Read Online The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) by Aphrodite Hunt - Free Book Online Page B

his fine forehead to shatter
upon my lips.
    I taste it –
that salty, sexy evidence of his effort – and allow myself to be
swept away by the blinding
vortex again. Why even fight it? I’ve become a primal being,
surrendering my body to whatever forces that wish to claim
it.
    Orgasm merges
into orgasm , until I’m
whipping my head and clawing the covers as I scream and scream into
the night. I barely realize it when he shoots into me. The burning
liquid jet gushes into my vagina, flooding every crevice and
fold.
    A beatific
satisfaction descends into my
very bones as every single one of my muscles go limp with our
collective release.
    Somewhere outside
the cavern of my skull, I hear his harsh cry.
    “Jean!”
    So he’s thinking of
me. And only me.
    I sink into the
mattress as his body collapses on top of mine. His breathing is
ragged in my ears as he nuzzles my neck.
    How can I let
this man leave?

8
     
    We are deep in
Kansas , and my mood grows more
somber as we approach Neverlake.
    Last night is
vivid in my mind – the frenetic animal coupling that is the stuff I’ve only read
about in romance books with bodice-ripping covers. This morning was
gentler and sweeter. As the sun breaks upon the roofs of the
courtyard motel, I am awoken by the exquisite sensations at my
clit.
    Don has his
head buried beneath the covers and between my legs. His writhing
tongue cleverly darts and flickers in and out of my folds, delving
in between my pussy lips, curling around the rosebud crown of my electrified
flesh.
    I
immedia tely gasp as my hands
reach for his head.
    “What are you
doing?” I ask.
    He pauses long
enough only to say, “Tasting you.”
    I draw the
covers away so that his beautiful head, half covered in the
shadows, is revealed. He augments his deft licking with two fingers
inside my vulva – worming inside me, massaging my walls to probe
for my much-used G-spot.
    No, I will not think
of that. It is too distracting and I am doing forty on the
freeway.
    As we have no
GPS, I buy a map of the area
from the gas station at Arveda when we stop for lunch.
    I stab a
finger at an irregularly-shaped body of water
somewh ere in the
southeast.
    “Neverlake.”
    I raise my
eyes to his. His face is bright with excitement. My spirits sink.
Is he so eager to leave me behind then? Or perhaps the implications
of recovering his memories and what they mean to not have me in them have not sunk into his brain
yet.
    I should be glad for
him. Isn’t this what we set out to do?
    As we draw
closer to Neverlake, the Kansas countryside starts to change.
Fields of crops with lonely windmills start to give way to plains.
Bales of hay are neatly rolled like carpets. White clouds dapple
the sky and a cool wind sweeps in from the horizon.
    Don points to
a wooden signboard.
    “ Neverlake. ” His jaw is
clenched, as if he’s determined to deal with whatever it is he will
have to deal with.
    Guilt courses through me. Here I am being
selfish and wanting to keep him for myself. I have been
subconsciously hoping that everything would stay the same and he
would never return to his home. I would be his only family. Like a
spoilt little child who wouldn’t share, I just wanted him all to
myself.
    S elfish,
selfish, selfish .
    I swallow the
lump in my throat. I stare steadfastly at the road, stepping a
little on the gas pedal to do penance for my sins. The car rumbles
into a lane leading to a woods area. Trees fringe us, accompanied
by birdsong and a tapestry of interlocking branches, filtering
patches of light. After ten minutes or so, the trees thin and lead
out to grassland. A placid green lake lies in the middle of it all,
spanning several miles across.
    Green, not
red. The sky above is a light
blue, not crimson.
    Beside me, Don takes
a deep breath.
    “Neverlake,” he
says.
    “You recognize
it?”
    “Yes . . . and
again, not quite. It’s Neverlake, and yet not the Neverlake of my
vision.”
    All I can think of
is the red. Don’s strange