by Vivien Vale
“I mean, you’ve already said that my apartment was on fire. But that doesn’t explain what you were doing in my apartment, or how you knew about the fire, or how it started...”
Emma keeps talking, but I keep losing focus of her words. I’m too taken by her presence in my cabin.
At my table.
She’s really here.
After all this time, I don’t have to watch her on a little security screen. I can feast my eyes on her in real life.
“Come on,” she complains and bashes the table with her fist. Her knife and fork rattle loudly. “I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.”
“There’s not much more to tell. There was a fire, I was close by, and I rescued you.”
She leans forward, arms on the table. “You…were close by?”
Of course, she’s got a point. But it’s not like I can tell her what’s really going on.
As Emma leans nearly halfway across the table, I notice how much soot is still in her hair and on her face. She’ll want to have a bath, I’m sure.
“If you want, you can clean up in the bathroom.” That didn’t come out great, but at least it stops the questions. Whatever she was about to ask dies on her tongue.
“A bath would be good. Do you have hot water?” Emma peers at me suspiciously.
I laugh. “Come on, I’ll lead the way.”
Chapter 8
Emma
A bath? Had Grizzly really just offered me a bath?
My heart beats a little faster, and I follow this hunk of a man out of the kitchen. The words are music to my ears…if, in fact, he really is leading me to an actual bath.
I’m also a little worried. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and this is a man who keeps chickens, wears bear skin, and looks like he can chop wood with his bare hands.
Is his definition of a bath the same as mine?
To me, a bath involves a large tub one can fill with hot water. If he takes me outside and points to a water trough covered in ice, I swear I’ll scream.
Grizzly walks ahead of me, and I take the opportunity to feast my eyes on his shoulders. My gosh, those are some broad, manly shoulders.
I imagine him carrying a bear over those shoulders after hunting. The way his muscles would contract and bulge…I’m enjoying that image, I’ll admit.
Those shoulders must come in handy. And those arms. Another image of Grizzly flickers through my imagination, with him lugging around giant bundles of firewood.
If I’m not careful, I’ll start drooling any second.
I wonder what it would it feel like to rub my hands over all his shoulders, and arms, and chest? I bet he’s got muscles in places no other man has muscles.
I’m getting carried away with these thoughts, and I’m blushing so much that my face is probably the color of a tomato right now. Thankfully, he’s not turning around—if he did, I bet he’d be able to tell just what I’m thinking.
No harm in looking and admiring, I remind myself. My eyes wander from those broad shoulders down to his lower back…
Look, I can’t help if his ass is right there. I might as well get a good look.
My eyes widen upon close inspection of this part of his anatomy.
It’s one tight ass. Whatever he’s doing up here in the woods, it’s fucking working for him. Most of the gym-addicted guys I know would kill to look that damn hot.
Thinking about it, I doubt any gym back in the city would have equipment big enough for him. He probably chest presses three tree trunks before breakfast without breaking a sweat.
What his dick must be like is another question altogether.
By now my face must be red enough to put the reddest damn beefsteak tomato to shame.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Here I am, drooling over a man I probably wouldn’t look at twice if I were back home. And not only am I looking, I’m imagining the size of his cock and what it would feel like to run my hands over his hot fucking body.
It must be the mountain air.
That’s it—this sudden tendency of mine to admire a complete stranger’s anatomy could only be put down to the air. I mean, I don’t know how high up we are, but the air must be thinner, and that has to have some effect on my thinking.
Yep. My brain’s being silly because of a lack of oxygen.
But if the altitude’s affecting me, how the fuck has he been coping?
Does it matter? Probably not, since I have no intention of staying up here any longer than absolutely necessary.
Grizzly stops so abruptly I nearly run into him and all those muscles of his. I stop myself just in time.
When he turns around, I’m only inches away from him.
My breathing suddenly increases, and I feel hot—incredibly hot. Has someone turned up the thermostat?
“The bath,” he points into the room ahead of him.
“Thank you,” I mumble and slide past him. I make sure no part of him touches me.
I don’t turn around, and I feel relief wash over me when he closes the door.
Before I do anything else, I go to the sink and splash some cold water on my face. Phew.
I look around. To my surprise, it’s a relatively modern-looking bathroom, complete with a large four-claw bathtub. There are two taps in the tub, one for cold water and the other for hot. Of course, I don’t know yet if the hot water tap actually delivers on its promises.
Above me are two lights, a normal lighting fixture and, next to it, one of those heating lamps. I switch on the heating lamp and immediately feel the warmth on my back and neck.
Despite its initial appearance and its location, this cabin seems to have many of the conveniences my own apartment has. A testing of the bathtub tap confirms there is running hot water.
Sure, the location is lacking, being fucking miles from the nearest designer clothing store and makeup shop, but right now, this’ll have to do.
A hot bath is probably just what the doctor ordered. While I wait for the tub to fill, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Well, I look like a real fright is what I look like.
I open and shut random cabinets and drawers, hoping against hope to find some makeup. Needless to say, there’s nothing resembling cosmetics in Grizzly’s bathroom.
Of course, I hadn’t really expected this rugged specimen of masculinity to keep a stash of make up in the bathroom, but there’s no harm in looking.
By now, the bathtub is full, and I turn off the tap. I sink into the hot water and stretch, getting comfortable. As I lie back in the tub, with the hot water covering me, I feel the tension drain a little from my neck and shoulders.
Images of last night flicker through my mind. I don’t recall much—the last thing I remember is smelling the smoke before passing out.
I do recall seeing Grizzly for the first time and thinking he was bear.
Despite the hot water, I shiver.
I close my eyes. Now I can see his shoulders, his chest, and those large strong hands whisking our morning eggs.
How nice would it have been to be one of those eggs?
Wait, did I really just have that thought?
I need get out of this place before I totally lose my mind. For shit’s sake, I’m fantasizing about being an egg getting whisked by the man-bear.
Relax. Breathe. In and out and in and out.
Unfortunately, more images crowd my mind. Strong, broad shoulders to nuzzle against. A tight ass to squeeze, and a chest so broad I could rest against it and feel warm and cozy.
Ugh.
Luckily, I can keep these thoughts to myself.
I shake my head. There’s something amiss here. It’s not like me to be attracted to a guy who’s so unlike any other guy I’ve known.
And what’s more—who the fuck is this dude, anyway?
So far, his verbal communication has been lacking in structure and form, not to mention critical information. Any question I’ve asked has gone either unanswered or has received some type of grunted r
eply.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Perhaps the man’s been up here on his own for so fucking long that he’s lost his ability to communicate properly. And yet he lives in a home with all the essentials, like running water, power and indoor plumbing.
I remember reading something about how people lose their ability to communicate properly when they’re not with like-minded people. I have no idea what sort of like-minded person Grizzly would need, but one thing is certain: another bear wouldn’t exactly make for a great conversationalist.
Maybe that’s why mountain man seems to be better at grunting. He’s adapting to the way bears communicate—not that I would know how a bear communicates.
I sigh. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I can’t get his image out of my mind.
Everything is fucking big about him. Those hands look like they’d be big and strong enough to kill a bear without any other weapons. If his hands are anything to go by, his fucking cock must be huge.
Thinking about his cock, it feels like my whole body’s twitching in anticipation.
Dear god, what am I doing to myself?
I sigh and let my hands run down to my tits. I play with my nipples a bit before gliding my hands along my curves, all the way down to my pussy.
The water ripples from the movement of my hands.
Okay—no one’s here, no one’s watching, and no one will know.
There’s nothing wrong with a little relaxation, a little treat for myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a treat anyway.
By now, my right hand is rubbing over my pussy. I push down, rubbing a little harder, and then I start to play with my clit.
I keep my eyes closed. Images of bear-man clutter my mind and refuse to leave. I picture a massive cock—it’s at least twelve inches and so fat I can’t wrap my fingers around it.
It’s heavy, heavier than anything I’ve felt before.
I know I’m lying in a bathtub, but thinking about Grizzly and the size of his fucking dick hiding in those pants of his has me wet already.
I let my right hand stay with my pussy while my left hand finds my tits again. I pinch and pull just one of my nipples, but since there are two for the taking I soon start alternate. It doesn’t take long for both of them to become rock hard.
I moan a little. Fuck, this feels good.
As I play with my nipples, with my other hand rubbing my clit, I feel the tension gradually ooze out of my shoulders, neck, and back.
Before long, I start feeling lighter. Gone is the weight of the world, gone is the stress and anxiety from the whole ordeal of the rescue and waking up in a strange house and bed.
In its place is relaxation—and lust. I’m filled with pure, animalistic passion—a desire to be fulfilled.
I let my right index finger work some more on my clit, then I pull away and enter myself. I push deep into my pussy—as far as I can go—and find my own sweet spot. I push against it and relish the feeling of warmth spreading through me.
I pull out again and go back to rubbing my clit. A little fire flickers, and heat spreads through me faster than a wildfire.
Ass, shoulders, chest, and muscles are all I can think about—oh, and a fucking huge cock.
My fingers work frantically on my clit before pushing back into my pussy. I shove and pull and rub while also massaging, kneading, and squeezing my tits.
I start to feel the orgasm build deep within me. I push my fingers in harder and harder and then finally work on my clit. I rub and rub and rub.
My body tingles, and the walls of my pussy contract and flex and contract again. All my muscles tense, and I’m reaching the edge of a massive orgasm.
It won’t be long. I take a deep breath in and hold it as I’m swept up in a wave of pleasure, finally moving over the edge into a forceful climax.
My entire body briefly stiffens before I unload my juices into the warm water.
I shake from the power of the orgasm. It hits me hard, it hits me fast, and it keeps going and going.
I can’t help but moan as I come like this.
It feels good—no, it feels fucking fantastic.
Time slows down, and I lose all sense of reality. Up and up I float on a cloud—weightless, fearless, and full of joy.
My moaning gets louder and louder. Yes, yes, this is what I fucking needed. I keep coming.
And then, just like that, it’s all over. I’m snapped right back into reality by the sound of…
Shit. Is that the door opening?
Chapter 9
Dylan
Like a caged bear, I prowl around my kitchen, into the hallway, and back again.
I don’t wear a wristwatch, but I can fucking tell she’s been in there for for-fucking-ever. What does she think this place is, a fucking day spa she visits with her friends? Newsflash, princess: this is the woods.
How long does it take to have a bath?
Sure, there’s a bit of grime to wash off, but hell, ten minutes max is all she should need to be clean. Come to think of it, I could’ve offered to help her wash off the dirt.
I sigh, stop prowling for a moment, run my hands through my hair, and start pacing again.
My muscles are taut, like a tightly coiled spring, and I’m ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. The only problem is that there’s nothing to pounce on. I’m inside, not out in the wild, and there’s no immediate danger—unless you count Emma.
Ever since I’ve brought Emma here, my innards have been in total turmoil, and my level of stress is maxed the fuck out. It’s the kind of turmoil you have if you can’t think straight, so you leave your fucking cock in charge and have your brain take an extended vacation.
If I’d known I would react like this, I’d have planned this rescuing shit a bit more carefully. Taking her here to my own four walls, where we have no choice but to be in such close quarters, was a fucking mistake.
I realize that now—a bit too fucking late.
Dressed in those massively huge shirts of mine, she’s too fucking sexy for words.
This is one of the only big mistakes I’ve made in my life, but I’m sure fucking paying for it.
“Mmmmmm.”
What the hell is that sound? Is that Emma?
I stop and listen.
No, there’s no noise. I shake my head.
Now I’m starting to hear shit. Great.
What the fuck’s wrong with me?
My fist punches into the wall. Luckily, it’s thick timber and even my formidable fucking fist can’t so much as make a dent, little less put a hole in it.
You can’t just fuck her. You’ve brought her here to protect her, for fuck’s sake. Get a fucking grip.
I try and reason with myself, but it’s like the rational part of my brain is sending a toy walkie talkie signal while my cock is broadcasting from a 100-kilowatt fucking radio station.
Protect her, protect her. I repeat it to myself over and over, like a mantra. Maybe if I say it enough times, my fucking dick might start to fucking listen.
Instead of things calming down in my pants, the tightness increases. I look down, and I can see a huge fucking tent pole bulge.
Think of something else. Think of snow, giant fucking blizzard treacherous sheets of ice covering every surface.
Hmm. If Emma were trapped in the snow, I could keep her warm with my body heat.
Not fucking working, Dylan.
I should probably keep moving so I can channel some of this pent-up energy. So I start the prowl again, with my minds working overtime.
Fuck, what if something’s happened to her? I hover in the hallway, just outside the bathroom. Should I check on her?
People can drown in the bath—it happens all the time. Emma’s still probably fucking exhausted, and her body and mind are recovering from almost dying, and she just ate a heavy fucking breakfast—what if she slipped off to sleep in the tub? That’s a big fucking tub, too.
Most people would wake up once they start fuckin
g drowning, but what if she’s so tired she just…
This not fucking helping. Sure, I’m not thinking about fucking her anymore, but worrying about her lying dead in my bathtub isn’t exactly an improvement.
But seriously, she could have died like twenty fucking minutes ago, and there’s nothing I’d be able to fucking do about it.
The image of a pale Emma blown up like a puffer fish, her blue eyes wide open, takes up residence in my mind and is refusing to go away.
You’re being a fucking idiot, I tell myself—but it doesn’t fucking help.
I take a deep breath, and notice my hands are shaking.
I stroke my beard. It feels rough, matted, and unkempt. I ponder the last time I paid any attention to it.
Before I sequestered myself up here in my fortress in the wilderness, I would spend forever in front of the fucking mirror every morning to make absolutely fucking sure I fit my own standards of presentability—which are pretty fucking high.
Or, at least they were.
Back then, even the tiniest bit of stubble would’ve been un-fucking-acceptable, and I shaved twice a day.
But now...
Who gives a fuck? I’ve got bigger fucking problems.
I’ve got a naked, beautiful angel in my bath who could be dead. So, as not to lose any more time, I rush to the bathroom. Seconds away from bursting through the closed door, it hits me.
Of course. How could I be so fucking stupid?
I turn around and stomp over to the linen closet in the hallway. I take out two bath sheets and walk back to the bathroom.
I hover outside the door.
“Mmmmmm.”
There’s that noise again.
“Ohhhhhhhhh.”
Okay. There’s no way I’m imagining this shit, that noise was for real—but what the fuck is going on?
Is she groaning? Is she in fucking pain?
“Ooooohhhhhhh.”
Relief washes over me. Even if she’s groaning in pain, she’s not dead. I breathe a sigh of relief, and press my ear to the door.
“Mmmmmmmmmm. Ohhhhhhhhhh.”
That sounds like...no, it couldn’t be. That thought is so utterly fucking ridiculous that it’s stupid.
And yet, it did sound like it.
Beads of sweat are trickling down my chest, neck, and back. My fucking cock’s bouncing around in my pants, trying to push its way out into the open.
