The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

I turned away from Fisher’s workbench, my safety glasses a little foggy. “He’s teaching me things, so I’ll be more useful.”

Fisher stayed focused on piecing together the drawer he’d just made. “I don’t know about useful, but a smidge less useless.”

Rory laughed. “Well, I was thinking about inviting Rose over to grill out. Fisher, do you have plans? Tiffany might come too.”

“No plans,” Fisher mumbled, ultra-focused on the joint he just glued.

I wanted to knee him in the balls. No plans? Another date?

“Reese, do you prefer chicken or steak? Or I have tofu. Rose doesn’t eat meat.”

As my gaze bored a hole in his temple, I murmured, “Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay. Does an hour give you enough time to finish up?”

Fisher didn’t give her a verbal answer, just a tiny nod.

“Cool. I’ll let you know when they’re here.”

After Rory’s feet tapped tapped tapped their way to the top of the stairs and the door clicked shut behind her, I rammed the toe of my work boot into Fisher’s shin.

“Ouch! The fuck?” He reached down and rubbed his shin.

“Another date with Tiffany? Are you kidding me?”

He seemed too aggravated over his shin and me interrupting his work to spare the slightest glint of regret. “What did you expect me to say?”

“I expected you to say you had plans.”

“But I don’t. And you’re going to be here too. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is she likes you. A lot!”

“Like Brendon likes you a lot?” He shot me a scowl.

“I’m not inviting him to dinner.” I parked my fists on my hips.

“Well, maybe you should. Sounds like Rory has lots of food, and the more the merrier. Right?”

“Now you’re being a jerk. Such a jerk.”

Standing erect, he pulled off his glasses and tossed them onto the workbench. “Oh really. I’m being the jerk? What about you?”

“You should have lied.” That was my answer. Church schooled, Bible study, virgin me advocating lying. It was a new low.

“I won’t kiss her cheek or hold her hand. Are we good now?”

My ego was in overdrive. We weren’t good. Well, he was probably good. Twenty-eight-year-olds had a little more maturity and self-control. Achieving good status was probably easier for him.

Teenaged adults, such as myself, struggled with letting the little stuff go and just being … good.

“I’m not good.”

“No?” He cocked his head to the side.

I think I knew I was in trouble, but I wasn’t sure how trouble would play out.

“Then let’s make you good.” He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me backward.

I stumbled, but he kept me standing. Squatting in front of me, he untied my work books.

“W-what are you d-doing?” I couldn’t hide my nerves.

Fisher didn’t answer. His quick hands discarded my boots to the side.

“Fisher … what are …” My words caught in my throat. I’d poked the bear a little too hard. Actually, I had kicked him in the shin.

He didn’t look at me. He was too busy focusing on my jeans.

Unbuttoning them.

Unzipping them.

Peeling them down my legs.

“Fisher …we can’t … not here …” I gave him a weak protest.

What if Rory came back? The door wasn’t locked.

My jeans landed next to my boots as he tossed them aside. Still, he hadn’t made a single glance upward to see my sheer panic.

As his fingers curled inside the waist of my panties, I grabbed one of his hands. “Fisher, we can’t …”

He stopped, completely still. Eyes homing in on my hand clawing at his hand. Then his lips twisted as he squinted. His head swiveled, surveying one side of the room and then the other.

Leaving me half naked and panicky, he stood and took several steps to a stack of drawers. After opening several of them, he retrieved something and shoved it into his back pocket, and something else from another drawer. Then he turned.

“No …” I shook my head when I saw the zip ties in his hand. “No … I can’t. I’m claustrophobic. My heart will stop. No …”

He ignored me while grabbing a couple of dirty rags.

“Fisher … no!” I tried to pull my hand out of his grip.

“Shh …” He shook his head slowly, still not looking at me while he wrapped a rag around one wrist and then a zip tie.

“Uh-uh …” My head jerked side to side. “No. I said no …”

“Shh …” He repeated the process with my other wrist.

With unnatural ease, he lifted me onto the barstool and used two more ties to restrain my hands to my sides by looping them around the legs of the stool.

“Fisher!” I jerked my arms, but they didn’t move.

He finally looked at me, holding a stiff finger to his lips for several seconds before kissing me.

I yelped into his mouth, and he swallowed it again and again. His hands peeled my panties past my butt to my knees. He lifted his boot and stepped on them, shoving them the rest of the way off my legs as his kiss grew hungrier. His hands gripped my knees and spread them wide before his fingers teased me.