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

by Aphrodite Hunt

  He sits down on the cold steel floor, placing the flashlight carefully beside him. I do the same. We are at opposing ends, like wary prisoners who have just met in a prison cell.

  I say casually, “So which part of the woods did you wake up in?”

  He gestures to a direction. “Somewhere over there. I woke up, and there was a storm all around me. Tree branches lashing out and barks being upended. I was afraid, so I ran and ran. And I came here. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t remember a single thing about this area or ever being here before.”

  I fold my legs against my chest. I’m feeling the chill.

  “Don’t worry. When the storm passes, there will be people to help you with this kind of stuff,” I say soothingly.

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  There is nothing for us to do but stare at each other. We hear the scream of the wind outside, although it’s muted by all that steel around us. He sits cross-legged with his genitals well displayed. He has no iota of embarrassment, which is unusual in my experience. His beauty is extreme and self-contained, but he wears it like a doe in the woods – unconsciously and without swagger.

  I reach for the fallen quilt at the bottom of the stairs. I like looking at him, but it’s like staring too long at the sun. His nakedness is making me uncomfortable.

  “Would you like this?” I hand it to him. I gesture to his legs. “To cover yourself.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says, relieved.

  He arranges the quilt over his thighs and groin so that I’m spared the agony of having to be bedazzled by his sexuality.

  “Are you hungry?” I say.

  He seems embarrassed. “Yes. Very.”

  I move to the shelves. It’s surprising he hasn’t attempted to open any of the cans. I take up the can opener – it’s one of those more complicated ones where you are required to lock the cutter onto the side of the can and turn the mechanism. He watches with rapt attention as I open a tin of corned beef. I’ve stacked a few plates and cutlery on the shelves as well, and I pile the beef onto a flat dish. I hand this to him together with a fork.

  “Thank you.” He gratefully digs into it. I pass him a bottle of water and he gulps it down thirstily.

  When he has finished his corned beef, he gestures to the can opener. “May I try using that device?”

  I’m so stunned that I almost drop the can opener. He takes it from me eagerly anyway and clumsily uses it to open a can of sardines, which he upends on his clean plate.

  “You’ve forgotten how to use a can opener?” I say slowly as I watch him devour the sardines as well.

  He swallows and takes a gulp from his bottle. “A can opener?”

  “Yes.”

  He frowns. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t recall ever seeing that device before.”

  My tongue goes ever so slightly dry. Just from where the hell did he come?

  I’ve got to call him something. ‘Adonis’ would be appropriate, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if it was revealed later that he had dropped down from Mt. Olympus in a cross-continental thunderstorm. Though I would expect Adonis to speak only Greek, I suppose. I’m not sure if Adonis was a Greek god or if he was just one of those mere mortals that were coveted by the female gods and had gotten slain in a fit of savagery, tragedy and myth.

  Anyway, he’s been reincarnated here in the naked flesh. The implications of this are dizzying, even though there’s probably a simple and very logical explanation for it all.

  I clear my throat. “Since you don’t remember your name, would it be OK if I call you Don?”

  It’s short for ‘Adonis’ of course. Though I can’t technically tell the police that.

  He ponders this for a while and then nods. “Sure.”

  When he has polished off the sardines, he asks, “Do you live alone?”

  Ah, the story of my life.

  Since he seems interested and there is nothing else to do, I tell him – in bits and pieces – about myself. I’m barely what you would consider interesting, other than my bad marriage to Kenneth. This I relay sparingly. And of course, I tell him my name.

  “Jean Mansfield.”

  “Jean,” he says, savoring it.

  “It’s my mother’s name.”

  “It’s a lovely name.” He falls into silence. No doubt he is thinking about his mother . . . and the fact he doesn’t remember her.

  “Are you worried about not knowing who you are?” I say.

  He leans his head back against the wall. “Yes.”

  I nod. “I’m sure it will be all cleared up in the morning when the storm is over.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The hour is late, I’m certain, although I don’t have a watch. Beyond these walls of steel, the oppressive weather rages on, the eerie shrieks of the wind carrying through.

  “We should sleep,” I say.

  He agrees. He kills his flashlight and lies down on the cold stone floor. He tucks the quilt over his body up to his chest.

  I’m shivering as I huddle myself into a corner. I make to switch off my flashlight as well. I glance at his beautiful face, still turned towards me.

  “Goodnight, Don.”

  “You are cold.” He lifts the edge of the quilt. “This rightly is yours. But do you want to share?”

  The expression in his eyes is simultaneously uncertain and hopeful.

  My pulse quickens ever so slightly. Do I want to share? I hardly know this man, this amnesiac who doesn’t know a social security number from a can opener. He can be dangerous for all I know.

  But every instinct in every fiber within me – if I can still trust them – tells me that I will be safe with him.

  I only hesitate for a second before I take the plunge.

  “OK,” I say.

  I scramble over to him and the warmth of the quilt. Feeling bulky, I take off my pullover and place it on the floor beside him as a makeshift pillow. My hair has dried some. I snuggle under the quilt, feeling the hard floor against my elbows and hips. It’s going to be one long uncomfortable night.

  The flashlight flickers. Shit. A waning battery.

  “Oh, I forgot to turn it off.”

  “Let me,” he says.

  In the golden glow, I watch him rise from beside me. His back view is equally as mesmerizing as his front. His back is corded with muscles and his buttocks are firm – without an ounce of spare fat – as he walks and kneels down to turn off the flashlight on the floor. The last startling image I have of him that night is of his spectacular body silhouetted against his own shadow on the wall.

  The light winks out. We are left in the darkness. Our breathing is harsh against the perpetual moan of the elements outside.

  I hear him creep back to my side. The quilt rises and he gets in beside me. His arm brushes against mine.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “It’s all right.”

  He lies down, keeping a little distance between us so that our bodies are not touching. I can feel his warmth through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. The quilt envelops us in homespun comfort.

  How am I going to sleep like this, knowing that the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes upon is prone beside me in our makeshift bed, as naked as the day he was born? His very presence ignites every atom of the darkness, filling the little storm shelter with sparks of electricity.

  “Goodnight, Jean Mansfield.”

  “Goodnight, Don.”

  I haven’t been this tense in a long, long while. My ears are pricked for the sound of his breathing. It is only after it settles into a rhythmic inhale and exhale that I allow myself to relax.

  I fall asleep, dreaming of naked Greek gods in pleasure gardens filled with honey and nectar and wine.

  3

  I wake up to find myself entangled . . . of sorts.

  At first, I am totally disorientated. Darkness surrounds me, and for one panicked moment, I think that I have been buried a
live. Then I remember where I am and who I am with. My left leg is draped casually over his (I must have unconsciously tossed and turned last night) and my hand is resting upon his bicep.

  Oh shit.

  It’s not as if I find him abhorrent. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m actually afraid he might find me abhorrent. After all, I’m not even a notch on the scale of his beauty thermometer. The thought of him thinking that I may have been trying to take advantage of him while he was asleep fills me with dread.

  I debate whether or not to remove my limbs. He is still breathing deeply and (I think) caught up in the realms of sleep. He does not snore, unlike Kenneth, so it is difficult to gauge his level of consciousness.

  I attempt to remove my leg by gingerly bending and lifting it. My knee brushes against something long and hard and I freeze. Is that his – ? No, it can’t be. My heart is thudding so hard against my ribcage that I’m afraid I might wake him on its sheer drumbeat itself. The appendage on my knee (not my most sensitive body part, I can tell you) feels fleshy and warm, and yet stiff. I daren’t put down my leg just in case I disturb him.

  And it.

  I do the only thing I can. Vaulting my leg up and around, I lift the quilt above our bodies with as little disruption as possible. His bicep is iron hard and just as warm. I long to run my palm over it just to feel the solid flesh within because I reckon I will never touch anything so beautiful again. But of course, I don’t. I withdraw my hand, hoping and praying that I did not wake him.

  My movements cause the quilt to rearrange, and he stirs. I freeze again, wondering why I never had the compunction to let Kenneth lie undisturbed in bed this way. He mutters something I cannot hear, and rotates his entire body towards me. Oh shit, shit, shit. His body edges into mine, and his right leg comes up and straddles me. The rock hard appendage that I felt earlier appears again, pressed against my right side – an unmistakably woody presence that leaves me no doubt as to what it is.

  I don’t believe it.

  He’s having a hard-on with me in bed beside him.

  Me? I caused this?

  Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I didn’t elicit his erection. He’s still asleep and no doubt dreaming of the beautiful woman (possibly a goddess herself) who shares his bed in the life he left behind. In fact, he’s probably jolted into remembering who he is now.

  I lie there, the blood thundering in my head. The pulse in my neck is doing a two-beat gallop – ta-thup, ta-thup. The head of his cock in my side jabs my flesh as it moves in tandem with his slow breathing. It’s a prod-withdraw, prod-withdraw kind of back-forth movement that sends feverish images to my brain.

  Oh yes. I remember his massive cock quite well. I envision its smoothness, its perfect lines, its ripe masculinity. Then, it had been flaccid. Now, it is completely awoken (even when he has not), raring and charging to go where it usually goes.

  I have no delusions that he finds me attractive, or that he is taking advantage of me in any way. No, no. This is a completely unconscious position on his part, just as I was unconscious when I carelessly put my leg over him.

  Outside, I can hear birds twittering. Oh good. This means the storm has abated and we can be free to go on with our lives. Separately. Without sticking our appendages into each other’s faces.

  I should wake him up.

  I really, really should – even though it’s nice to sleep beside him. It’s like lying down next to a fantasy made flesh. Like, how often do you get to do that, right?

  OK.

  Time to get back to real life.

  “Don?” My voice sounds squeaky in the dark. “I think the storm is over. We can go out now.”

  His breathing stills for a while.

  Then, “Huh?”

  I clear my throat. “I said the storm’s over. We can go out now.”

  Unless of course you prefer to stay in here. All day. With me.

  He jumps higher than the ceiling would allow him. At least, that’s what I think he did from the sudden upheaval of the quilt. There’s a mad scramble by both of us to turn on the flashlights. He gets to his first while I’m still groping in the dark. The beam cuts a swath through the murk.

  “Who are you?” he says.

  His glorious nudity is once again revealed, along with his impressively tumescent cock. Oh boy, but it’s huge. It rises like the head of a cobra from his tufted pubic bush, displaying his luscious balls underneath. The aperture on its shining head points straight at me.

  I’m transfixed by it, him . . . everything.

  “D-don’t you remember?” I say. His face is as chiseled as a marble statue’s. Oh God, I don’t what to look at. Every part of him screams out to be gazed upon, admired, adored.

  “Oh. Right.” He’s calming down despite still seeming bewildered. “Jane Mansfield. The storm. It’s all coming back to me now.”

  “Yes.” My own breathing is hurried. Being with this man is like riding the rollercoaster. “Do you remember anything about yourself?”

  I wait as he pauses, the flashlight in his hand lowering slightly.

  He says, crestfallen, “No.”

  “It’s OK. We have Plan A, remember? The police. The storm’s over.”

  He cocks his head to listen. “Yes.”

  “So . . . we should get going, don’t you think?”

  He seems relieved. “Yes, uh, we should.”

  I calm my racing pulse by walking slowly but steadily up the stairs. I crouch beneath the slanting door and push it upwards. It won’t budge. As I try again, I am joined by Don’s hefty shoulder. Together, we heave and concentrate our strength upwards with all our might.

  My eyes are fixed upon the door. I refuse to look down at his wobbling manhood, which is now deflating even as we exert.

  So it wasn’t because of me.

  Bummer.

  The door groans open. In the crack of daylight, I glimpse the spiky offshoots of a branch and hear its creak as it slides off the yawning door. I’m almost afraid to look upon the devastation. Yes, I have tornado insurance, but it’s a total bitch to claim anything and start afresh. I’ve really got to move to Florida. I’ll take gators over hurricanes anytime.

  Don joins me outside as I gaze upon the scattered debris upon the considerable expanse of my lawn. There are branches and leaves everywhere, along with ripped wood planks – their sharp nails sticking out. A twisted metal road sign lies forlornly amongst the heap.

  My house is still intact, thank goodness. The roof is missing several tiles, however, and the entire front gutter has been torn from its moorings. The garage has definitely not been demolished. The only major casualty seems to be my car. Its entire windscreen has been smashed in by a massive branch.

  “Is this your house?” Don says sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. This is good compared to what I went through the last time.” I glance at him. “I’ll fetch you some clothes.”

  We wade through the detritus, taking care not to step upon the nails and sharp objects littering the ground. I’m very, very lucky, I decide. I open the front door, unlocked from yesterday, of course. A pathetic meow greets me at the doorway.

  “Derek!” I cry in relief, picking the orange and brown striped tabby up.

  Behind me, Don looks on as I hug and make a huge fuss of my cat. I put Derek down on all fours again, a little embarrassed.

  “Your cat?” he says.

  “Yes. I couldn’t find him yesterday when the storm, uh, hit.”

  Great. Now the most wonderful-looking man in the world thinks I’m an animal abuser.

  If Don is accusatory, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he pronounces, “I’ll help you clear up your gardens, Jean Mansfield.”

  The way he talks is definitely a little off.

  “Jean would do,” I reply hastily.

  His cock has deflated to its normal state, thank goodness. The morning air has a bite to it but he doesn’t seem to be perturbed.

  “Why don’t you come in and make yoursel
f comfortable while I find you some clothes?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  Feeling self-conscious, I pad upstairs to my guest bedroom to get Kenneth’s old clothes. The ones I haven’t thrown away in the trash, of course. Confession: I threw most of Kenneth’s clothes out – the load he didn’t take with him when he left. But midway through the emotional and physical baggage clearance, I decided that I should embrace recycling. So I piled Kenneth’s remaining clothes into a garbage bag, stuffed them into the guest closet and promptly forgot all about them.

  Until now.

  I rifle through the garbage bag, picking out two pairs of jeans and two T-shirts, together with a jacket (hmmm, I think Don will look nice in faux leather) and two pairs of briefs. I pause to finger the cotton fabric of the briefs. The image of that enormous erect cock filling this sends a frisson of pleasure up my spine.

  A sharp crack outside catches my attention. I go to my own bedroom’s window where the sun streams through the glass, lighting the wallpaper into a hue of bright lavender.

  Don is hefting large branches and dragging them to a pile at the side of my lawn. He’s still naked.

  My jaw drops.

  It’s not the sight of him naked that does it this time, though that is delectable in itself. It’s the speed at which he does this.

  He walks quicker than any man I have ever seen, and he’s not running either. I can see every step that he makes, but it’s as if I’m watching a movie in fast forward. Not superfast fast forward (like in the 32X button), but certainly faster than the average human being. He goes back to collect another branch. My throat goes dry as he snaps the smaller branches away with such alacrity that his movements are a blur. When he has finished trimming whatever he wants, he repeats the hauling process.

  An alarm bell clangs at the back of my head. Does he know I am watching from the window? Am I supposed to be watching? And if he catches me watching, what will he do?