Why did she back away from me after she led me to the house? I thought it was an invitation, but fear lurked in her eyes, and I wouldn't take her against her will.
But fuck, I want her. She pulls at something in me, and I can't let go. I want to hold her, protect her, draw out her secrets. Rip off her clothes and sink into her, fuck her until I can't think anymore.
My balls ache, and when I wrap my hand around my cock, I groan between my teeth. Christ, when was the last time I was so hard? Can't remember. Maybe before the car crash four months ago, but even then I can't recall being so damn desperate for release.
I tug on my hard-on, hissing at the pressure, as my other hand traces the surgical scar running down my side. The skin itches there, tight and strangely numb.
Which is like I feel most of the time.
Pulling harder on my dick, I enter the shower stall and turn on the water on warm. From the giant rainforest showerhead, a soft cascade falls, warming me up. I brace one hand on the tiled wall and bend over, working my aching hard-on, my fist sliding from the base to the head slowly. Drawing the pleasure out. The need.
My head dips forward as I jack off to the image of her face, that ripe mouth, those wide eyes, those pretty tits with their pretty dark nipples visible through the soaked cloth. Long strokes that stoke the pressure behind my balls.
Her mouth on my dick, sucking. Taking me deep. Those damn eyes looking up at me, dark and wide. My hand tangled in her long hair, pulling. Her teeth scraping the underside of my cock, teasing.
My stomach clenches, and my whole body jerks as I come, splashing my cum on the shower wall. A groan catches between my teeth, my leg muscles trembling with the force of the orgasm ripping the seed from my balls.
Fuck. God.
I bow over, hair falling in my eyes, water choking me as I struggle to catch my breath. Ow. I think I have no more cum left in me, and I reach down for my deflated balls to reassure myself they're still there.
Just from thinking about her. Without even tasting her, or kissing her, or touching her skin except to hold her hands in mine.
I'm fucked.
Chapter Two
Raylin
The rain lashes at the windows until late the next morning, and I watch it, sipping at some yucky instant coffee I found stashed in the pantry room. Dry and protected behind the bay windows facing the beach, I'm warm and cozy.
It sucks, because it leaves my mind loose to wander and visit worries, fears, and the memory of a certain muscular guy pressed up close and personal, asking me if I'm okay.
It also brings back the memory of the thug after me, and I feel itchy with nerves.
He can't have followed me here. What is this, a James Bond film? Nobody knows where I am.
I slide out of the loveseat someone thoughtfully placed there-to watch the rain like I am? I wonder-and think about Storm or whoever he is as I rinse my cup in the kitchen sink.
What was he doing last night jogging in the hurricane? Okay, almost hurricane, and sure, it's his own business, but only a blind man would have missed the front coming. He was right outside the house whose fence he was fixing when I noticed and went to take shelter.
Instead, he headed out for a run. On the surf.
A little disturbed at the dark suggestions my mind offers as to his motivations, I return to the terrace. Pushing the screen door open, I walk to the end, to the steps where he held me by the hips and asked me who I am. The tiles are cool under my feet, and my toes curl a little at the sensation.
He headed into the storm. Did he want to hurt himself? Put himself in danger?
None of your business, Ray. None of your damn business. Don't you have enough with worrying about your own little self? Hitmen sent after you not enough trouble for you?
So it makes no sense that I go into the bathroom and fix my hair, pulling the dark strands into a ponytail, and straighten the halterneck top of the only dress I own. Just on the off chance he passes by later.
Pathetic. Seriously.
The rain isn't showing any sign of letting up. No internet, no TV. It's like being stranded on a desert island. Some more digging unearths a stack of musty romance novels, and I plop myself back in the loveseat to read. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it, too comfortable to move.
I wish I could stay here forever, in this bubble of warmth and safety. Not having to worry about myself, my family and the debt collectors after me.
Not having to remind myself every day to keep breathing and that life is worth living, even when the people who are supposed to look after you, love you above all, have abandoned you to the wolves-no, worse.
When they've set you up as a sacrificial goat and watch from the shadows to make sure you're caught, so they can go free and enjoy life without complications. Without my complication.
And not a tear left to shed over them.
It's later afternoon, the sun dipping low over the horizon, the rain turned into a drizzle. I'm on the terrace, finishing my crackers and peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, when he appears, running toward me, his head bowed and the moisture gleaming on his bare torso.
I swear, he's doing this in purpose. I choke on my cracker and reach for the glass of water I have nearby. Such a body shouldn't exist outside of romance novel covers.
Such men aren't for the likes of me.
But as I'm getting up to carry my dish and glass inside, he turns and jogs up the beach.
Toward me.
Crap.
In danger of tripping and falling again, I back away toward the house door. Not fast enough. He bounds up the steps and takes the dish and glass from my hands. He puts them down, and I stare at him, my mouth hanging open.
"What are you doing?" There. Words. Finally.
"Checking on you." He turns my hands over in his much larger ones and runs his thumbs over my scored and bruised palms.
The sensation does strange things to my body and mind. I mean, we've established I'm in lust with the guy, but this? This light caress shoots straight to my core. I'm throbbing so badly between my legs I think I might go over the edge just like that, and there's a pressure in my chest I don't understand.
Never felt the need to touch a man's shoulders, his face, his lips before. Not like this.
Refusing to linger on the thought, I pull my hands back. He resists, I pull harder, he lets go-and I knock into the still closed door. My bruised backside sends a jolt of agony up my spine, and I yelp.
"Dammit, I knew you were hurt." He grabs me and turns me around, so that I face the door, and I put up my hands to stop from faceplanting into the wood. He tugs me backward just in time to avoid that, and his hands are on my ass.
I repeat, his hands are on my ass. Eep.
"What do you think you're doing? Hey!" I twist around and slap at his chest, pushing him away. "Hands off."
He lifts his hands, and oh God, he's grinning. So not fair. It's a crooked, sexy grin that lights up the blues in his eyes and melts me into a puddle of goo.
"You're cute," he says, and that sexy raspy bedroom voice will be my undoing, I swear. After his body does me in, of course, and let's not forget the way his concern touched me.
Ugh. "I'm not cute."
"Yes, you are." He reaches for my face and trails his thumb over my lips. "Cute and funny."
I sputter. That's not what I want a handsome, sexy guy to tell me. But before I find the right swearword to fling at him, the flare of something darker in his eyes stops me.
"Well, I'm fine, as you can see," I say, my voice shaky and kinda breathy. Why the hell is my voice breathy?
"Yes, you're fine," he agrees, his eyes darkening more, dipping to my breasts. His other hand smacks into the door above my head, and the length of his hard, strong, half-naked body presses into mine. His tongue darts out and licks his lower lip, and now he's looking at me like I'm dessert.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles.
Damn!
His eyes flick back up to my face, and his brows arch.
"Sorry," I say and try to pull away from where he's got me pinned against the door. This is the mother of all bad ideas. "I just … "
"Come over for dinner."
"Dinner?" Wait, wait. I blink. He's still there, waiting for my answer. "No way. I don't even know you."
He grins again, and my panties are on fire. "I told you. I'm Storm. And don't I stay far from here." He winks. "You saw me fixing the fence. You know where the house is."
Shit, he noticed me then. "That where you're staying?"
"For now."
"You housesitting, too?"
"Something like that."
Haha. Funny. "And you'll cook?"
He shakes his head and snorts. "Maybe."
"Well, I can't come." Because I shouldn't. But I'm hungry. And he's pretty. Okay, more rugged than pretty. Still. "I really don't know you. What if you're a serial killer or something?"
"I promise you, I'm not."
Yeah, well. "And I don't know your real name."
His expression shutters. "Storm is what everyone calls me." He draws back and scrubs a hand over his face. "It's up to you, sweetheart. I'll be sitting outside, if you happen to walk by."