Page 2 of His Bountiful Gifts (Men of the Sea)

ULA

The pre-dawn sky holds no trace of the oppressive clouds from yesterday as I step out of my car and head down the walkway to the beach. The sea simmers and swirls, bubbling around rock pools and tugging at the shore.

The day after a storm is always my favorite time to walk along the beach and watch the foamy waves tug at the debris tossed onto the shore, as if they have no memory of the raging sea and devastation from the night before.

I woke before dawn and drove the two miles to the beach, eager to see what gifts the storm has brought me.

Sails are broken at the marina, and roof panels have been blown off the small cluster of buildings along the Temptation Bay beachfront.

A cool breeze hits my neck, and I pull Gram’s shawl tight around my shoulders. My bare feet sink into the ground, wet sand squelching between my toes as I start along the beach.

Driftwood, twisted and worn by the water, lies scattered across the sand as I pick my way along the shoreline.

There’s a shape up ahead, perhaps a particularly large piece of driftwood that the tide has thrown up onto the shore.

In the brightening dawn light, it appears more like an animal, maybe a seal that’s swam too far south. Or a small whale separated from its pod and beached in the storm.

As I approach the object, the sun breaks the horizon, casting her first golden rays across the sand.

My breath hitches in my throat. It’s not a seal. It’s not a whale, and it’s certainly not a piece of driftwood.

The storm has brought me a man.

Pale light creeps over the figure lying on his back on the sand. I take a few steps closer, peering curiously at him.

His shoulders are massive, the size of small boulders. Seaweed twists over taut muscles and dark ink patterns that snake down his arms, around his wide chest, and down to his…

Oh my. I take a step back.

He’s naked.

My throat goes dry, and I swallow hard.

There’s a naked man washed up on the beach. I should run back to my car and call for help. But my curiosity is too strong.

Stepping forward, I allow my gaze to sweep his torso, taking in the ink that swirls and twirls in patterns of hidden meaning under a layer of chest hair.

My gaze follows the thin line of hair from his chest over his hard belly. Even while lying still, the outline of his abs can be seen. My eyes continue down to the mound of thick, curly hair and what lies beyond.

His member hangs thick and dark, curled down the side of one thigh like a sleeping sea snake.

A gasp escapes my lips.

Because, yeah, it hangs halfway down his thighs now. What would this ocean giant look like hard? An image of his thick purple cock—hard as rock and dripping juice—jumps into my head.

There’s a stirring in my core and a tug so strong I stagger to my knees. Dampness floods my panties, and I have to catch my breath.

The ocean has certainly been bountiful with her gifts this morning.

I tear my gaze away from the man’s bounty to study his face. Dark hair is plastered to his cheeks, and his eyes are closed. His lips are tinged blue.

Shit.

Here I am fantasizing about his giant squid when the man might not even be alive.

Fear and a sense of loss flood me, which is stupid because I only found him a minute ago.

Reaching out to take his pulse, my fingers are about to press down on his throat when the man moves.

---