Big, dark, glossy curls sat atop his head, cerulean blue eyes watched her from a tanned face framed by thick, inky lashes. She had the feeling she knew him. A spring of recognition bubbled up inside of her, and she found herself smiling like an idiot.
Where had she seen him before? It was there in her foggy brain, but it wasn’t clear yet. He didn’t smile back, but she got the impression he was pleased by her reaction. His breathing was slow and steady, with deep, careful inhales, follow by slow, deliberate exhales. She’d never found breathing sexy, until now.
OMG. She was really losing her grip on reality if the way he breathed turned her on. Where had she picked him up anyway?
Then it hit her. Images of the almost too-handsome man with glowing blue eyes fighting a band of lizard men came rushing through her brain as she started to recall what had happened earlier that night.
“I was attacked,” her scratchy voice reached her own ears, and she winced at the pain it caused her to speak.
“Don’t worry about that now. Here, drink this. It’s water,” the owner of the pleasantly rugged voice handed her a cool glass filled with what she assumed was water.
Fergie was too thirsty to question it. Besides, she trusted him for whatever reason. Tipping back the glass, she drank greedily allowing the icy cold water to soothe her rough throat.
She’d finished the entire thing before she realized it. Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment as she handed him back the now empty container. Fergie always did have a large appetite whether it be for food, drink, books, or what have you.
“Thank you,” she said, and cleared her throat, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he nodded.
“Who are you? Where am I? Can I call an Uber from here?”
“That’s more than a question.”
“Sorry, but I need answers.”
“Okay, I understand, but you went a little fast back there. Are you okay?” he seemed hypnotized by her mouth.
Fergie bit her lip nervously before she replied, ignoring his question when she did. The real answer was no. She was not okay. Her eyes darted around the room.
It was big. Like bigger than her first apartment. Neat, but lived in. That was nice. She wasn’t much of a neat freak herself. There was a huge entertainment center. A comfy looking couch that she could just imagine being curled up on with a bucket of popcorn and a certain blue-eyed stud.
The curtains were an ugly plaid, but they could be changed. And as for the sports memorabilia that decorated one wall, well, she supposed they could be tidied, but she would leave it. She liked sports herself.
What the fuck, Fergie? You movin’ in? She shook her head to stop her dangerously delusional daydreaming. She’d just met the guy. And not under anything even resembling normal circumstances.
“What happened back there?”
The handsome stranger did not smile as he considered his words. She usually appreciated a man who thought before he spoke, but at the moment she just wanted to know if any of what she’d been through was real or if it was some kind of hallucination brought on by toxic fumes from the swamp.
Wishful thinking she supposed. She was far too practical a person for her own good. There was just no way in hell she was going to come to grips with what had happened. Not yet any way.
“Look, let’s start with something easy. My name is Hudson Stormwolfe.”
“I’m Fergie. Where are we?”
“Hello, Fergie. We are in a house that I share with five others, but this is my room. You’re safe here.”
“Am I?” she snorted.
“Of course, you are always safe with me,” he frowned as if it bothered him that she questioned his sincerity.
Oh well, she didn’t have the time or patience to deal with his fragile male ego. Fergie had to get back to her apartment, her roommate, and her cat. It might not be much, but it was her life. She took a fortifying breath and looked down at the bandage on her arm.
Beneath the carefully applied wrappings the scratch she’d received from one of those green-skinned weirdos burned like hell. She bit back a groan and flexed her fingers to test out the tightness of her skin.
Well, that sucked, but a little antibiotic treatment should fix her right up. She tossed the blanket away from her legs more determined than ever to get home via the local urgent care facility as soon as possible.
She might need stitches, she thought with a shudder. Fergie did not do needles, which was why even though she was a fan of body art, she did not have a single tattoo or piercing anywhere on her frame. She compensated for it the best way she knew how, with expensive designer shoes of course.
Why would a woman, especially one her size, want to try and walk on ridiculously tall, skinny heels? To that annoying question Fergie had one standard answer:
Life’s short, bitches, make sure your heels aren’t.
Speaking of heels. This was only the second time she’d worn the Pigalle Follies from an older, but still classic Christian Louboutin line. She’d discovered the red patent leather babies by chance at a new second-hand shop in Morris County. And they were just her size.
One look down her body had Fergie letting loose a shriek that would have made a banshee proud. Something only she could achieve, according to her late paternal grandmother, Nana McAndrews.
Her Irish side tended to run a bit to the fantastical, whereas her Italian blood had her moods running hotter than all the levels of hell in Dante’s Inferno. That last bit was according to her father and step-monster. She didn’t hate her dad’s wife. She just didn’t like her either.
“What is it? Are you injured?” Mr. Tall and Growly dropped to his knees beside the bed and ran his large hands over and under her blouse and torn skirt.
His hands brushed down her legs, removing the cause of her upset, mainly the scuffed beyond repair red heels, and managed to turn her mind to other small bits that needed some attention. She assumed he was checking for breaks and bruises, but Fergie could not stop the direction of her wayward, and entirely lustful, thoughts.
A strange, tingly sensation started in the pit of her stomach as his long, callused fingers continued searching her limbs for injury. Of course, their hurried movement slowed once his eyes met her heavy-lidded gaze. His hands slowed as they reached mid-thigh. That maddening, sizzling touch changed from perfunctory to passionate.
Exciting her as he drew little circles over her suddenly too warm flesh. Fergie bit her lip to stop herself from groaning out loud. When was the last time someone, anyone, had touched her like that?
He dropped his hands as if he’d been burned and turned around. She watched the muscles in his back ripple as he sucked in great, big gulps of air. Like he’d just run a marathon or something. Fergie was having a hard time herself. She nearly swayed right off the bed. Would have to, had he not turned around, steadying her before she could topple like the mass of boneless woman she currently was.
Holy shit, was that hot. Hudson Stormwolfe, was that his real name, was more man than anyone she’d ever met. She seemed to lose all train of thought at his sudden nearness. Dang. What had she been doing? Oh, right. Her heels.
“Those shoes cost me two weeks salary,” she was so busy concentrating on just remembering how to breathe, that she didn’t care at all about how shallow she sounded.