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

by Aphrodite Hunt

  “You’re a psychopath. You’re dangerous and you need to come with us. We can help you get better.”

  Don’s beautiful face twitches for a moment, and then hardens. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t know you’re a psychopath because your mind has been jolted out of its cushion. But you’re sick. You’ve been sick for a long, long while. We found you when you crossed our borders and we tried to help you.” Agent Sansky’s expression turns cunning. “You don’t remember anything. But all of it is true.”

  Cross our borders. This means Don is foreign. That much I have guessed. I look back and forth from Don to Agent Sansky, aggrieved that this is happening in my own home . . . and to Don, who looks genuinely baffled. I don’t blame him. Whatever he has been in the past, he has no clue of it now. He’s like a newborn trying to find his way around, only to be told that his new life is over before he can begin it.

  The flowers lie on the porch. Was he going to bring them to me?

  “I need more than what you’re giving me,” Don says. “I need evidence.”

  “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “Nor are you.” Don increases his grip on the agent.

  Everything happens so fast that I almost fail to register it. The agent who is being imprisoned in Don’s arms elbows Don in the midriff. Instead of crumpling with an ‘oof’, Don scissors the agent’s arm in a sharp crack.

  The agent screams as he falls to the ground.

  As do I.

  I clap my hands to my ears, expecting the guns to go off and the bullets to hit Don. But neither revolver does. I’m not sure if they are refusing to shoot at him for fear of hurting him (but why, especially since he’s such a dangerous political criminal?) or if they genuinely underestimated his speed.

  In a series of kinetic actions that belie their fluid grace, Don ends up in my lounge. He wrenches the gun off the male agent, dispatches him with a sharp blow to the jaw that tumbles the man to the floor and swiftly kicks Agent Sansky’s revolver from her hand. Before the revolver can drop to the ground, Don catches it with a deft flick of his wrist.

  He now points the gun at Agent Sansky. He glances at me worriedly. I’m crouched upon my carpet, still holding my head in my palms.

  “Jean, are you all right?”

  I’m trembling too much to answer. But his concern touches me in some part of my brain that is not shell-shocked.

  He says to Agent Sansky, “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t take kindly to a gun being shoved at my face.”

  Her reaction takes me aback. Instead of spitting claws out, her eyes glaze over with admiration.

  “My God,” she says in an almost breathless tone, “you are amazing.”

  So I didn’t imagine her saying it the first time.

  But why, why, why?

  Don motions with the gun. “On the ground with the rest.”

  The two men are already rolling in pain on my floor. The first male agent clearly has his arm broken in several places, because he’s cradling it. But that doesn’t stop him from reaching inside his suit to withdraw his gun.

  “Don, look out!” I shriek.

  “No, don’t shoot him!” Agent Sansky cries. I’m not sure if she’s calling out to Don or the agent, but from the angle her face is averted, I reckon it’s to the latter.

  But Don doesn’t need either of us for warning. He expertly fires a bullet into the wooden frame of my doorway. I get the impression that he has aimed it precisely where he wants it and he has no intention of hurting the agent.

  “Hands up where I can see them,” Don commands. “Go on. You know I can fire this faster you can take that thing out.”

  The agent complies by raising his one good hand. Don lopes over to relieve him of his gun, which he sticks into the back of his jeans. He pats the man down with one hand to ascertain he is not carrying other weapons. From the agent’s back pocket, he retrieves a key.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll be borrowing your vehicle.” He directs this to Agent Sansky. He moves to the other man’s gun, which has fallen onto the carpet and pockets that as well. Then he turns to me. His eyes are anxious. “Jean, I’m not sure if it’s safe for you here. Would you like to come with me?”

  My tongue is frozen to the roof of my mouth.

  He is not a criminal, my mind says. Criminals are not spoken of in hushed tones and described as amazing by government agents.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Don’t be a fool!” Agent Sansky’s eyes blaze.

  My voice is shaking as I say, “You know, I didn’t believe you when you said he was a dangerous political criminal.”

  “You don’t know what he is.”

  “I don’t think you do either.”

  I hope I’m not making a mistake.

  Together, we handcuff or tie the agents to chairs with duct tape. I’m a little worried about the man with the broken arm, but Don says, “They’ll be up and running in no time.”

  Shit.

  I’ve just become an accessory to assaulting three government agents. If they are who they claim they are.

  Agent Sansky says in a low dangerous voice, “You do realize that you’ve now become a criminal yourself.”

  My hands are trembling. For answer, I duct-tape her mouth shut. Her eyes shoot me a look that could have slain dragons.

  All I know is that I cannot allow Don to be taken in like a common criminal when he hasn’t had the chance to find himself.

  I run up to get a few supplies, including every bit of cash I have in the house. My heart is beating wildly. What am I doing? Oh yes – throwing in my lot with the man I think I’m in love with.

  Love.

  There, I said it. As much as I want to deny it, it’s there. That cruel and selfless word that makes you want to do crazy, dangerous things.

  I think I sort of knew it when I saw the flowers.

  But can it be? Am I mistaking some other heady emotion for love? Such as lust?

  We race to the black van. I delve into the driver’s seat. We take off, leaving my house in the dust. Somehow, I know that it’s the last I will ever see of it again.

  6

  There’s no turning back, I suppose. Once a criminal, there’s nowhere to go but mire yourself deeper into crime.

  We know we have to ditch the black van. There’s no way we can waltz into Hertz to rent a car because my driver’s license would be tracked. So when a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair runs in to a CVS Pharmacy, leaving her running car outside, we appropriate it.

  “Don’t worry,” Don assures me. “We’re going to have to leave this car somewhere sooner or later and we can call her to tell her where it is.”

  You see, real criminals don’t think of nice things like these. I’m certain of it.

  For now, we have a goal.

  Neverlake, Kansas.

  Don glances at me. My eyes are trained on the road, but I can see him peeking.

  “Are you angry with me?” he says.

  “I was when I thought you’d left this morning.”

  He sighs. “I was taking a run through the woods. I needed time to think.”

  He falls silent and I don’t prod him.

  The farther we get from home, the lighter my spirits become. It’s as though I’m shedding my worries with each mile, even though I’m sure they will all come back to roll over in a bulldozer type of bamboozle.

  We stop for lunch at a diner somewhere in one of the little towns that pepper our route. Between bites of greasy bacon and soggy burger, I say, “Did you have any more memory flashes?”

  He nods. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s the reason I’m not convinced I’m a dangerous criminal.”

  We are interrupted by the buxom waitress, who leans over as she pours us more coffee – showing off her deep cleavage. A cleavage I cannot boast. It’s obvious that she knows exactly what she’s doing from the way she bats her eyelashes at Don.

  He’s oblivious to everything except m
e.

  “I had a dream last night, only it was as vivid as I’m talking to you now.”

  The air seems to still around us.

  “I was in the desert full of red rocks. A red sky streaked with golden clouds is above me. I’m running through a hail of bullets and carrying someone across my shoulder. I dive into a trench, thankful that I was not hit. When I roll over the person I rescued, his blood was all over the front and back of my shirt.”

  I can well see the entire scene. It has a hypnotic slow-mo quality.

  Don continues, “With the life going out of his eyes, he said to me in a very hoarse voice, ‘Thank you, Captain, but it’s too late for me’.

  “‘No,’ I say desperately, ‘stay awake with me. I can get you to a medic. It’s just a few miles more due west’.

  “But he was already dead.”

  I nod, clutching my coffee mug.

  Don swallows. “I don’t know if it was a memory or a dream, but I don’t think I’m a criminal, Jean. I don’t think I’m deranged either.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He reaches for my hand across the table. “I’m capable of kindness, that I know. Maybe I was even a soldier.”

  “A captain.”

  “I don’t think I should surrender my freedom to the first government agent who tells me otherwise until I’ve had a chance to remember what I’m here for. You do see that, don’t you, Jean?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m perfectly aware too that this might be exactly what Agent Sansky means. A political criminal. A captured spy. And I am consorting with the enemy of my country, which makes me a traitor.

  Oh God.

  Sensing my consternation, Don says, “I don’t think I’m your enemy either, Jean. You see, I don’t even know who is at war, or even if there is a war going on right now. My thoughts are not in a language foreign to what I’m speaking now. All I know is that I owe it to myself to find out who I am.”

  He doesn’t mention the obvious . . . And why a government agency called the NPB is so interested in me.

  I remark, “There’s an in-house computer over there. Maybe we should Google the NPB.”

  “Good idea.”

  I have a Smartphone, but I’ve switched it off. I’m well aware that any activity I perform with it can be used to track us.

  The waitress comes back. I think she’s a little peeved that Don hasn’t paid her any attention from the way she whisks our coffee cups away, spilling a little on the table on purpose.

  I decide I won’t leave her a tip.

  We go to the ancient Desktop computer in an oak-paneled booth and drag two chairs. I type in ‘National Projects Bureau’.

  “This Google thing is really interesting,” remarks Don.

  I resist the urge to flash him an ‘are you for real?’ look.

  Nothing on the NPB comes up.

  “I knew it! They’re a sham.”

  “Search around a little,” Don cautions. “Government agencies may not always make themselves known to the generic public.”

  I Google a little more, typing in variations of ‘NPB’, ‘National Bureau’, ‘government agency’ and even ‘Pamela Sansky’. After twenty minutes, I can find nothing except for an old blog post by someone who calls himself ‘The Grim Reaper’.

  The post is dated five years back. It has a photo of a gangly young man with uneven teeth smiling into the camera. His arm is around a young woman I immediately recognize as Agent Sansky, albeit a younger version with fatter cheeks.

  The caption says: “Pamela Sansky and Gregory Birkenstock back in college”.

  Intrigued, I read on.

  “Greg dated Pam for two years before the incident. The last time I saw Greg was a couple of months back. He was totally high and muttering something about Pam leaving him to join the NPB or some top secret government agency she can’t talk too much about, only that it involves the investigation of the occult, paranormal and extra-terrestrial.”

  I turn to Don. His face is ashen.

  “What does that mean?” he says.

  *

  I have no answers for Don, although I have begun to suspect as much. Don is flesh and blood. I daresay he is even human. But his unusual speed and dexterity is off the charts for any human I know. Even if he’s a Shaolin temple kung fu super-expert (not a monk, I hope), there’s no way he can move that fast.

  He’s not some sort of superhero, is he?

  I’m not a science-fiction geek. I don’t believe in ghosts or the paranormal or anything I consider fantastical. I’m not even sure aliens exist.

  I’m doubting everything I know now.

  Am I afraid of Don? Strangely, I feel no fear, even though my head tells me that I must be cautious. Don gives off an aura of goodness and chivalry. In short, he’s everything good and noble about humanity, even though his humanity is suspect.

  It’s the fact that he remembers ‘Neverlake, Kansas’ that makes me pause. And the fact that he speaks English so well. Don is tied up to our world somehow. It’s the ‘how’ that I can’t articulate.

  I continue to drive until I feel the muscles in my neck protest. I won’t let Don drive, of course, and I’m going fairly slowly, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to ourselves. But by evening, my eyelids start to droop.

  “Let’s stop for the night.” Don places his warm hand on mine at the steering wheel. “Please. We’ll get there tomorrow.”

  I’m aware of the implications of night.

  My throat is tight when I say, “Were you bringing me those flowers, Don?”

  He averts his eyes. In profile, he is a marble statue, crafted so finely by the masters that your breath is stolen away.

  “Yes.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  He is silent for a long while.

  “I thought about it. As I ran in the woods this morning, my mind kept going over what happened last night.” He holds up his hands. “What do you see, Jean?”

  A pair of beautiful hands.

  “Your hands,” I say dutifully.

  “What else?”

  “Your nails. Your fingers.”

  “What do you see on my fingers? Or rather . . . what do you see an absence of?”

  I finally catch on. I pull in a deep breath. “You don’t have any ring marks.”

  Indeed, there is no band of pale skin around his ring fingers that suggest he once wore a ring.

  He says, “I don’t know who I am. That much is clear. I don’t know where I come from, or if I had a family beyond that dead soldier I risked my life for. But I do know one thing.”

  He turns to regard me with his brilliant eyes. I dare not take my gaze off the road as the sky is darkening, but I know that if I swivel my head, I will be transfixed by the most beautiful face I have ever seen.

  “I’m here in the present. I may never regain my memories. But I will be sorry if I don’t embrace the here and now before my life gets twisted in some other way again.”

  My tongue shrivels ever so slightly. “What does that mean?”

  In the near distance, a shining neon ‘MOTEL’ sign beckons.

  7

  It’s inevitable.

  I wanted Don from the minute I saw him. Little did I know he wanted me too.

  We check into the cheap motel and pay cash for the room, so that my credit card cannot be tracked. I’m aware that this can’t continue for much longer. Sooner or later, I’m going to need to withdraw more cash. But I’ll cross the bridge when I come to it.

  As soon as we’re through the door of the dingy second-story room that overlooks the car park, Don presses me against the door. His lips devour me in a kiss that banishes all thoughts on whether this would go further. Ecstasy unravels within my groin as I kiss him hungrily back.

  As his tongue dips into my mouth, his hands dart for my neckline. I’m wearing a butter cream-colored blouse and he rips the top two buttons apart.

  “No,” I gasp. “I haven’t brought many clothes.�
�

  Part of my numbed brain can’t believe this is happening – that the most gorgeous man in this world is inside this room with me, about to make love to me.

  He acquiesces by slowing down to unbutton the rest of my blouse. He roughly strips it off my shoulders and arms in a manner that suggests his urgent need. I’ve never had a man want me this way before. Kenneth always took his time, as if lovemaking is an art to be savored. None of this raw, passionate bodice, uh, blouse-ripping transparency.

  Don pulls off his own T-shirt with unseemly haste, revealing his magnificent body. I will never tire of gazing at that body – those bulging pectorals beneath his silken skin; those two erotically pointed nipples that make me want to pinch them; and those wonderful bunches of overlaid abdominal muscle that scream to be caressed, kneaded and massaged.

  I perform all this . . . and more.

  My breasts – which I have always considered unspectacular – are still cupped within my Triumph Maximizer, which possesses an intricate floral pattern. Don’s fingers fumble at the main strap to unhook it. I’m always been self-conscious of how small my breasts are. But as soon as they are revealed under the sputtering cheap fluorescent lamp, Don grabs them as if they are the most precious jewels in the world.

  He not only grabs them. He runs his hands all over them, perking up my nipples so that they become flushed and erect. He massages and gropes them and bends his head to take my right nipple into his mouth.

  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.