Page 28 of The Oscar Escape
The ocean.
Where had he taken her?
Like a caged animal, she scoured the room, observing the unfamiliar environment. Neutral colors with pops of dusty blue complemented nautical artwork featuring tranquil seas. She spied a sitting area with a ceramic lighthouse and a few pieces of gnarled driftwood in the center of a low table sandwiched between two club chairs. She was trying to work out how the hell she’d gotten here, but her brain felt as useful as a bowl of oatmeal. Still, she knew one thing for sure. This wasn’t her modern Boston hotel suite in the city, with the hum of near nonstop traffic filtering up from the street. Frantic energy sent her body into fight-or-flight mode. She lunged toward the table like a cheetah or whatever the hell animal lunges when it’s freaked-the-fuck out. Swiping one of the pieces of driftwood from its resting place, she pointed it at Oscar like a sword. “Have I been kidnapped?”
There had been threats. Three, to be exact.
Oscar held up his hands defensively. “Aria, it’s me. It’s Oscar. What the hell kind of question is that?”
A question he didn’t answer.
“Am I on drugs?” She gave the space another once-over. Thanks to her complete discombobulation, it was a fair question.
“Honestly?” he replied, his voice taking on an uncertain quality.
“Yes, honestly,” she blasted.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
She balked and jabbed the mini driftwood spear at him. “Am I awake?”
He returned his hands to a defensive posture. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
The man looked like he’d been hit by a steamroller. “Yes,” he rasped, “you’re awake. This is real.”
She spun around and pointed out the window. “What is this? Where are we? Why were you in bed with me? Why were you touching my naughty-down-there parts?” She cringed. She had to stop calling it that.
“Take a breath, Aria,” he replied and came to his feet. He took a cautious step toward her. “Hand over the driftwood. We can’t have you breaking that, too.”
Too? What else had she broken?
She stared at the piece of coastal décor, huffed an exaggerated breath, and passed him the stick. “Oscar, what’s happening?” she pleaded and sank into a club chair. All this freaking out had made her lightheaded.
He returned the item to the table, then paced in front of the bed in nothing but his boxer briefs. She looked him over and got an eyeful of his . . . appendage.
He glanced at her, then looked down.
Now they were both staring at his cock.
He winced, then hastily grabbed a pair of jeans off the back of a chair and put them on. Blushing, he buttoned up the fly. “That reaction sometimes happens in the morning. It’s a normal penis thing,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.
“A normal penis thing?” she echoed.
Fromnaughty-down-there partstoa normal penis thing, they might have attained the record for the most mortifying before breakfast conversation to have ever taken place in North America—if they were actually in North America. All she could tell from the view was that they were near water.
Oscar’s blush deepened. “Jesus, Aria, you’re the one person who—”
“Who what?” she lobbed back. He didn’t get to play the irritated, hulking brute. She was damned irritated herself.
“Who makes me so goddamned crazy that I say shit like a normal penis thing,” he roared. “I’m a scary guy, and I’m a documentarian. Words matter, and I choose my words carefully. I don’t talk like a tongue-tied teenager.”
“Oh, eat worms, Oscar Abrams Elliott! You might be big and brooding, but if you think you intimidate me, then you don’t know a damn thing about me,” she bit out, channeling her sassy seven-year-old self, then couldn’t stop from gazing beneath the top button on his jeans. “And you’re still rocking yournormal penis thing. Will it stay like that all day? Do you have a medical condition? Do you need a doctor?”
“That tongue of yours could cut diamonds.”
“And what you’ve got going on downtown could—”
