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Because he’s naked.
As naked as the day he was born, and he’s smiling at me.
I drop into that smile. I tumble headfirst into it. My stomach drops as if I’m falling and then lifts as if I’ve caught an updraft and I’m soaring free.
He’s smiling at me like he knows me. Like we’ve spent thousands of nights together and he wants to spend a thousand more with me. He’s smiling at me like he knows me inside and out—that I love coffee before breakfast, that beautifully painted enamel on a watch dial can make me cry, that I love roasted chestnuts at Christmas and giving gifts more than receiving them. Like he knows I’m scared of being left behind and I’m terrified of giving my heart away again—he knows all this and he loves me for all of it.
That smile tells me that if I fall into his open arms he’ll hold me, and I’ll be safe with him.
My breath is short, my lungs tight. The gulls screech outside and the hum of the fan moans over the sound of crashing waves.
I struggle to draw in the humid, salt-tinted air.
“Who ...? What ...?
He leans forward. The mattress tilts, rolling me closer to him. He brushes his fingers over my cheek, his touch whisper-soft.
“Morning,” he says.
His voice is rich, mellow, sleep-filled. It rolls over me like a wave licking over bare skin. There’s the hint of a musical, rolling accent, subtle and warm.
He smiles. “You must’ve been worn out from last night. I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
9
The man leans forward,his eyes morning-warm, focused on my mouth.
He’s going to kiss me.
The salt air crackles with electricity, and unbelievably, Iwanthim to kiss me. Ineedhim to kiss me.
I’m even leaning forward in anticipation of his mouth pressing against mine. I can practically feel the scape of his fingers over my breasts, tugging me close.
Which is what decides it for me.
I don’t know this man.
I have no idea who he is.
I’ve never seen him before.
Not in my entire life.
There’s only one explanation. He kidnapped me. He drugged me, hauled me to some shoddy, dilapidated ocean cottage, and he’s holding me for ransom.
Or ...
“We have a few minutes,” he says, his voice making it perfectly clear how he’d like to make use of that time. There’d be hands and tongue and very fast, very hot orgasms. Guaranteed.
At that I grab my pillow and smack him over the head.
He flinches, throwing up his arms, and I hit him across the face. The pillow makes a soft whap noise as it slaps him.
He scrambles up in bed, the sheet dropping and displaying a large, naked man ready for loving.
I hit him again and then leap off the bed. I back against the door, feeling for the handle while holding the pillow between us.
Looking down, I’m only in a pair of unfamiliar pink heart underwear and a matching push-up bra. This creep undressed me and put me in cotton underwear. I haven’t worn cotton underwear since puberty.
