by Drew Jordan
“Yes. It was me being optimistic last time I went to town.”
It was a seemingly normal conversation. One that any couple would have any night of the week. It struck me as amusing. Isolated in the bush with the stranger, the dynamic was still so… domestic. Even with me not knowing his name and my panties in the fire. I wondered what he thought about all day, every day. When strange girls weren’t crashing into the trees and becoming dependent on him. Was his brain just a checklist of survival tasks?
There was no way to know. But right then, he seemed like any other man. Relaxed in his own home. Hungry. Younger. Not the dominant alpha male he’d shown me on multiple occasions. So who was the real Sam? Neither, since he clearly wasn’t a Sam. Maybe he was both. Because whatever he was, he wasn’t dishonest and he wasn’t interested in being polite because society demanded it.
“How do you figure things out?” I asked. “I mean, if I want a recipe I look it up online. I order makeup and perfume and all kinds of stuff online. What do you do?”
“I don’t wear makeup,” he deadpanned. Then he winked.
I laughed, startled. “Then you’re lucky, because it’s an expensive hobby.”
“I do order stuff online when I’m in town. Then I pick it up the next time I’m in town. There is a store there for basics. But I have about five shirts and I wear them until they disintegrate.”
“What do you do for fun?” I took another bite of the stew. It was warm and heavy on sriracha, which surprised me. It wasn’t a traditional stew spice. My belly already felt full. My stomach had shrunk in two days.
“I don’t watch reality TV.” He took a long swallow of his water and watched me over the rim of his glass.
Did he think I was insulting him? Calling him boring? “Then you’re not losing brain cells. Though I can’t say anything. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine.”
“I never feel guilty about any pleasure I take.”
That I believed. I glanced around the room. “Did you build this place?”
“Yes.”
“That’s amazing.” I wanted to say he was amazing, but he would scoff. Laugh at me. “Do you race the dogs?” I asked. Even now, I could hear them on and off in the yard. They were an integral part of the background noise of the cabin, given that the area was devoid of city sounds like planes and trains and taxis.
“No. They’re for practical reasons. Getting into town. Hauling wood. Plus they are good company.”
“Because they’re loyal and happy to see you?”
“Because they don’t talk,” he said shortly.
Sometimes, he was seriously an asshole. This was one of those times. “Is that a hint?”
“It’s a truth. That’s all.”
I dropped my spoon. “I’m finished. It was good, thank you.” My voice was tight. What was wrong with trying to have a little conversation? I stood up and went to the sink. I studied it for a minute, trying to figure out how he made the pump work. There was dish soap sitting on the counter and I squirted some in my bowl.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I can do it.” But I couldn’t. Not really. I lifted the nozzle and nothing happened. I searched for some kind of button but didn’t see any.
“Laney.” His chair scraped as he pushed it back and stood up. “Don’t be upset.”
“I’m not upset.” My lip quivered and tears rose in my eyes. I couldn’t figure the pump out. I let my shoulders drop. “Do you think anyone has found the plane yet? Or are those men just in there, dead? Will… animals get them?” I looked back at Sam. I knew it was stupid to ask him. Getting sympathy from him was like hugging a cactus and being startled when you got jabbed with a needle.
“I’m sure they’ve found the plane by now. They must have known immediately that it went off course.” He came over to me and brushed my hair off my cheek. “You’re safe, you know that, right? I will keep you safe.”
“I know.” I did. That was something I was sure of.
“Then why don’t you go use the outhouse and then go to bed? You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
In other words, he didn’t know how to deal with me or my emotions. So he wanted me to go to bed. Weary, and not having any clue what else to do, I nodded. “Okay.”
As I sat down to pull on boots, he started to get dressed. “Are you coming with me?” I asked, torn between wanting to be alone for a minute to pull myself together emotionally and wanting him to guide me across the dark yard.
“Yes. It’s too late for you to go alone. If there is one bear, there might be two.”
I shivered. He handed me a jacket. I slid my arms in and zipped it up. He just shrugged into a flannel and didn’t bother with anything else. He pulled his rifle off the wall. I wondered what it would feel like to hold it. I’d never touched a gun. What did that power feel like? Knowing with one small movement of just one finger, you could kill?
He was right. It was dark. It was damn near impossible to see anything. The dogs whined, an eerie low keening howl that was caught up by the wind and tossed around and around us. It was like the Irish banshee from my childhood stories. My mother thought it was funny when I got scared. “Look, she’s really scared,” she’d say in amazement to her boyfriend of the week, and laugh hysterically. The day I knew that Dean was different, a keeper, was when she purposefully scared me with the ‘banshee under my bed’ fear tactic to get me to stay in my room, and Dean told her she was being a bitch. He’d said, “What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you see that she’s terrified? Knock it off, Christine.”
He’d lifted me off the bed and cuddled me close, taking me in to the kitchen for a glass of milk.
“Sometimes I think you like my brat more than you like me,” she had yelled after us.
“I do,” he had yelled back. He’d given me a wink and jiggled me in his arms.
I’d known then that he was going to stay. And he was going to be my father.
As I walked across the porch and down the steps I had a lump in my throat thinking about my stepfather. He was probably worried sick. He probably thought I was dead. I stumbled in the dark, not seeing the rock or branch in my path.
A firm hand reached out and steadied me. The stranger was like my stepfather- he was going to take care of me. Keep me safe. I could feel his presence behind me, hear his sure footing. A glance back gave me a view of his hulking shadow. He had a flashlight, but it barely cut through the oppressive blanket of night sky. But I paused and looked up, wanting to see what was up there. Even the stars couldn’t penetrate the dark of an Alaskan night. I’d lost all sense of time. I knew days were longer here in the summer, but what about fall? I had no idea, and it could have been ten pm or two in the morning. I hadn’t done any research. I’d just stepped onto a plane like an idiot.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. His arm came around the front of me and pulled me protectively back as he eased his body in front of me. I sensed him raise his arm and the gun.
“Nothing, I just wanted to look at the sky. I was thinking about my stepfather and how worried he must be about me.”
“What about your mom?” he murmured. His arm went back down, but the other stayed around me.
It felt nice. Right. I could see my breath rising up as I tilted my head back and let the cold caress me. Why was it heat made you languid, lazy, yet cold made you feel alive? Like delineated edges against the air. Ice slamming into fire, an epic clash that jolted you to your highest state of being awake. “She’s in prison for tax evasion. It will be awhile before she finds out because my stepfather will shield her from the fact that I’m missing until he can’t anymore.”
“At least you’re missed.”
I glanced back at him. “No one misses you?”
“I didn’t mean anything by that. Just use the outhouse, Laney.” He kissed the back of my head.
It struck me again, how surreal this was. Four days earlier I had been at the shop, saying goodbye to my co-workers. My trip was supposed to be ten d
ays long, adequate time to determine if my relationship with Michael was real or imagined. It was unpaid vacation I was taking, and I was leaving everyone stuck covering my shifts. Now here I was, in the cold night, nestled in the dark wilderness, with a stranger I was actually starting to care about. He was my lifeline. Literally. But beyond that, he was a man, and he made me feel more like a woman.
“What’s that sound?” I asked him. There was a pervasive hum in the distance. My city girl brain had interpreted it as traffic. Like a highway running through a suburb. But it had occurred to me that couldn’t possibly be what it was.
“What sound?”
“It’s like a hum. A whoosh.”
“It’s the river. The Yukon.”
“Oh. It’s very peaceful here.” I felt like I was dreaming, yet, as intensely in a moment as one could possibly be. It was an oxymoron that I couldn’t reconcile. In the absence of the noise of life, I could hear everything. Feel everything.
I expected him to be impatient, but he wasn’t. He just stood there with me, waiting. Maybe he’d gotten used to the sound of my voice, like I’d gotten used to his already.
But after a few seconds, I started on to the outhouse, not wanting to ruin the moment with a reprimand that would come eventually.
He followed behind me, my persistent shadow. My protector. Savior.
Back in the cozy cabin, I yawned. I eyed the bed, yanking my boots off. My heart rate kicked up a notch as I contemplated what I must have looked like earlier, trussed up, naked, waiting for him. I was torn between wanting to just nestle into bed fully clothed, or stripping down for him. I hesitated, not sure what he wanted. I knew what I wanted. We hadn’t finished what had been started and I knew I’d sleep better if he settled this ache.
Not wanting to be rejected, I opted to climb into bed in the t-shirt and sweatpants, pulling the comforter back. He peeled his shirt off before going to the sink and brushing his teeth. My tongue ran over my own teeth. I needed to brush them desperately. Would he give me a spare toothbrush? Apparently he didn’t have one because he turned and offered me his.
“Want to brush?”
“Sure.” I climbed back out of bed. Sharing had never bothered me. I would taste a friend’s drink, use her fork. But a toothbrush was different for some reason. It only added to the sense of intimacy, of coupling. If the person who had found me was a seventy-year-old man with a massive pot belly and ear hairs would I have accepted his offer? No. I definitely wouldn’t have.
He stood next to me while I brushed, his hand slipping under the shirt I was wearing. The other one followed until he was behind me, his body bumping my backside, hands shifting upward to cup my breasts. I shivered, pausing in my scrubbing.
“If I pulled your pants down and took you right now, would you stop me?” he asked.
“No.” His words instantly aroused me. I shifted my hips, arched my back, seeking him with my ass to encourage.
“Good.” He let go of me and stepped back. “Spit and then get in bed. Put yourself in the ropes.”
I was both disappointed and intrigued. “Which ones? My hands or the one that ties me to you?” Maybe he just wanted to go to sleep, bound together, again.
He shifted my hair off my neck and kissed the nape, his lips warm on my cool skin. “I like that you asked. I want you tied to me. I want to hold you close to me all night.”
“I want that too,” I murmured. I wanted more than that. I wanted him to dominate, distract me, to erase all thought, all worry from my head. To make my gentle body feel powerful, like I could take it. Take him.
Without warning, his hand smacked my ass. “Then go.”
I jumped at the unexpected contact. It didn’t hurt. Just a mild sting. But I hadn’t been expecting it. Without a word, I turned, searching his face for an explanation for who and what he was. But I saw nothing but lust.
“Clothes on or off?” I asked softly. I needed his direction. I craved it. I was already moving toward the bed because I wanted to show him I was obedient.
“Off.” He was unbuttoning his jeans and taking the zipper down.
That sound made my mouth thick. I ditched the shirt quickly and skimmed his pants down over my hips. I got back into bed, this time undoing the knot tying the rope to the headboard and wrapping it around my bare waist. It scratched my skin, but I didn’t care.
Maybe he was a Matthew. No. An Austin. An Austin would look at me the way he was right now, like he wanted to swallow me whole. Or Luke. Because an Austin would be too much of a jokester. He wasn’t a comedian that was for sure.
I watched him, not sure what he was going to do. Part of me wanted to close my eyes, to just feel, to let it happen as it happened. But I didn’t want to miss the expression on his face. I wanted the chance to gauge his emotion. His jaw was tense, his eyes boring into me. He reached out and ran his fingers through my hair as he came up behind me, on his knees. His touch was gentle, questing.
He skimmed his briefs off and I watched over my shoulder, trying to get a better view as he moved in behind me. I hadn’t seen him fully naked yet. I hadn’t seen his cock, only felt it pressing against me. I only caught a glimpse of smooth skin and strong thighs before he blocked my view with a punishing kiss. I was disappointed not to have the full monty, but at the same time, I was swept away by the intensity of his kiss. Just when I settled into it, my mouth opening so he could sweep his tongue inside, he abandoned the embrace.
With a few swift movements, he had the rope cinched and secured, so we were perfectly aligned. Two spoons.
I wondered if it was calculated on his part that we weren’t facing each other. Was there a reason he didn’t want to look me in the eye? I didn’t mind. I honestly wasn’t sure I could look at him right then without exposing too much of myself. I didn’t want him to see the parts of myself I had tried so hard to both hide and ignore. Given how vulnerable I felt, I wasn’t sure I could keep any of that in. It would ooze out of me, an emotional mess.
He moved his hands flat over my breasts, so that his palms brushed my nipples, while his breath was warm on my temple. The rope rubbed, drawing my attention to where it chafed my skin, distracting me. I wanted to close my eyes, relax into his touch, but my eyes remained wide open, my shoulders tense. I stared at the wall that was a few feet away from the bed, focusing on a knot in the wood until my vision blurred.
The soft brush over my breasts continued so long it felt indefinite. I wanted to shove his hand lower or just swat him away. The whisper of a touch was not enough, driving me crazy, becoming both an irritant and an intense arouser. I wanted to turn. To scream. To come. It went on and on and my thoughts crawled around in my head, threatening to burst out of my mouth. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t handle another hour like when he’d been fixing dinner for us and I lay there naked.
But then I realized I already was.
And that was the game.
He wanted to know how much I could take. How in control of myself I was.
One of his hands eased down past the rope to my inner thighs and teased at my curls. I had given up shaving everything bare about a year earlier in a moment of feminist defiance, and I was grateful that I wasn’t dealing with itchy, stubbly new growth. I shifted, wanting to open for him, wanting him to press his finger down into my wet body, but he ignored the offer.
His hard cock still pressed against my ass and I didn’t understand how he could have that kind of control. Discipline. But then again, no one could survive life in Alaska without discipline. You couldn’t choose to take a day off and spend it in bed watching TV or you’d freeze to death.
Then finally, when I thought I’d go insane, his thumb raked over my clitoris and filled me, easing into my pussy. I moaned.
He pulled it out again.
I gave a cry of dismay.
His touch dragged lower, taking the moisture with it, and before I realized what he was intending to do, he was teasing at my ass then sliding in. I stiffened slightly, then relaxed, enjoying t
he in and out stroke. His other hand hovered over my mound, but didn’t touch. Just when I was starting to pant heavily, and get into the rhythm, my ass rocking towards him, he pulled his thumb out. His other hand shifted, his finger slipping into my vagina. I sighed in initial satisfaction, but he did the same thing. Got me going, then disappeared, trading out front for back. He was taking turns finger fucking me, never letting me orgasm.
“I’d almost forgotten what a woman smells like,” he murmured in my ear, as he slipped his thumb back into my ass.
I didn’t clench up this time. I was relaxed, open, eager for his invasion. I craved his fingers, but I also craved more. I wanted him, but instead I concentrated on my breathing, on my body, on the tight sensation in my womb of a rubberband being drawn taut.
“You smell so sweet, so wet.”
“I am wet,” I whispered. “You make me so wet.”
“I know. I can smell it from here without even bending over, and I love the way it feels.”
I wanted to roll onto my stomach, taking him with me, so that he could plunge inside me. Either angle, I didn’t care. I just wanted him to fill me. I was bucking against the rope without realizing it, losing track of time. Losing track of myself. I had been turned on before, but never like this. I’d never had a man intentionally draw out my pleasure so indefinitely, make me go to a different physical and mental space than I’d ever been.
“I want to fuck you, but I’m not going to.”
“Why not?” I wiggled, wanting to see his face.
He took his finger away and said, “Stop that. You’re going to tear up your skin on the rope if you move too much.”
“I can’t help it.” I wanted to beg, but I didn’t think he would like that. I didn’t think it would give me the result I wanted. Either from him or from myself. So I forced myself to still, to exercise rigid control over my body.
“That’s it, doll. And don’t worry, I’ll fuck you when I’m sure you can handle it.”
I felt deflated. I didn’t want to be his doll. A doll was useless. Only good for sitting on the shelf to be admired. To pet and stare at. Change her clothes. I wanted to be important, relevant. I wanted a purpose. I’d ripped myself out of my comfortable life by coming to Alaska, and the plane crash had done the rest. I wanted him to play with me. Not treat me like I was delicate. Fragile.
