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by Lucian Bane

  She gasped. “I did not!”

  He stormed to her, breathing heavy, but she held her ground even shot her finger in his face.

  “You have the same instincts.” She quirked her brow, waiting for acknowledgment. “Oh no you don’t, don’t you dare look clueless!”

  “I’m…” he spun and began pacing again. “I’m not sure about my instincts.”

  “Not sure? Crock of shit.”

  He looked at her, annoyed. “What is crock of shit?”

  “What you just said is.”

  “No, the term, what does it mean?”

  “It means those words you just strung together is the equivalent to earthenware full of fecal matter! A Crock. Of. Shit.”

  His lip quirked as he thought. “That’s disgusting.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “A crock of shit doesn't pertain to the topic either.”

  “It’s slang. And it should have been listed in the dictionary.”

  “Well, excuse me. I must have missed it, Miss Isadore.”

  She snorted lightly, now pacing as well, crossing her arms over her hard nipples. “So, what, are you trying to tell me your man parts are broken?” She tossed a finger at his midsection. “You’re saying you’ve never been aroused?”

  “Not that I know of, no.”

  She choked on incredulity. “Have you had sex before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  She threw up her hands, “Ugh. Seriously. You’re telling me you're a virgin,” she nodded dryly.

  “As far as I know.”

  His tone was dead serious, and Isadore shook her head and cocked a hip, staring at him. “As far as you know.” She pointed right at him. “I call bullshit.” He gave her another perplexed look, but she refused to let him sidetrack her. “I’ll get you a slang dictionary soon, don’t worry, but there is no way you’re going to convince me you’re a virgin. So, that brings us to really needing to find out how you got here and what happened to you that brought on this massive amnesia. Are you willing to go to the hospital and be checked out?”

  “What?”

  “Hospital, run tests, find out what’s wrong with you, or right, whatever.” Isadore tried to get a hold of her anger, she was being too harsh. She couldn’t help it. Hard nipples, virgin--yeah, right.

  “Of course I am willing,” he said. “When can we do this?”

  Of course he'd be excited and sincere. He was the most difficult person to fight with. What was she thinking? She hated fighting.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, ready to start over.

  The subject change softened his handsome face. “I am. Always.”

  “Yes, you said that." She hurried to the fridge, ready to think of something else. "How have you been eating?”

  “I’ve been eating here.”

  She paused with her hand on the fridge door. “Here? And how?”

  “When you’re gone, I come in and eat.”

  He said it like it was clearly the normal and practical thing to do. “Is that so? That’s illegal, you know.”

  He regarded her as though connecting the meaning of the word with his actions. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He eyed her, seeming to try to read her mind. “Yes,” he said.

  She studied him for a few seconds and opened the fridge, looking at all her exactly placed items.

  Nothing out of order. “So you break into my house and spy on me…” She reached in and began pulling dishes out. “Eat all my food.”

  “I didn’t spy on you,” he interrupted from the table. “And I didn’t eat all your food.”

  “I see that.” She pulled out dishes and set them on the table. "I guess I shouldn't wonder how you managed to dig in my fridge and not move a thing from its exact location."

  "I replaced things as they were."

  Maybe he was a cyborg. She set her small gumbo pot on the hot plate. “So you didn’t spy, you just watched.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did I know you were watching?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And did I want you watching me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No,” she pulled the rice out now, “you didn’t know because you didn’t ask. Therefore, you were spying on me like a pervert.”

  “You’re correct. I was spying in that respect. But I’m no pervert.”

  She didn’t want to argue that. “And by the way, you need to borrow my shower, you smell like the swamp king.”

  “Shower.” He muttered the word, seeming to go over the various meanings of it.

  She set their silverware out and placed coffee cups down. “That thing in my bathroom? In the tub?”

  His furrowed brow smoothed. “You have that,” he said, like he realized what he’d seen in her bathroom matched the definition of the word he knew.

  “Yes, I have one of those.”

  “I like water. And being clean.”

  “Yes, you just need to like soap and shampoo.”

  “You have those,” he said, just like he’d done about the shower.

  “I do indeed and am more than happy to share.”

  There was a long pause as she poured their coffee. “May I?”

  She glanced at him. “Shower?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure, go ahead. By the way, where did you get those clothes?”

  He looked down at himself. “I… stole them.”

  Well, at least he had that correct. “I’ll wash your clothes while you shower.”

  He stood and went to the bathroom where she followed and demonstrated everything at a speed that discouraged any talk then she showed him where everything was. “Capeesh?”

  He stared at her.

  “Understand?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking around again. He sounded nearly relaxed, and the small space suddenly got crowded. She hurried out before he began calling out everything her body did before she was even aware of it herself.

  "I need those pants," she called at the bathroom door a few seconds later. She stood with her hand held out and head turned. The door opened. "Put ‘em in my hand," she instructed.

  He draped them over her arm. "Thank you."

  The gratitude in his voice went way deeper than her washing his pants. Like he was thinking of everything else she'd done and chose now to tell her. "Not a thing," she muttered, hurrying away from the door before she couldn't resist the temptation to turn and look. It was certainly there, burning in her neck muscles.

  She put a load in the little washing machine next to the sink and realized she'd better wait till after his shower to turn it on. She faced her little kitchen now. A Cajun feast and Southern hospitality was standard protocol. And it helped her forget about the strange man in her house with symptoms of extreme psychosis or who was a serial con-artist killer. She refused to put a whole lot of stock in the third option—some kind of malfunctioning angel or demon.

  The bathroom door opened finally. “Thank you.”

  Isadore turned then screamed and spun back around. “You’re naked!”

  Chapter Five

  “Is that bad? You…said you’d wash my clothes.”

  She blinked rapidly at the larger-than-life triple X image still burning her brain. Dear God! That erection! It was enormous! “You… need to put a towel on!” she tried not to shriek.

  “Ok.” A moment passed then he announced, “Done,” sounding way too casual.

  “Is it around your waist?”

  He chuckled a little. “Yes.”

  She carefully turned, keeping her eyes squinty. At seeing he’d done it properly, she allowed herself to look fully, noticing he held the towel shut with his hands. “Uh. You need to…" she gestured at his groin "tuck your towel in on itself to make it stay.” He looked down and opened the towel, making her gasp and spin around.

  “I don’t mind you seeing me,” he said. Like this was all about his comforts.

  “We
ll, I mind! That is private,” she strained with her back turned, fanning her face. “Did you get it? God, am I going to have to help?” she muttered finally in exasperation.

  “It’s not private to me,” he reiterated. "It doesn't matter to me."

  “Well it should matter, that is private!”

  “Yes, you keep saying that.”

  “And you keep…not getting it,” she shrilled.

  “I don't understand why it needs to be private. "

  “It’s supposed to be!”

  “Why?” he wondered, sounding curious.

  She choked on a few breaths, feeling like he’d asked her to define justice! “Clearly, I can’t explain it at this time.” She remembered her robe then. “In the bathroom, there’s a robe, you can put that on.” She listened in the span of silence. “Are you doing it?”

  “I can’t get my arms in it,” he called from in the bathroom.

  “Good grief,” she whispered. “Stay right there, I’ll find you something.” She hurried up to her room and dug around her drawer until she found those stretchy black shorts she’d worn when she went

  through a weight problem. She hurried back, pausing halfway down the ladder stairs. “Are you still decent?”

  “I… think so.”

  “As in are you covered?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t trust his yes’s now. At seeing he was covered with the towel, she took the shorts into the bathroom and put them on the top of the commode. “They’re in there,” she said when she came out.

  “Thank you.” He went in and she worried about what he'd look like in those shorts. “My God,”

  she whispered when he exited. Of course he wouldn’t look stupid. Of course he’d look wickedly delicious in them. But then at what angle did he not look wickedly delicious? It was bad enough seeing him in those too snug black slacks, now these too snug black shorts put the final glaze on her whore tinted glasses.

  She stood there at the fridge, arms crossed over her chest again. Why did it feel like she shouldn't be standing there, in the same room with him while he looked like that? Wow, those tattoos covered his legs as well. And those legs. Thick limbs of power and muscle. She needed to get around to asking about his tatts even if his answer would likely be clueless. She needed to not be this close to him while he was...

  so near naked. She was surprised he hadn't picked up on her body’s—”

  “It’s disappointing how you react to my body.”

  Shiiiiit! She fought to appear unaffected by the disappointment in his blunt observation. “I’m a woman, it’s purely normal. But don’t worry, I won’t touch you or attack you. I do have self-control.”

  Way to go stupid, you just admitted you want him and have to use self-control.

  "I like when you're honest."

  For some reason, the compliment only stoked her shame. “I don't have to try very hard either."

  "And then you do that."

  "Do what?"

  "Lie." His loathing burned along her skin and she wondered if she'd imagined it. "It makes me want to kill you."

  Despite that, he placed his palms on the counter and crossed his legs, forcing his giant penis to bulge more. She fought her need to look and see if he was aroused or if it was just naturally that big. Had to be arousal, which put him in the same boat she was in. “I see your man parts work as well."

  He looked down then back up at her. Of course, he'd have curiosity and wonder written all over his cute face. “I’m not so sure. It functions."

  "But?"

  "But it's been behaving differently."

  She resisted a snicker. "For how long and how so?"

  "When I'm..." he paused then covered his bulge with a large hand as though contemplating. The sight shot those reflexive, biological responses through her sexual parts. "No, when you," he corrected.

  “When your body does what I don't like. It grows."

  His brutal honesty matched that hard, green gaze on her. “Must be the same reflex I'm having,”

  she said, struggling to keep her voice from cracking with the estrogen steadily flooding her.

  “It's not purely reflex with you. Your body requires different things and I'm not sure why or what it means."

  Oh, here we go. Mr. make me the different whore. "Well, men and women are very different in that respect."

  "Do you have to touch yourself? Is that part of how women are different? I don't have that need."

  Shock, confusion then shame slammed her, causing him to stiffen in response. Her anger followed immediately, realizing he'd watched her! At seeing him suddenly calmed, she turned furious, nodding and gasping at him. “That's called masturbation," she spat, refusing to allow him to make her feel dirty. "I do it to have an orgasm, I’m sure you recall that word in the dictionary. It’s a very normal and healthy exercise. But you watching me do that?” She shot a finger at him. "That was uncool!"

  "Why?"

  Her eyes widened. "Private!" she cried.

  "Why is that private?"

  Again, Mr. Innocent curiosity. There was no way he was this clueless, just no way. She called bullshit on that. "It's private because a man and a woman's sexual parts are theirs and theirs alone, not to be seen by the world. Don't any of your…your instincts indicate this? Did you not feel the least bit bad about spying on that?"

  "I wasn't--"

  "Dear God, watching, studying, whatever!" she cried.

  "No. I didn't feel bad, I felt confused. And curious as to why and what you were doing."

  "Well it's called an orgasm."

  'I know that now."

  She nodded at him a lot. "Good. And you know to never do that, to me or anybody. Unless you're married, then it's fine."

  At seeing the wonder still flaring in his green gaze she realized she'd extended the uncomfortable discussion. "Why did you make those sounds?"

  Dear God, he wasn't getting the private thing. She held up a hand. "Here's the deal. The sexual parts?" She wagged her finger back and forth between their groins. "That's all private. That means you don't look at them or talk about them. Capeesh?"

  "I want to learn everything."

  She made her way to the sink, needing to do something besides stare at him while talking about orgasms. "Yeah well, you'll have to learn that some other way. We're not married, so technically, it's way inappropriate to talk about this.'

  "And it's not inappropriate for your "privates" to want to have an orgasm around me?"

  She gasped while blindly adding dish liquid in the sink. "Well, for somebody who doesn't need to have an orgasm, your... penis sure looks ready to." She shoved dishes into the sink now. "That's called an erection that you have if you must know and I really think you must. So, I'm not the only one experiencing the biological reflexes, here. I mean have you ever had an orgasm to even know?"

  "No," he said, his tone curious.

  "Well, when you're alone and in private, you should try it before you knock it. It happens to feel very good, there's nothing wrong with pleasure."

  "I don't want pleasure."

  She nodded, refusing to look at him while her body fought the x-rated images of him doing that.

  "Have you ever had it?"

  "No.'

  "Then how do you know you don't want it?"

  'I don't know how I know. I just know that I know."

  'Ah geeze, of course. How convenient. “And I happen to just know that I know you'd like it."

  "I never said I wouldn't like it. I said that I don't want it."

  She finally glanced at him over her shoulder, perplexed to shit over that answer. There was no not looking at his groin with the giant erection. She turned back to the dishes and turned on the cold water to rinse. "That erection you have says otherwise."

  "My body does many things I don't want. It does many things that repulse me. Like reacting to the disgusting thing happening in your body now, I'm not sure why it's doing that, but I don't like it, nor do I want it."
/>
  She shook the suds off both hands and turned, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

  "Well, neither do I."

  He gave a sneer with a shake of his head. "Don't lie."

  "You don't lie."

  "I don't lie," he assured. "I don’t seem to need or want pleasure the way you do.”

  His nonchalance with the insult, twisted like a barb in her already wounded ego, inciting her illogical mind to random, regretful action. Walking over, she paused just before him, meeting his cool, non-dangerous, ever-curious green gaze. She lowered her eyes to his manhood, her heart pounding furiously as she ran the tip of her finger along his rock-hard length.

  He hissed and snatched her hand up in a brutal hold and the eruption of pain triggered her abuse emotions. Namely, terror.

  She was suddenly grabbed by the shoulders, spun, and pinned against the cabinet where he was just leaning. His fingers burned hot and lethal around her throat. Again. His gasps hit her face, that choking heat mixed with the painful shards of ice, flooding her lungs. She clawed at his burning wrist with her fingers, staring with wide eyes as she fought her panic. Anger. She needed to be angry, pissed.

  That bastard was choking her again. She was going to clock the fuck out of him with something the second she was free.

  With a roar, he released her and ran out the door. All her anger dissolved and took the strength in her body, causing her to drop to her knees. The room spun, and she suddenly collapsed to the floor, face pressing tight to the cool wood. This was bad. She held her neck, staring through tears into the nightmares of her past. She fought to hold back the tidal wave of shit pushing for release. Not that. Never that. Can’t ever let that out, it was too much, it was too much.

  She focused instead on another crisis. The shameful and immediate one. It was a really bad sign, she knew it was. Getting off to a man while he strangled her. She clenched her eyes tight, hating what it meant. She didn’t want to be so broken. She didn’t want to be the person who formed a lurid addiction to the trauma she’d endured. She wouldn’t be that person. She wouldn’t. She was a scientist. She was too smart for that.

  She lay there, gasping for air, again focusing on other things. Why was this man here? She still didn’t know his name. He could be an angel, he really could. More likely a sick person. but… she didn’t want him to be sick. She wanted him to be real. And healthy. So she could feel… so she could be…