Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Rough, Slow, .
Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Prologue - Niko Pavli never thought he would be gone so long when he left for work that morning, but eight years later he returns, his enemies hot on his heels. Camille had struggled after his disappearance, finally giving her husband up for dead. It was time to start a new life with a new man. Then Niko returned to pull her into his world of danger and intrigue. Will they be able to forgive each other?
His fingers began to cramp. He forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel, to ease his foot back on the accelerator. Too dangerous to call the attention of the police, he told himself.
It would be daylight soon; he'd need a place to pull over, someplace to lay low during the sunny hours ahead. If only he could've taken a flight, it would've been so much faster, but that was too dangerous, as well. Better to travel by car under the cover of night, and hide in the day.
Gregorios Nikodemos Pavli wondered once again how she'd react to seeing his face after all these years of thinking him dead. Did she still wonder what had happened to him? Did she care anymore? He tried to remember how his wife looked the last time he saw her. She'd waved to him as he left that day, a smile on her succulent lips. She'd tied her blond hair back from her lovely, oval face and her blue eyes had sparkled in the morning sun.
He remembered thinking he was a lucky man, he'd had it all — a tall, reedy wife who loved him, their future shining in her eyes, a home to be proud of. He'd had it all and lost it in the blink of an eye, on the whim of fate.
Digging his thumb and forefinger momentarily into his tired eyes, he tried to clear his mind and focus on the road ahead. Only one more night after this and he would be home, at long last.
Home, he thought. It wasn't really his home anymore, though. The Fates had seen to that. In all the years he'd been gone, he thought only of returning, of wrapping his arms around his wife and picking up the pieces of his life. Even as he envisioned his sweet Camille, he knew that it would not be that easy. If he were lucky, he would be able to get her safely away in time. She had a mind of her own and had, undoubtedly, gone on with her life.
There would be a fight, if he knew his Camille, a fight that would make all their past disagreements look like minor tiffs by comparison. Since the day they'd met, their relationship had been stormy, each fight ending in the passionate forgiveness of the marriage bed. Will she forgive me this time?
The horizon showed a faint glow, signaling the approach of day. He pulled out the map that nestled folded between the seat and the console, switching on the small lamp to read by. The exit's next, then left, he thought. He'd find a campground soon, lay his tired head down and dream of her.
He wondered if she would still be attracted to him. They'd both been young when they'd married; he had been twenty-one and she nineteen. They couldn't wait to start a family, as so many young couples do. In her, he had found the joy that he had lost only four years before when his parents had been killed in an accident. They'd been gloriously happy, but then things had gone wrong, tearing him from his world, and thrusting him into one not of his own making.
Camille had been so beautiful, and he had little doubt that she still was. Her hair had been the color of sun-dried wheat and her eyes as blue as the sky on a warm, spring day. Her skin was golden and supple, like dewy silk to the touch. Her body had been one that could give a dead man a hard-on, with full breasts and a small waist that led to the soft curve of her hips. Were her lips still as red? Were her eyes still as bright?
Yes, he thought, she's still beautiful. As for himself, he hadn't changed much in the ensuing years since his "death". His hair was still the color of darkest night — untouched by gray after all he'd been through. His eyes were still as black as ever, and he used them to intimidate his enemies when necessary. He still had hard, athletic muscles that covered his six-foot, three-inch frame, and he was blessed with the physical strength that had carried him through life. Looking in the car mirror, however, he could see that his face had hardened, had lost its easy friendliness. Perhaps he had changed more than he realized.
Niko waited at the door of the campground administration office for thirty minutes before someone finally drove up to open the grounds for the day. He checked his disguise before the person could approach, making sure that his beat-up fishing hat was in place, and that he looked sufficiently enthusiastic about making the big catch from the various lake species available at these particular sporting grounds. For all intents and purposes, he was just another urban professional out for a long weekend of solitude and sport.
He watched as a young woman got out of the red sedan that had just pulled in, a set of keys in her hand. She slowed as she approached the door, eyeing him from under batting lashes. From the expression on her face, he could tell she liked what she saw, as most women often did. Over the past eight years he had gotten to the point of ignoring such lustful glances because, as so many of them were, this woman was beautiful, but she was no Camille.
With an easy smile on his face, Niko tipped his hat to the woman, waiting for her to unlock the building that housed the office. He hated the light banter he had to make as he registered, but it was all part of the game. Keep people relaxed, keep them off their guard and they'd not be suspicious of him. He had to be part of the landscape, just another friendly face in the crowd, blending with all the other tourists.
He'd chosen a campsite far away from everyone else, telling the receptionist that he wanted a quieter spot to fish. She wished him luck as she handed him his ticket, letting her fingers linger over the palm of his hand. As he had done so many times in the past, he merely smiled and let her see the gold band that encircled the third finger of his left hand. To him, that ring was a bond, one that should not be broken.
It did not take him long to set up his small tent, fix himself a sandwich and crawl in to sleep. He was bone-weary, too tired to focus anymore. His eyes felt like they were embedded with sand, his head leaden on his shoulders. He'd been traveling for three nights, too many nights of sleeping on the hard ground. Soon, he told himself, as he pulled the shining Smith & Wesson Model 19.357 Magnum from its holster and tucked it under the edge of his sleeping bag; soon he would be seeing his Camille.