by Anne Marsh
“You like sex in public?” That rich note of laughter is back in his voice. I probably shouldn’t be oversharing about my sex life because obviously now he has to be thinking about me naked and doing it, and that’s just going to make things even more awkward between us.
“Babe?” He sort of growls the word, his head dipping toward mine. It’s not the Scarlett O’Hara moment I was going for, but he certainly sounds like he doesn’t give a damn.
I shrug automatically. It’s not that I like or dislike semi-public sex. Nathan wouldn’t acknowledge that our relationship was a serious one, although he was happy to fool around with me. I thought he was just being cautious, but that his public kisses meant that he was okay with all of us going public. I took what he gave and thanked him for it, which in retrospect is both infuriating and cringeworthy. Hindsight would make the best kind of birth control. If I’d known then how I feel now, I’d have kept my clothes on and my hands off Nathan.
“People guessed that we were sleeping together. It was sort of an open secret by the end.” I can’t help but notice how close his mouth is to mine. Like, almost kissing close. But his eyes are watching mine. He’s not checking out my face, my mouth, or my tits. He’s just watching—me.
“Sucked?” He doesn’t waste any words. I like that.
“I got winks and nudges when I started applying for jobs about just what I’d done to earn my letter of recommendation. My published articles were treated as if they were love letters or our own personal porn. Why else would he have published me in the journal he edited?”
He doesn’t say anything, and honestly I’m not looking for his input, feedback, or sympathy. I just need to tell someone, and he’s been elected. I blame him for dragging me back to his place. And if that isn’t one hundred percent fair of me? Too fucking bad. Life isn’t fair. Ask me how I know.
And shit wasn’t all rosy at home, either. Turns out my professor thought he should provide feedback about every aspect of my life—how I dressed, walked, talked, breathed. He took over, took control, took me. And I let him.
“So we broke up, and now I’m done with men.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m pretty sure that’s his hand I feel stroking over my hair. Probably feels awful, what with all the mud and bayou water drying in there, but I’ll take it. I sort of lean into his touch before I can stop myself. I’m so pathetic.
And I’m lonely.
So fucking lonely.
I don’t miss the sex or the drama, but this? I miss this. The little touches, knowing that I’m not alone and that I literally have someone to lean on. Not that Mr. Not So Knightly and I have anything other than an hour in a boat and some shared swimming time together. But… he’s here.
I’m here.
My rescuer doesn’t comment on my over-share. He just shoves the door open behind me, cutting off my flow of words. I don’t even stagger a little because somehow he’s got a hand on my shoulder and he steadies me. He turns me around gently and steers me through the bedroom to the bathroom.
Right. The shower. Because I’m covered in God knows what from my dip in the bayou and I’m sure I stink. And look like hell. And anything more from me—like dirty, sexual kind of more things—will be the last thing he wants or that I should be daydreaming about. It’s just because I’m lonely and he’s here.
“Six and a half minutes,” he says. Those words bear absolutely no relationship to our previous topic of conversation. My personal life, while cut short, could be measured in longer than minutes, so color me confused. Maybe it’s code?
“And then what?” I have an active imagination, and I use it. I imagine all sorts of Mountain Man fantasies. I’ve never understood the whole lumberjack fantasy. Now I do. I’m totally onboard with the flannel shirt and jeans thing. Maybe I can get him to pose with an ax for me.
“Water runs out,” he says gruffly.
Well… shoot. His practicality pricks a hole in my fantasy balloon and pops it. There’s nothing like a dose of reality to bring me back down to earth. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How he’s even got running water of some sort way out here in the bayou? It’s like I just woke up in the pages of Little House on the Prairie—or one of those coffee table books where people are living off grid in some fabulous, I-built-it-with-my-own-hands house. I suspect those lives look better in print than they are in reality, but what do I know? The closest I’ve come to living in the bayou is my occasional overnight in my wolf blind.
I turn to him because surely he has to know the answers to my questions. “How does it work?”
I don’t think the look on his face is flattering at all. “You take your clothes off,” he says. “And then you get wet and soap up. Let me know if you need a demonstration.”
Okay then.
I wonder how rescuing idiot me from a possible watery death has turned into dirty shower time. At least on my part. Because he’s just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at me, and he doesn’t look like he wants to kiss me. At all. I fight the urge to shrink back into myself or to launch into apologies. If Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships, I’m the woman who drops the starting flag on an armada of I’m sorries. And since I’m turning over a new leaf, discovering a new, better, stronger me… that woman has to go away. I swallow my apology.
“Gator,” he bites out.
“Excuse me?” I glance around, hoping that’s just some weird comment and not an announcement about incoming wildlife.
“My name is Gator,” he says impatiently.
Oh.
I totally suck at this whole people thing. It’s why I do so much better alone in the wolf blind than working in a lab where I have to actually interact with other human beings. I’ve somehow skipped entire introductory chapters of the relationship book and plopped myself down in the middle. Or maybe I was so busy making up nicknames for him that I never noticed I hadn’t actually been introduced to the guy? Forward, I remind myself. All I can do is go forward—even if I kind of wish I had a time machine so I could step backward and have a do-over.
“I should have started with that, shouldn’t I? That’s what normal people do,” I tell him. Although I’m not sure either of us is normal. Given the scars on his face and his arm, the name Gator explains a lot.
He gives me a look. “Sometimes names don’t matter so much,” he says.
I nod energetically. See? We’re on the same page. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both clearly loners, even if I hide in a lab rather than on an island.
“It’s the shit you do,” he continues.
And I just know that he’s seen and done things. I’m not sure how I feel about that, so I duck into his bathroom. And then I realize I probably should have introduced myself but didn’t. Too late now. I scoot into his shower because I need to get this mud off me stat. I can’t help but notice that the door doesn’t have a lock. I’m out here in the middle of nowhere with no phone and no back up. I should be scared and yet… I’m not. I’m… hopeful. Who knew Stockholm Syndrome could set in so fast or apply to surly white knight rescuers as well as kidnappers?
There’s a hard knock on the door.
I ease it open cautiously. “I’ve still got about six minutes and twenty seconds.”
Big hands shove a stack of clothes at me. There’s a pair of navy blue boxer briefs on top. Is he naked? Is this some kind of weird come on? I risk a look down, but Gator’s legs are still covered with denim. And mud. And probably half of the bayou. God. Why is he being so mostly nice to me?
“Clothes,” he growls, shoving his load at me again.
I nod cautiously. Maybe he’s crazy? Maybe that’s why he lives out here all alone on an island in a ginormous mansion?
He kind of growls his next words, sounding like a cross between a really angry wolf and a woman-eating bear. “Not a fucking Neiman Marcus, babe. Wear this or go naked. Either works for me.”
Oh.
A stack of towels lands on top of the briefs. “T
owels,” he says pointedly. I don’t think he has a high opinion of my cognitive skills.
“Got it,” I babble, clutching my loot closer to my chest. Which is probably just going to mess up some perfectly clean clothes, but honestly? I need to put something between me and Gator, and that door isn’t going to be enough. “This is great. You have awesome towels and a really great place. It’s amazing. You must love it out here.”
We’ve covered that ground already. I know that. Maybe. But my mouth babbles on and on, trying to fill up the silence because if I’m talking, he can’t. He can’t say something hurtful or scary. And I won’t have to figure out what to say back to him if he announces that the words coming out of my mouth are dumb as fuck. I need him to like me, and, I admit it, I’d like to see him smile. Just because then I’ll know that he’s not entirely pissed off at me for invading his space and KOing his silence.
He reaches out and gently nudges my shoulder. “In.”
Right. The bathroom. My much-needed shower. I bet I stink. Bayou mud is particularly fragrant, and I’m wearing an enormous quantity of it.
I can’t keep the dreaded S-word in my mouth any longer. “Sorry,” I tell him.
And then he gives me that smile I’ve been craving. Not a big one—his lips barely crook up at the corners, but there’s humor in his eyes, a warmth that’s way too seductive. He looks way more human when he almost-smiles—much less like some kind of angry grizzly bear and more like the white knight I absolutely, totally do not need in my life ever again.
“Not a problem,” he rumbles in a low, raspy voice.
“You sure?”
“Fuckin’ certain,” he agrees, and then he turns me around and points me toward the shower. “You go take care of business.”
Alrighty then. I shut the door behind me. It still hasn’t grown any kind of working lock, but somehow… I think I’m okay. Gator’s not a white knight, but he did rescue me. If he’d wanted to hurt me, he’s already had his opportunity, so maybe I’m free and clear. Maybe I can relax.
I mean, this is the place to do it. The bathroom is as amazing—and empty—as the rest of the house. It’s all white marble, with a big claw foot tub smack in the center of the room. I’ve lived in apartments smaller than this place. In order to get into the tub, I have to scale the Mount Everest-worthy lip, and even then it’s still a stretch to reach up to grab the showerhead. The previous occupants of this house were apparently giants. Or really, really into yoga. Big windows let in all sorts of light from the bayou—and hello… there’s zero privacy. Gator apparently isn’t big on curtains. Of course, he also doesn’t expect company, either, so it’s probably not a problem. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s going to tear down the stairs and stand out there in the yard just to watch me shower.
But just in case… I’ll shower fully clothed and strip afterwards. Maybe. Getting naked still seems like a bad idea, plus I can’t quite wrap my head around wearing Gator’s borrowed clothes. I climb into the tub, hit the water, and reach for the soap. Of course he has a single green bar. The Irish Spring is as blunt and frill-less as my host.
I cast around, just in case I’ve missed something.
And come up empty.
No shampoo. No conditioner. Just a whole lot of nothing. So I’ll make do with the soap—that’s something, right? I could have nothing. I could be swimming to Baton Rouge right now instead of using up all of this guy’s hot water. When I get back, I’ll run down to the store and buy the biggest bottle of wine I can find and an even bigger bag of chips. Maybe ice cream too, and strawberry Twizzlers. That has to cover at least two major food groups (dairy and fruit, I’m looking at you), and eventually everything will look better. I’ll find the wolves. I’ll keep my grant. I’ll get my do-over and second chance at living happily ever after, even if it’s just with myself.
Yeah. I’m not kidding anyone.
I give up and slide down into the bottom of the tub. Pretty sure that’s not just water sliding down my face now.
Gator
As soon as I hear the water go on, my brain goes into overtime. It’s like a fucking porn factory has set up shop and is cranking out one dirty fantasy after another. Poppy will be naked or getting there, her hands pushing her clothes down. The lock on that door has been broken forever; I could be in there with her in seconds. Could strip my own clothes off while I watch all that hot water sluicing down her bare skin. Three seconds after that, and I’d be deep inside her, hands lifting her ass and planting her against the tiles.
Too fast? Fuck, probably. I rewind. Better to go in there and drop to my knees. Shove my shoulders between her pretty thighs and lick every inch of her wet pussy. Take my fingers and…
Bringing Poppy here was a really bad idea.
And while I’m certain that “keeping an eye on the scientist” doesn’t mean letting her catch fucking pneumonia from sitting around in wet clothes, it doesn’t mean bone the hell out of her either. Jesus Christ, I need to get a grip on myself because my dick’s rock hard. I need a distraction.
I’ll go back downstairs and grab the boots Poppy dropped. I can clean them off for her. That’s guaranteed to take my mind off what she’s doing in my shower, right? Yeah. Fat fucking chance of that. Still, I get moving, pausing in my bedroom to grab a pair of jeans. Thirty seconds later, I’ve created a much shorter hem with my hunting blade. Haute couture it’s not, and some instinct tells me she deserves the best of fucking everything. I’d like to lay some Prada or Gucci before her, decorate her with all that sparkly shit they have at Tiffany’s. Tie her up with diamonds by the yard. Since this is a first for me, it’s also not happening. The bayou’s shockingly free of high-end apparel stores. So instead, I settle for the ad hoc hem job and scraping the mud off her Doc Martens. The boots are hot pink, the color of oleanders and drugstore lipstick. Who the fuck buys pink shitkickers?
And since I’m alone and Poppy’s safely occupied for the next handful of minutes, I fish my cell out and call Jace.
“You fucking owe me,” I tell him when he picks up. He’s expecting my call, so he doesn’t bother with making nice.
“You find her?”
“Oui. You really want the details on how shit went down?”
I don’t have a problem with who I am or the job I do for our club. We’ve all got our parts to play, and providing the muscle that kicks ass is important. Jace gets to be our fearless leader. Not a job I’d want, if I’m being honest, because I’d have to kill someone before I got to enjoy the promotion. Usually, playing enforcer is a two-for-one deal. I get to contribute, and I don’t have to do a whole lot of talking. Today’s job shouldn’t bother me.
“You having problems with one small scientist?”
The man owes me a case of beer. Fuck that. He owes me a truckload of beer, and not the cheap stuff, either. “You never heard that big things come in small packages?”
“Fucking think that’s a good thing,” Jace drawls. “But whatever. Why don’t you give me the executive summary?”
“Found her.” I set Poppy’s stuff just inside my door when we came in, so that’s where I’m headed now. “Rammed her boat. Everything and everyone ended up on the bottom of the bayou. I fished the girl and the gear out, and I smell like shit now. So if the accident didn’t scare her off, I guarantee the smell will.”
Jace snorts. “And she’s still breathing?”
“You said look, don’t touch.” I drop down beside her pack.
“And you always follow orders,” he says dryly.
Truth is, I do. Don’t know how I’d act if Jace tried to set me on a course I didn’t agree with. Guess it would depend on whether it was the right thing to do for our pack or not, so I ignore his last comment.
“Tell me what I’m lookin’ for,” I ask Jace, cradling my cell between my ear and my shoulder. Putting the thing on speaker would make my search and recovery mission simpler, but Poppy won’t be long. I don’t want to risk her overhearing. I make short work of openi
ng her backpack. Despite its swim in the bayou, the contents are surprisingly dry. I shift through a stack of notebooks, odds and ends of clothing, and what appears to have been Poppy’s midnight snack. The girl likes chocolate.
“What’s she got?” Jace counters, as if I’ve got all the fucking time in the world. Not like Poppy’s in any position to argue about my touching her stuff, but I kind of don’t want to piss her off, and if I’ve learned anything from the girls at the club, it’s that you don’t go through their bags. The weirdest shit embarrasses them or makes them mad, so I generally give it a wide berth. Today’s just my day for fucking exceptions, isn’t it?
“Bunch of notebooks, clothes, girl crap. Cell phone, wallet, keys.” Way more stuff than I’d be hauling out into the bayou, and none of it’s the right stuff. Poppy’s unarmed. She’s got a utility knife with a three-inch blade, so that’s something. But when I run my thumb over the edge, testing its sharpness, I get nothing. Last time this thing was sharpened might have been a decade ago. She needs a gun, something she can use for self-defense if some asshole tries to corner her.
“Laptop? Camera? Video?”
“You think I’m fucking CIA or a hacker now? Got a phone and a tablet, but she must have left the good hardware at home.”
I pocket the tube of girly lotion she’s got tucked in an inside pocket. She can keep her electronics, but I’ve got plans for this particular prize. Fuck me, do I ever.
Jace laughs. “Not sure what we’d do with that shit other than take it.”
“Oui,” I grouse. “She’d notice that kind of stuff missing.”
“What’s the problem with that?” he asks. “Not like we’re in the running for Boy Scouts of the Year. Why do you care if she thinks we’re thieves?”
Frowning, I flick my fingers over the stack of notebooks, knocking the topmost one open. Jace has a point, but it feels wrong somehow, going through Poppy’s shit. Sure, she’s out here alone and there’s not much she can do to stop me, but I don’t like it. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s naked and just upstairs, making good use of my shower. I don’t know why she’d trust me like that, and that’s the fucking truth.