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Two
Boyd
You shouldn’t want to fuck an unconscious woman. It’s bad form.
Not that I want to fuck her while she’s asleep. No no. I want those huge sylvan eyes to open wide for me again.
I want them holding onto my own, my name tripping out of her mouth, my dick buried between her curvy, milky thighs.
God almighty, I must be depraved. This girl has obviously been through some shit. Those woods can be unforgiving. But why was she in them? Her skin is nicked all over, bruised, sunburned. I need to clean and cover those injuries, soon as I get her cooled off.
And hopefully, get her to wake.
I need her to wake up so I know she’s okay. And I can’t fucking explain it but I need her with me. Crazy as it sounds, the minute I saw her something went loose inside of me. A knot of longing that I’d let get twisted too tight for a long damn time while I poured all my attention into this lodge, wanting it to be the fucking best.
I’ve been determined to make something better out of my life than what I was given. Eight years in the army was a start. I want to do even more great things, be a successful man, a good man.
And wanting to possess the dust-covered sphinx I caught trying to sneak into one of my rooms…maybe doesn’t bode well for that effort.
She’s younger than me, by a decade at least, probably more. But her eyes are that of an old soul. They’re an earthy combination of brown and green and blue and gold and when they flicked up toward mine they reached out and grabbed me around the throat.
What is she, a vagrant, a thief?
A sorceress?
She’s a question mark is what she is. She looks dressed for some kind of renaissance fair, not a sweltering hot Fourth of July festival. She’s wearing one of those chocolate-brown peasant frocks from I don’t know, the Victorian era, or Switzerland. It’s shredded to rags. Her feet are scored and blistered when I slide off her shoes. For how long was she running?
Whatever she’s running away from, or whoever, I get the feeling she is still in danger. Or thinks she’s in danger. I’ll ask the questions when she wakes up. Regardless of what the answers may be, I’m already in it—invested, obsessed. She’s safe with me. I will protect this woman with my life if that ever has to happen.
Fucking gladly, I will.
As she fainted I caught her against my chest, then carried her downstairs to my office. I laid her on her side on the couch. She’s breathing normal; strong pulse. I lay a wet cloth over her head and angle a fan toward her, making her wild brown hair gently swoosh against her cheek. She looks so innocent and vulnerable and sweet. So pure. An angel. Perfection.
That decides it. If it was a person who put the bruises on her face and the fear in her eyes, he’s fucking dead. I will track him, locate him, rip his spine from his throat and carve out his entrails.
My hands are on the phone ready to dial an ambulance when my little woodland nymph suddenly stirs, making a soft groggy sound. I put the phone down.
“Hey, you’re alive.” I turn on a smile, but it falls down as she sits up, wearing a haunted look on her face. “You’re safe,” I say gently. I extend my hand, offering a glass of ice water. She flinches away from me. “It’s only water, little fox. You look like you need it. Drink.”
She hesitates. I take her by her wrist and force the glass into her palm, watching as she curls her fingers around it.
“Drink.”
The nymph obeys, a reticent sip at first. Then she takes big strong, eager gulps, draining the glass while I try not to obsess over the shape her throat makes every time she swallows.
“Atta girl.” I take it and fill it with ice and water again. I set it down on the table beside her. I toss her a light blanket to cover herself now that she’s cooled off, since what’s left of her dress is too tattered to cover…well, much.
“You have open wounds,” I indicate, and she looks down at them stoically. “I’m going to put some balm and bandages on your skin. Are you allergic to antibiotics? Are you in pain?” I ask. She shakes her head, slowly.
“Which one? Words, honey.”
“No, I—”
“She speaks.” Stifling a grin, I gather supplies from the medicine cabinet. As I shut it my eyes find their reflection in the mirror and judge me for the thoughts that are in my head. Yeah, you are definitely one fucked-up dude.
“Antee-bee-awtics?” she drawls in a threaded yet barely audible tone. There’s an accent, an enigmatic lilt in her voice I’ve never heard. “What are antibiotics?”
I wheel around to cast her a look. “You’ve never heard of antibiotics?” I ask, my thick brows mashing together. “Where’re you from, little fox?”
