Ship Wrecked (Spoiler Alert #3)

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When Maria’s hazy brown eyes blinked back open after her orgasm, Peter held her gaze for another dozen thrusts. Then, braced

on his forearms, fingers tangled in her hair, he pushed deep one last time and groaned into her mouth.

Rolling them to their sides, he held her tightly as they both recovered.

Despite the steady hum of the hotel room’s AC unit, her forehead was damp, her disheveled blond hair darkened with sweat at

the roots. Which was only fair, since their energetic fucking had his own skin slick and his chest heaving. After a minute,

he mustered the energy to dispose of the condom, but that was all he could manage before crawling back to her and tangling

their legs together once more.

His thoughts took even longer to gather, probably because she’d blown his damn mind. Then again, that had been true from the

second he’d entered a Hollywood sauna earlier that evening, accompanied by some of his former castmates, and seen her lounging

full-length along a cedar bench, her ample breasts and lush hips barely contained by her damp red bikini.

Crimson. A power color for a powerful woman.

Once his companions had left, she’d crooked her finger, and he’d come to her.

No questions asked. No hesitation. He hadn’t balked at renting a new hotel room instead of going to hers either.

If a woman like her wanted him, he didn’t intend to quibble with his good fortune.

And as long as she was willing to stay in his arms, he’d keep her there.

Soft as velvet beneath his fingertips, the salty skin at the crook of her neck throbbed with her pulse and smelled herbal

and musky. Like rosemary. Like sex. Like sex with him . He couldn’t get enough.

Unfortunately, once her breathing slowed, she nudged him aside with a gentle push, and he reluctantly let her go. Raising

her arms and pointing her toes, she stretched her lengthy limbs on top of the rumpled white sheets, entirely naked and entirely

unembarrassed by that nakedness.

Like him, she was fat, with a rounded belly and a soft chin. Like him, she was strong too, those endless legs of hers curvy

and muscled, her biceps evident when she’d opened the heavy sauna door for him on their way out. He already knew she packed

a figurative punch, and he suspected she’d pack a literal one too.

With all that softness and strength, all that confidence, Maria Unknown-Last-Name was the sexiest woman he’d ever met. Bar

none.

And now that they’d fucked—stupendously—it was past time he learned more about her than her first name. Even though he was

possibly the worst conversationalist in LA.

So when she sauntered back from the white-tiled bathroom and knelt on the edge of the mattress, her stare bold as it swept

his sprawled body, he sat up, propped himself against the headboard, and finally put together enough functional brain cells

for intelligible speech.

“You’re . . . European, right?” The smile felt odd on his face. Unfamiliar. But he was trying, and hopefully she wouldn’t notice his awkwardness. “I’m not great with accents, despite the best efforts of various dialect coaches.”

Her tousled waves glowed like a nimbus in the golden light of the bedside lamp, and he had to catch his breath all over again.

“Swedish.” It was a brisk response. Unadorned by extraneous... anything.

He’d like to believe her brevity stemmed from a laconic nature, or Scandinavian custom, or discomfort with English. But he

knew better.

It was him. It was always him.

“Okay,” he said, then stalled out, his synapses refusing to fire. “Uh...”

Dammit. After fifteen years in Hollywood, he should be better at this. He wasn’t a naive twenty-one-year-old fresh out of

college anymore, and he’d grasped long ago how the industry worked. Talent alone wouldn’t get him the roles he wanted, the

roles he deserved.

Good luck played a part. So did good timing. But connections with power players and influencers, the ability to schmooze—those

would almost definitely score him better, higher-profile jobs. Which was why his inability to generate genial small talk,

even when it would goose his career prospects, was unfortunate.

Playing the lovelorn or bumbling best friend, the comic relief, the unnamed murder victim, the character whose entire arc

revolved around his weight, had grown old more than a decade ago, and he needed more. A role that would challenge him and

stretch his acting skills. Professional recognition. A steady income. The sort of success even his father couldn’t deny.

Tomorrow, maybe he’d earn that role, that recognition, that income, that success.

Tonight, he wanted to earn more time with Maria, so he was going to have to find the right words and soon. Because she’d already glanced once toward the door, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if he let her leave so quickly, with no way to keep in contact.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Is that why you were at the sauna? Because you’re Scandinavian?”

Weren’t Swedes into saunas? Or was that Finns? Shit, he didn’t remember.

“Yes, exactly.” Her wide mouth curved in a smile, and an immediate surge of triumph swelled in his chest. “I was curious what

a faux-Swedish sauna in Hollywood would look like.”

“It is kind of an odd business to plant in the middle of sunny, palm-studded LA.” His shoulders loosened as he let out a slow, relieved

breath. Finally, finally he was gaining some conversational traction. “Were you impressed? Disappointed?”

She considered the question for a moment. “Both, I’d say? The sauna itself was lovely, although we don’t use cedar much in

Sweden. More aspen or alder or spruce. And, of course, we’re usually naked, at least in private saunas.”

Just as she was naked now, her breasts round and heavy and gorgeous, those plush thighs slightly parted. Not wide enough so

he could see between them, sadly.

“Is that right?” Now he was smiling too. At the sight of her. At the sudden ease of their exchange. “I’m sorry they didn’t

faithfully follow Swedish custom, then.”

To be fair, her bikini hadn’t hidden much anyway. Not how stiff her nipples got after he’d toyed with them. Not the seam of

her pussy when she’d stood before him and he’d traced that tempting line with a light fingertip, the brief, teasing touch

a promise. A promise he’d made good on as soon as they locked the hotel room door and he slid his hand between her legs.

When she came that first time, his fingers deep inside her, his thumb on her clit, her hair wrapped around his left fist, she’d moaned so loudly he’d expected a call from the front desk.

Holy shit. At thirty-six years old, how was he getting hard again this quickly?

“At the very least, I should have been able to go topless.” When he concentrated on maintaining eye contact and thus failed

to respond, she elaborated. “Everyone has nipples, Peter. Why only some people get to display them without police citations,

I have no idea.”

This was entrapment. She was kneeling on the bed naked and talking about nipples, for fuck’s sake. No jury of his peers would

convict him for his wandering gaze.

He cleared his throat. “Uh—”

“No, that’s a lie. I know why.”

He blinked at her.

“Patriarchy,” she declared.

Well, he couldn’t really argue with that. “Ah.”

That explained a few things. Including why, unlike every other woman he’d bedded, she evidently didn’t shave or wax. Not that

he cared. That blond hair between her dimpled thighs, under her arms, on her legs—it hadn’t turned him off. It was yet another

sign of the confidence that so aroused him, and it had made the whole encounter feel...

Primal, maybe. Honest. Intimate , in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Disregarding the modern conveniences of the hotel room, she could have been a woman from almost any point in time. Painting

an antelope on a cave wall. Marching to battle alongside Joan of Arc. Boarding a Viking war vessel, a shield-maiden armed

and pitiless in the face of danger.

It was all way too dramatic for a simple hookup. Foolishly overromantic, especially for the taciturn, plainspoken sort of man he was. But to him, in that moment of sexual connection—tangled together, heat against heat, his body inside hers—they’d felt like lovers out of time.

The feeling had shaken him. Left him floundering and uncertain in a way he’d never experienced after sex. He needed to know

if it would happen again. He needed to know whether that tectonic shift was a fluke, or... not.

But Maria was still talking, and he also needed to listen. Because at some point it would be good to know, just for example,

her fucking last name .

“Plus, I’ve heard Americans have more hang-ups about nudity and sex than Swedes,” she said breezily. “Which seems to be correct,

from what I’ve seen so far.”

The cultural differences between Sweden and the U.S. interested him. They really did. But right now, he intended to steer

the conversation toward more basic information.

“So, I was wondering.” His beard had left the delicate skin between her breasts pink, and he could barely drag his eyes away

from that telltale, viscerally satisfying flush. “Do you live in LA, or are you just visiting for fun, or...?”

Her kiss-swollen lips compressed for a moment. “I’m here for a job opportunity.”

Which meant she might live in Sweden still. But where? And what job was she applying for? Did she think she’d get the position?

Shit, he was terrible at this. With anyone else, literally anyone, she’d say more, elaborate on her answers, give them the

context he—

Suddenly, he was on his back again, her palm firm on his chest, her hair tickling his face as she planted a hard kiss on his mouth. Before he could catch his breath, she was moving down his body, then down again, dragging her open mouth over his neck, his chest, his belly.

Oh, fuck. Fuck .

Her strong hands spread his legs, and she crawled between them.