We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (12 page)

“Unless you want to try the stand-up shower?”

“Bedroom it is. You first.” I waved him ahead of me.

He walked, stripped off his jeans and boxer shorts, then climbed up onto the bed platform, showing off his cute bare butt.

Seeing his rear view was a nice bonus, but the main reason I’d sent him ahead was so he didn’t see my tush jiggling in front of him and then blocking the narrow doorway as I climbed onto the bed.

My body confidence is decent, but there are limits. I guarded the back-side view, so I could stay confident.

“Hurry up,” he urged, patting the red sheets next to him.

“I feel like I’m getting into a big animal’s mouth,” I said as I climbed onto the bed. “With the red sheets, this bed is like the tongue.”

Dalton laughed. “You’re right.” He took a long, appreciative look at me directly, and then again, using the mirror on the ceiling. “That mirror’s okay after all,” he said.

“Can the lights be dimmer?”

He reached for a switch and lowered the brightness of the sconces, then turned them completely off. The cave-like bedroom was still glowing with the golden rays of the sun setting over the lake, the light coming in through a sliver of a window.

When he saw me staring, he said, “Quite the view, isn’t it?”

At that moment, a flock of ducks landed on the lake, next to some cattails.

I turned back and looked at the hot man waiting for my full attention. Now he seemed so relaxed, but my lust had been partially quenched, and so I was feeling nervous again. The tiny bedroom at the back of the Airstream might be described by some as cozy, but it was also freaking small.

I decided to focus on the task at hand, so I got to work on that fine-looking beast I had roused from its trouser slumber. I hardly even looked at the cyclopean creature before I popped it into my mouth.

Dalton moaned in appreciation and closed his eyes, his body both rigid and relaxed at the same time, all his fine bumps glistening with sex-sweat.

As I bobbed my head up and down, barely able to enjoy the salty taste of him, I started to freak out a little.

My brain yelled orders: Petra, slow down and be sexier! It’s not a blowjob contest between you and every other girl he’s been with, and even if it were, speed isn’t everything! Slow down, girl, it’s not a pepperoni stick!

Dalton twitched, his mouth opening a few times and some sound coming out, like he was going to say something but got distracted.
Distracted by what
, I wondered. Maybe by the lips and tongue going a hundred miles per hour up and down on his salami.

He gasped, clutching at the red blankets with both hands.
Sexy
, I thought, and he groaned and splashed in my mouth.

Mission accomplished!

Now I could go looking for my clothes, looking for my escape route. I could climb out of the mouth of this silver beast of a trailer and catch my breath.

I swallowed and treated him to one slow, languid lick as I released his meat flute, melody played.

He rolled onto his side, catching me with one arm and pulling me in to cuddle him, spoon style.

Nuzzling my hair, he said, “I had big plans, but I blew them all rather quickly.”

“It was me. I blew your big plans. And also your big salami.”

He chuckled and squeezed me tighter.

Now the bedroom was actually getting dark. The sun had finally set, and either the frogs around the lake got louder or my hearing got more sensitive.

Dalton’s arm grew heavier, and a moment later, his breathing changed.

I gently lifted his arm off me and rolled over to face him.

“Dalton?” I whispered.

“Dalton?” I whispered again.

He murmured and stirred, but didn’t wake up. While we’d been walking around the lake, he’d mentioned being exhausted from a long day, and he wasn’t kidding.

I lay there in the dark, replaying parts of our date. Had he invited me to spend the night? I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, and part of me wanted to dine and dash.

Then again, it was cozy there next to him, in the mildly claustrophobic maw of the Airstream.

My stomach grumbled.

Hungry already?

Of course I was hungry. I’d eaten one quarter of a steak, along with nothing more than green salad with a smattering of sliced strawberries and goat’s cheese. The meal had been delicious, but low-carb, and now I had a carbohydrate shortfall for the day that my tummy wouldn’t let me forget.

Panna cotta.

Dalton had mentioned panna cotta for dessert, so that was probably in the fridge.

I nudged him gently. “What about dessert?” I whispered.

When he didn’t respond, I answered for him, “Oh, Peaches, just help yourself. It’s in the fridge.”

I replied to my suggestion with a convivial, “Don’t mind if I do!”

Getting out of the bedroom was easier than getting in. The windows were midnight blue, and I felt exposed in the glowing light of the interior, so I tiptoed around the creaking trailer playing a game of Pick-Up Clothes.

Once fully dressed, I tidied up the plates and washed them in the tiny, round sink. Hot water came out of the tap. Where did the hot water come from? I had no idea.

I kept expecting Dalton to wake from the noises and come out, but he was completely zonked.

The panna cotta was in the under-counter refrigerator, and it was delicious—the firm custard neither too heavy nor too light.

I grabbed my phone from my purse, hoping to text Shayla, but I still had no cell service.

Fully dressed, I sat in one of the club chairs across from the kitchenette and considered my options.

After a few minutes, I decided that taking my clothes back off and climbing into that tongue of a bed was not a viable option. Sleeping here would mean using that tiny toilet, on the other side of a paper-thin wall from handsome, perfect Dalton, who probably didn’t poop, what with all his perfectness. He likely had Vern, the butler, do it for him.

While we’d been on our walk, I’d spotted some of the trails I’d ridden horses along years ago. The lake wasn’t that far from town, and if I took the shortcut through the trails, I’d be out to the highway in ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops.

From there, I’d have cellular service and be able to call Shayla, or even a taxi, for a ride.

Sure! Great idea! I’d just go crashing around through the woods in the dark at ten o’clock at night.

As I opened the trailer’s screen door with a squeak and stepped out into the bracing night air, I thought I was making a logical, intelligent choice.

HAH!

The moon was three-quarters full and at my back as I set off into the dark woods surrounding Dragonfly Lake.

The trail under my feet was mostly smooth, worn flat by many hikers, but a few exposed tree roots and fallen branches threatened to trip me up and make me feel even more foolish than I already felt.

I hadn’t worn a jacket, and now my bare arms were sniveling about the cold air and scratchy branches. Behind me, the trailer glowed like a space UFO. I stopped walking and stared at the rounded vessel that looked so much like an airplane minus the wings. How was it glowing? LED lights embedded along some of the aluminum seams? That had to be the answer, and not that it had come from another planet.

Dalton Deangelo was fully, completely human. So human!

I set off on the trail again, remembering the feel of his body in my hands. I’d cheated myself out of having him on top of me, thanks to my bunny rabbit blowjob. On the plus side, nobody gets pregnant from blowies. On the minus side… here I was getting lost in a dark forest, about to be taken by a sasquatch, or as the local folks call them, Forest Folk.

The term Forest Folk is misleading, making them sound like sprites or friendly spirits, but the Forest Folk in this part of the Pacific Northwest are not supernaturals you want to encounter. They’re part-human, part-sasquatch cannibals. They eat the toes of children who don’t clean up their bedrooms, and they have Santa Claus on speed dial. (Apparently, they have telephones.)

The best defense against Forest Folk is the same as what you learn in any self-defense course: run away. Forest Folk can regenerate missing body parts almost instantly, so even if you have an ax and chop off some limbs, they’ll grow new ones and then use their bloody old arms or legs to beat you to death.

About fifteen years back, one of the town librarians gathered up all the local legends and put them in an illustrated story book for children, which she self-published. The book was almost immediately banned, which only increased demand.

As I stumbled through the dark forest, my imagination kicked into overdrive. I regretted all those nights Shayla and I pored over the Forest Folk book at her house, reading by flashlight under the covers when we were supposed to be sleeping.

My favorite tale was the one about the Forest Folk man who kidnapped a fair maiden and was transformed by her love back into a human. There was something so romantic about that story, though it had some bestiality undertones that were likely the cause of the book ban.

I tripped over a dark branch that blended with the forest floor and fell onto my hands, hard. I stumbled up and shook my hands, thanking my many days spent lugging around heavy books for strengthening my wrists and preventing worse injury.

Something rustled in the woods. I froze, my ears prickling with attention. The night music—crickets chirping across the lake and breezes tickling the leaves—rose up around me.

“Hello?” I whispered. “Dalton?”

“Grrr.”

My mouth went dry and my heart tried to escape my body. “Dalton? Don’t joke around. I have a heart condition.” (That part was a lie; I do not have a heart condition, but the excuse does get you out of things like dodgeball and water pistol hide-n-seek.)

The growling sound came again, and this time did not sound at all like a handsome TV actor playing a prank.

Did beavers growl? I knew some were aggressive, and they could even kill a human if they got
bitey
and launched those massive sharp teeth at the femoral artery.

I listened for more noises as I pulled my phone out of my purse. There was still no reception, but the phone had a flashlight function. I turned it on, mindful of the battery drain, and slowly rotated, illuminating the trees around me.

Something that looked like a pair of eyes glinted back at me.

“Sugar!” I dropped the phone and the light turned off.

In the darkness, I heard heavy breathing. As I reached for my phone, fumbling around in the dirt and dried leaves, I swear I could also hear something slobbering and licking its lips.

I pulled my purse strap high on my shoulder and started marching with determination—the way you’re supposed to move when creeps take notice of you in the city. There was no busy street to cross, or crowded restaurant to run into for help, so I stepped up to a jog.

The slobbering, heavy-breathing, eye-glinting creature padded out onto the forest path behind me.

I dared not look back, but set off at a full-on gallop. Branches smacked me in the face as I wobbled left and right on the narrow path.

“Don’t run!” called out a man’s voice from behind me.

Don’t run? That’s exactly what a Forest Folk creature would say right before he catches you!

I ran faster.

“Don’t run!” he repeated.

Something was at my heels, biting my legs through my jeans and nipping my ass. A branch struck me in the face and I faltered, just as something struck my back and threw me down.

I landed hard on the ground, the breath knocked out of me. With weight on my back, I covered my neck with my hands in self-defense.

“Cujo, heel!” yelled the male voice.

With a sad-sounding yipe, the beast scrambled off my back.

I jumped up and whirled around.

“Peaches!”

“You!”

Adrian Storm stood three feet away from me, his blond hair disheveled and his face shining with sweat in the moonlight. A skinny German Shepherd sat next to him, tongue lolling out.

“Your insane dog tried to kill me,” I said. “Why isn’t he on a leash? And his name is Cujo? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“He’s old and toothless. His bark is much worse than his bite.”

I rubbed my ass, now damp from the dog’s slobber. “He shouldn’t be biting people AT ALL!”

“He’s retired, but the old police dog training kicks in when he sees people running.”

My adrenaline was still in my blood, making my heart pound and dialing up my voice to shouting-level. “I’d be SO MAD if your dog wasn’t so DAMN CUTE!”

Cujo cocked his head to the side, his big tongue dangling.

“He’s my dad’s dog.”

Adrian’s father was a police officer in town, so that actually explained a lot.

“That’s NICE. How is YOUR DAD?” My adrenaline was still disrupting my volume control.

Adrian stepped closer, Cujo at his side and calm.

“Are you on drugs?”

“No.”

“You seem shaken up. I can see your arms trembling, and you’re yelling. Why were you running?”

I stared up at Adrian Storm’s handsome Nordic face, those chiseled cheekbones fierce in the wan moonlight. Teenaged me wasn’t stupid. He was a good-looking boy, scrawny or bulked up.

“I’m feeling much better now,” I said.

“Why did you run?”

“I can’t say, because you’ll never stop laughing.”

“Try me.”

“I thought you were Forest Folk, coming to cannibalize me, starting with my toes.”

He leaned down, bringing the tip of his nose to mine as he stared into my eyes.

“Did you eat any mushrooms? Perhaps little brown ones?”

I pushed him away, laughing. “I’m not high. I’m just… looking for higher ground to use my cell phone. And the highway. It’s this direction, right?”

“This direction? No, you’re headed straight for the Forest Folk lair.”

I punched him in the chest right over the band logo, and he didn’t flinch. It was like punching a brick wall of cuteness.

He laughed at my feeble efforts.

I yelled, “Shut the porch door, and stop telling lies!”

He licked his lips. “They start with the toes, but first they… tickle you!” He darted forward, jabbing at my sides with his fingers.