Claimed

3. Ariella

3

ARIELLA

We’d gallumped our way up the long, sandy strand toward my cottage, and with his wounded gait, the trip took three times longer than usual. I was relieved to find no awkward silence between us. Instead, the air filled with his grumpy complaints. It was a change of pace and more entertaining than the sign language and meaningful expressions that sufficed for conversation between Sasha and I.

“God dammit. Those fuckers threw me overboard.” Even angry and in pain, with his face pummeled to a purple hue, his gleaming skin and rippling muscle were breathtaking.

He let go of my wrist, which throbbed still from his vice-like grasp, then grabbed at the army-green blanket and yanked it down to reveal ugly bruises and cuts stamping a patchwork of wounds across his skin. I stepped back, seeking to put distance between us, and gasped.

“See now, if you can make a sound like that with your mouth and vocal chords, you can surely speak.”

His icy demeanor turned toward me, and I flinched. I shook my head desperately and placed my right hand over my heart.

He was starting to get on my nerves. I had a shipment to make, and now that he was mobile and conscious, the fact that he was recently practically dead on the beach seemed a distant past. His broad shoulders and commanding posture gave off an aura of invincibility.

An aura that had completely wrecked the pair of cotton panties I had slung on beneath my t-shirt dress. It didn’t help matters that his eyes, the only unpulverized feature of his face, kept giving my body a bold, sweeping gaze, as if he could sense I was in heat beneath my clothes.

“You live here all alone?”

I wasn’t sure whether I should be threatened by his question but shook my head. Might as well bide my time before he learned I lived here by myself. If he thought someone might come home at any time, he’d watch his P’s and Q’s.

Finally, we got to the front door, and he braced his hands on either side of my head. I spun around to see what the heck he was up to, and I looked up into his eyes—eyes roving over me like I was a tasty snack and he wanted a bite. “I don’t see a wedding ring on that finger, so who exactly lives here with you? Have I got competition? Cause I don’t like to share.”

I was certain the strong, independent female in me should have been offended by his cocky swagger, but instead, I had to clutch my thighs together so I didn’t drop my panties to the ground. My dirty mind wanted to tell him I wanted his mouth on my breasts, but he had a split lip and my dumb a*s couldn’t talk. Instead, I put my hand on my hip and gestured for him to back the f**k off.

My breath came in soft pants when I turned around and opened the door.

Once inside, I pulled his blanket like a leash, leading him to the soft, cushy armchair before the fire. Then I shoved his chest and forced him to sit down. My inner floozy raced a mile a minute, fantasizing about throwing my thighs over his lap after he’d say, “Come sit on my lap, love.” But I was pretty sure good s*x scenes like that only occurred in the books I read. Instead of climbing aboard the chick stick, I brought him a plate of salami, cheese, and crackers along with a bottle of water.

Call me Little Ms. Domestic, but I’d be damned if I’d take advantage of a wounded man. Now, if only I could get my mind off his taking advantage of me.

Suddenly, every place I looked in the cottage became a s*x prop drawn from a litany of scenes in my repertoire—AKA my k****e library. He could shove me face-first against the counter, lift up my t-shirt dress, and take control of me—pulling my hair, holding me down, thrusting his big, throbbing—

The horn of the mail truck beeped out front. Snapping out of my floozy fantasy, I raced to the front door and gestured to Peggy the mail lady—Just a couple minutes, please. Luckily we were friends and she’d wait for me.

The fugly little barnacle critters got a clean water bath in two seconds flat, and I rushed to wash out the Styrofoam shipping container, leaving enough room for a one-pound ice pack per three pounds barnacles. There were enough fuglies left over, after shipping off the order, to feed the stranger and me a hardy dinner later on.

I really needed to figure out his name. And I really needed to get a handle on my p***y, who thought she was running the show.

With the last ice pack in and the shipping container sealed shut, I wheeled the box from the outdoor work sink to the front drive. Peggy helped me lift the heavy container off the wagon and into the back of her vehicle.

“Another great haul for you, isn’t it?”

I smiled. She never poked fun at me or made me feel awkward, no matter how many times she’d picked up shipments from my house without me saying a word.

But one thing I’d never seen her do was stroke her throat above the short string of pearls she always wore and thrust out her gray-polo-shirt-sporting chest like she did now.

“Is that tall drink o’ water yours, pumpkin?” Peggy slid a lingering touch up the side of her truck and brushed her generous hip against it. “‘Cause if not, I’m gonna climb that man-candy like a tree.”

There was only one thing she could be referring to, and I pleaded with my eyes, begging her to keep my secret. But she wasn’t even looking at me. Her eyes clouded in a s****l haze as she locked onto the thing grabbing her attention.

I spun around to look at him and was disturbed by the raw power of my attraction to him. Walking down my gravel drive, the blanket now wrapped around his hips like a warrior’s sarong, he radiated a raw and primal strength. It would be sinful to look away.

“Why, you secretive little devil,” Peggy whispered to me. “You got yourself a live one, didn’t you? Someone sure as hell kicked the s**t out of him.”

“Afternoon.” His voice was thick and rough and sent a ripple of desire through me. “I’m Eric. Pleased to meet you.”

Peggy leaned forward to shake his hand, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.”

“Glad to see our girl…uh…” He actually put his arm around me and gestured toward me with the other, staying there in an awkward silence where my name should have been.

“Ariella,” Peggy said. “Her name is Ariella. Why don’t you know that already? She can write and talk with her device just fine.”

She stiffened, then grabbed my hand.

“Stay here!” she commanded Eric, then led me to the front of her truck to grab pen and paper from the cab before whispering, “Hey. You okay out here with this guy? I assumed you knew him, but why doesn’t he know your name?”

I wrote a note:

‘It’s okay, Peggy. I found him hurt and unconscious on the beach today. He needs help, and if he were to try anything, I have Sasha and the pepper spray you gave me. Don’t worry.’

“Of course I worry with you out here on your own! I’ll check in on you every day. Just let me have a little chat with Mr. s*x On A Stick before I go.” My heart felt jam-packed watching Peggy march back to Eric, pumping her elbows before halting in front of him. “You need to know that if you lay a finger on that girl, you are dead meat!”

Eric raised his hands up toward his aggressor. “I promise to be a gentleman.”

“Damn right, you’re gonna be. ’Cause if not, lemme tell you who I’ll be.” She wagged a finger in his face. “I’ll be the person who’s going to cut your d**k off and glue it to your forehead so you look like a limp-d**k unicorn. That’s who the f**k I’ll be.”

“Are you quoting Melissa McCarthy in The Spy to me?” Eric asked.

“Best God-damned actress who’s ever lived.” Peggy yanked down the collar of her polo shirt. “And you’ve”—she shoved a sausage-like finger up at his face—“been”—shove—“warned!”

“She’ll be safe with me. Promise.” He lay an immense hand over his heart, and all I could think about was how I wanted that hand on me.

All over me. Where no man had gone before.

Peggy twirled around with a grace that belied her size and marched her black, slip-resistant Sketchers back toward me.

“You’ll be okay, princess. My spidey sense doesn’t get a bad reading from him, and my spidey sense is never wrong.” She drew the horizon with her hand. “Still and all, I’ll pop in on you so he knows I’m watching. And whoo-ey, I’m gonna enjoy coming back to watch.”

Peggy heaved herself up into the mail truck, started the engine, and leaned her head out to add, “Please, Ariella, for the sake of all womankind, get down and dirty with that man as soon as his face is fixed.”

She shoved her hand into the deep side pocket of her cargo shorts and snuck something into my hand. “Safety first, though. Here, take three.”

I looked down at my palm, then gave her a questioning look. She carried condoms in her pocket at work?

Peggy took off down the drive, and I waved to her before turning to face Eric. He walked in silence beside me toward the cottage and opened the door for me. Although the man’s throbbing virility made my n*****s ping, if he combined it with the traits of being a perfect gentleman, all bets were off. Along with my panties.

Sasha was asleep on the rug in front of the fire, nonplussed about the fact I could have been taken hostage for all he knew. Some guard dog.

The door closed behind me, and I felt Eric’s hot grasp close around my hand before he pulled me toward him. Then he shoved that hand into my hair and pulled my head back, forcing me to look up into his eyes.

The glitter from the firelight behind me was the only thing illuminating the dark desire in those eyes.

He lowered his head so his breath was a hot caress on my skin.

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re pretending, my silent little siren. But if these lips of mine didn’t hurt like hell, I’d kiss you crazy right now.” He gently swiped his thumb across my lower lip, then shoved it part way inside my mouth. “In fact, with lips like that, the agony just might be worth it.”

It was the first time a real man had said anything like that to me.

My body shuddered, savoring that cocksure compliment and the thought of how this man might ravage my mouth with his kisses when he was no longer hurt.

Who was I kidding? My need to be a Good Samaritan hadn’t brought this stranger into my home. I wanted to know more about him than who he was as a man needing to be healed.

If his bravado spilled over into the bedroom, he’d be domineering and strict. Yup. My enchilada was totally chingada. In other words, I was f****d. Or would be soon.