuff of fantasies and dreams.

“I have to take you,
Jane,” he says in a hoarse voice. “I can’t wait. I’m sorry.”

The
thrill of being desired so much by
this gorgeous naked man that he
can’t wait
explodes in my brain like a sexual grenade. It’s been so
long.
So
long
. My clit is wilting under
the heat of his gaze, and my vulva is a moist little mouth that
must be fed and satiated. I’m creaming down there in an endless
floodgate. How slutty he must think I am – I who attempt to play
the blushing maiden.

He places the
head of his cock at the ravenous mouth of my vulva. He pushes, and
there comes a swoosh – a rush of opening velvety walls and rapidly
filled crevices. His penetration of me is so sudden, so total that
I shriek.

“Did I hurt you?” he
says anxiously.

“No, no. It’s been
so long, that’s all.”

“Tell me if I’m
hurting you.”

He stills his
shaft inside
me. His cock
stretches my pussy walls so completely that I can’t imagine being
expanded any further. I throw my head back on the scratchy
coverlet. My hips rise on their own accord to further suck his
penis in.

He is deep. Very
deep. Head against the aperture of my cervix deep.

“Are you all right?”
he says, his breath coming out in short bursts.

“Yes, oh yes.
Please. Don’t stop on account of me.”

He begins to
move – a titillating seesaw motion that rubs slickly against my
walls, drawing from me a blossom of pleasure so sublime that it
shoots straight into my spine. I moan as I open my legs further. He
smells of sex and sweat and sweetness and life. I keep my eyes wide
open, not wanting to miss the sight of his sublime face – his
glazed blue-green eyes, smoky with desire; his parted and
beautifully-shaped mouth; the dew-like beads of moisture above his
upper lip.

It’s surreal. I’m
being fucked by a god.

He lowers his
lips to mine and we lock our mouths in a wet kiss. Down there, he
continues to grind his hips against mine. His cock hurtles against
my G-spot – pressing it, kneading it, rubbing against it until I
have to squirm in ecstasy. A tide of sensation engulfs me. I am
filled in all ways – physically, psychologically,
emotionally.

The
specter of Neverlake floats in my
mind. Does it mean I have until tomorrow to make this last? What
will happen once he gets to Neverlake?

I picture his
memories swarming him in a rush once he sees the familiar
surroundings.
He’s so
convinced he has no one waiting for him . . . but I’m not so
sure.

Will this night with
him be my last?

The dread this
posits
in my soul almost stems
the orgasmic deluge that follows. The erotic sensation of my G-spot
being mercilessly pummeled for the last fifteen minutes or so – and
coupled with Don’s frenetic French kissing of my mouth, as though
he would like to drink me in – washes over me like a late breaker
on a beach.

I scream into
the ceiling as Don continues to
slam into me. My pussy is a veritable mound of merging fluids.
But he doesn’t stop. He’s panting very slightly.

“Did you like that?”
he whispers.

I almost can’t speak
for the sheer bliss that follows.

“
Yes, oh yes,”
I
utter when the clenching and
unclenching of my pelvic muscles have succumbed.

He grins. “Will you
be able to take it if I go a little faster?”

Faster?

Then it hits
me.

My vision
blurs when I remember what he did on my lawn.
Oh my God.

He’s already
speeding up his thrusts. Steadily, pumping his hips like an
automaton whose dial is being slowly turned.

“Tell me stop
anytime you feel uncomfortable,” he says, grunting.

I close my
eyes, savoring the
acceleration of his cock as it pistons in and out of me. My
vagina is pouring out more sticky fluids in seemly preparation for
this. He rocks his buttocks even harder. I toss and turn my head on
the coverlet for the frenzied activity of it all. His penis slams
against my cervix as his balls strike the undersides of my
buttocks, and then withdraws. Harder, faster. His breath is harsh
against my neck. I’ve abandoned all nuances of romance. This is
raw, purposeful, sensuous fucking. The fucking of nymphs and satyrs
in the gardens of pleasure.

The friction
in my vaginal walls grows
as
my fingers rake his back. I open my eyes again and almost cry out
in shock. Down there, Don’s hips are a blur. His eyes are closed
and a large bead of sweat drops from his fine forehead to shatter
upon my lips.

I taste it –
that salty, sexy evidence of his effort – and allow myself to be
swept away by the
blinding
vortex again. Why even fight it? I’ve become a primal being,
surrendering my body to whatever forces that wish to claim
it.

Orgasm merges
into orgasm
, until I’m
whipping my head and clawing the covers as I scream and scream into
the night. I barely realize it when he shoots into me. The burning
liquid jet gushes into my vagina, flooding every crevice and
fold.

A beatific
satisfaction
descends into my
very bones as every single one of my muscles go limp with our
collective release.

Somewhere outside
the cavern of my skull, I hear his harsh cry.

“Jean!”

So he’s thinking of
me. And only me.

I sink into the
mattress as his body collapses on top of mine. His breathing is
ragged in my ears as he nuzzles my neck.

How can I let
this man leave?

8

We are deep in
Kansas
, and my mood grows more
somber as we approach Neverlake.

Last night is
vivid in my mind – the
frenetic animal coupling that is the stuff I’ve only read
about in romance books with bodice-ripping covers. This morning was
gentler and sweeter. As the sun breaks upon the roofs of the
courtyard motel, I am awoken by the exquisite sensations at my
clit.

Don has his
head buried beneath the covers and between my legs. His writhing
tongue cleverly darts and flickers in and out of my folds, delving
in between my pussy lips,
curling around the rosebud crown of my electrified
flesh.

I
immedia
tely gasp as my hands
reach for his head.

“What are you
doing?” I ask.

He pauses long
enough only to say, “Tasting you.”

I draw the
covers away so that his beautiful head, half covered in the
shadows, is revealed. He augments his deft licking with two fingers
inside my vulva – worming inside me, massaging my walls to probe
for my much-used G-spot.

No, I will not think
of that. It is too distracting and I am doing forty on the
freeway.

As we have no
GPS, I buy
a map of the area
from the gas station at Arveda when we stop for lunch.

I stab a
finger at an irregularly-shaped body of water
somewh
ere in the
southeast.

“Neverlake.”

I raise my
eyes to his. His face is bright with excitement. My spirits sink.
Is he so eager to leave me behind then? Or perhaps the implications
of recovering his memories and what they mean to
not
have me in them have not sunk into his brain
yet.

I should be glad for
him. Isn’t this what we set out to do?

As we draw
closer to Neverlake, the Kansas countryside starts to change.
Fields of crops with lonely windmills start to give way to plains.
Bales of hay are neatly rolled like carpets. White clouds dapple
the sky and a cool wind sweeps in from the horizon.

Don points to
a
wooden signboard.

“
Neverlake.
” His jaw is
clenched, as if he’s determined to deal with whatever it is he will
have to deal with.

Guilt
courses through me. Here I am being
selfish and wanting to keep him for myself. I have been
subconsciously hoping that everything would stay the same and he
would never return to his home. I would be his only family. Like a
spoilt little child who wouldn’t share, I just wanted him all to
myself.