“What the hell…”
She half jumped, half fell out of the bed, and the sudden shock brought her to full wakefulness. She looked around. Where was she? The walls were wooden and there was a fireplace in one corner, filled with glowing red logs. A smoky scent like burning pine tickled her nose.
There was a bed to the side of the room and an almost naked man was moving slowly on it and groaning. Muscles rippled under the taut naked skin of his abdomen. Then she realized her own nakedness and, grabbing the blanket that she had dragged off the bed in her fall, she wrapped it around her. What was happening…?
The man slung two thickly muscled legs over the side of the mattress. A strong, sour whiff of maleness drifted over to her, and she felt her nostrils widen involuntarily at its acridity. Then, shaking his head, the man rubbed his eyes. His body was bare of clothing except for a pair of jockey shorts that seemed too small for his maleness bulging against the cloth.
He was extremely well built, with a thick, hairy chest, well-developed biceps, large thigh and calf muscles, and an overgrown shock of curly brown hair. His youthful face was surprisingly angular, with high cheekbones and a straight, arrogant nose. His cheeks and chin were covered by a scruffy beard that was three shades lighter than his hair. With a start, Carol realized how good-looking he was. His skin was almost as pale as an albino, except for the ruddiness of his face, and his eyes were intensely blue.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” Josh stammered, holding up two large, open hands, enormous as grappling hooks.
He was staring at her as if he had never seen a woman before. Her cheeks felt hot, and she pulled the blanket closer around her nakedness. She realized that one firm, tanned thigh protruded from the blanket, and that he was trying futilely to tear his eyes away from it.
She covered it quickly, then stammered back at him, “Who the hell are you? And for gosh sakes, put on some clothes!”
Heat rushed into her face as her breasts quivered against the covering and threatened to pop out.
He thrust out his open palms, fingers splayed wide.
“It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you! I found you unconscious in the ice.”
She turned her head away to avoid seeing his nakedness; then turned her head back toward him, making direct eye contact. She felt heat rise and scorch her face. “And I assume you undressed me?”
She pulled the blanket tighter against her breasts, felt it rub against rigid nipples, their blunt tips suddenly pointed. He evaded her eyes, nodded. His bare feet, still half dangling from the bed, shuffled aimlessly against the floor. He looked down at his rising penis and colored.
“Damn it, cover yourself!” she snapped.
Abruptly, he grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped himself in it, almost losing his balance in his haste.
Startled, she lurched backward, and the blanket slipped from her grasp. She snatched up the ends to cover herself again.
He sounded as if he was choking. “It’s OK,” he said, “I’m not going to touch you.”
“You already did!”
He wilted like a little boy who had been slapped.
The blast of anger that blazed through her faded, and she found herself growing curious.
There was something guileless, something sincere about his plea. She began to relax as she realized the ludicrousness of the situation: the bare room with a twin bed in one corner, a small metal cooking range and fridge in the other; and the fading russet glow of the fireplace. And there they stood, the two of them, practically naked and wrapped in blanket and sheet. It was absurd. She laughed loudly.
Her soprano laughter rang out clear and bright. An odd expression crossed his face. Tossing her head, she let her hair swing long and golden, glinting in the firelight. She realized that she was flaunting it, teasing him. She moistened her lips. He grunted. The sheet rippled at his crotch, as if a small creature were pushing its thick, eager head against it, seeking a way out.
“Now,” she said, “get yourself dressed properly and get me some clean, dry clothes. Please.”
His sudden smile was a bright floodlight in a dark, clouded sky.
CHAPTER FIVE
She had washed up in the bathroom and he’d heard her flip the little lock, which he could have easily broken open if he’d been the kind of man to do that. He had given her some dry things, and she was wearing a pair of his trousers and a long-sleeved plaid shirt that were both several sizes too big on her. She had managed to fold and adjust until they were manageable, but he could still see the sway of her breasts swinging freely under the material.
“Hungry?” he asked. “I made some soup.” They moved toward the table, and he pulled out the seat so she could sit down. His hand brushed her shoulder, and a burning sensation diffused throughout his body. He sat across from her, and they began sipping the hot tomato soup and munching the dry corn bread that he had served from the pantry. After she downed a second bowl of soup, he realized that she’d been famished.
“So you’re running away,” he said, after she finished explaining her solitary flight into the icy storm. Her voice was clear with the sharp articulation of the ivy school-educated. She had rolled up her sleeves, and her arms were slender and dusted with gold.
He readjusted himself in the chair and placed one of his hands in his lap to try to cover the erection starting to swell. “How far did you get before you got stuck?” His voice was faint, hoarse.
She shook her head, and wavy golden strands of hair swung from side to side. Her eyes were wide and hazel, and her slender brown eyebrows were arched slightly. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I was walking for most of the day. Half running, actually, until the storm hit. Then I got lost. Not sure I could find my way back even if I wanted to.”
“And your…husband?”
She shrugged. “I guess he must be looking for me.” Suddenly, she trembled.
He moved forward hesitantly, reached out a hand, and then stopped.
She shook her head. “He…he will never stop looking.”
He frowned, and his forehead was rough with furrows. “After that storm, there’ll be no foot prints or much else for him to track you by. And no one ever comes up here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what about you? What are you doing all alone out here in this wilderness?” Her hazel eyes had deepened to a golden brown with flecks of green.
He shrugged and evaded her glance. “I keep this cabin as a refuge from civilization. Just come out here once a year or so to get away from it all.”
“Oh. What are you then, rich?” Her eyes were slits, and the lilt in her voice was pure sarcasm. He was lying, and she knew it.
He shrugged again. “You might say that.”
“A stock broker, then?” He nodded. She nodded back, realizing the game they were playing.
“Hmm. Pretty rustic cabin.”
“Yep. I like it just fine this way.” He idly drummed his fingers on the table as she focused her eyes on her bowl, scraping it absently with her spoon to pick up the last shreds of soup.
“Do you have a vehicle? I appreciate your hospitality and all…”
“Yes, I’m sure you want to get going as soon as possible. But…” He stood up, walked over to the side wall, and then briefly opened the wooden shutters that covered the small cabin windows. The sturdy panes were frosty and plastered white with snow and ice. It was impossible to see outside. The storm had not let up, and there was no way to get out until it subsided.
“So for the moment, I guess we’re both stuck here together.” He folded his arms and pursed his lips.
“I’m resilient,” she said, folding her own arms. “If you can deal with it, so can I.”
“Well, then. I guess we’re here for the duration. There’s enough food and water, so we should be OK.” He yawned, and saw her looking at his mouth. He recognized that look. Desire.
CHAPTER SIX
Dugan knew he was shrewd rather than bright, although he had attended college a
nd even—with the help of special programs—graduated. He felt the sharp edge of lust and had a sudden urge that he was not sure he could control.
Right now, glaring out at the wall of white, gusting storm that blocked his egress, he cursed, then slammed a massive fist against the wooden table. His six foot four inch frame felt trapped inside the confined space of the low-ceilinged cabin.
When he played semi-pro ball, he had turned his anger against his opponents, hammering them until he was thrown out of the league for unsportsmanlike conduct. He still did not understand why they’d kicked him out; football was not a game for wimps or sissies. Even the military did not suit him because of their damn regimentation. He shook his head, barely kept himself from smashing the table yet again. And he had loved the job he wrangled with the L.A. Police, aided by a former football buddy. He liked being called officer, relished unleashing violent urges which were sanctioned by his shiny badge.
But the bastards had dishonorably discharged him after only eighteen months. Thinking about the injustice, the stupid complaints about his “brutality” still infuriated him. He grinned suddenly; before they discharged him, he beat the hell out of the sergeant who had instigated them all against him. Memories of the man’s frightened eyes and busted chops still brought him great satisfaction.
Nevertheless, he enjoyed his freelance work, both as bodyguard and bounty hunter, which he found quite lucrative, and where the rules were few and unenforced. This work demanded both strength and ferocity, and he knew he had both. It allowed him to support a wife as good looking as Carol. Why then had she left him? He shook his head; it didn’t make sense. Carol was innocent and used to passive and sexually immature men; Dugan knew that his aggressiveness and ferocity had actually attracted her to him, at least in the beginning.
Staring out the window, he glowered at the storm and fumed about the way his beloved wife had snuck out like a bitch, deserting him. Unconsciously he clenched his fists until his knuckles hardened like rock. He loved that she looked so Ivy League and proper but had those luscious tits and juicy buttocks that made him hot, that scorched his rising sap and which he knew needed his tending. He flashed a smile. And then, the way she got dewy-eyed and glowing whenever he thrust out his chiseled chest and flexed his arms…that admiration made him feel special; filled the emptiness inside and eased his loneliness. He remembered meeting her on the sandy beach in Malibu. He’d hit it big in Vegas and was relaxing, working out under the sun clad only in a bathing suit. Horniness swelled his crotch and he ached with desire when she wiggled by, all sunburned and oily, her curvy ass a field of dreams, a turf he’d love to plow. Then she stopped dead as if she’d never seen a real man’s body close up and sweaty. He laughed to himself, recalling how he smart-mouthed her while she gawked at his pecs, his abs, her mouth pink and open wide, as if already hot for his tongue. Then he tensed his biceps, made them swell, curling the barbell as she watched his muscles rippling. He had lain in the sun for hours until his sallow skin was richly tan and glossy the way he knew women liked it. And Carol had stared at his tawny body as if hypnotized.
And that was how it started. He sweet-talked her into a date. She stuttered like a ’tween, her skin matching the color of her cherry as he loomed over her, the spittle from his mouth a spray of heat; then, lowering his voice he flirted, flicked his hands under her skirt and drew the panties down and the blouse up. His bass tones rattled her, addled her brain. And then he did the deed, grunting and ramming his dick hard into her; and then she was no longer a virgin. That made her his, despite her parent’s harsh, repeated protestations, which only fueled her love and her resolve. He had done it with a virgin, and that made him prouder than a king.
Chortling now with recollection, despite the wall of snow that blocked his exit, he smiled, reaching for his dick. It was then he recollected that he had no place soft and moist to stick it. He missed her, missed the freewheeling sex, her passivity that allowed him to do whatever he wished, to pleasure himself with the lushness of her body until even he was exhausted.
He remembered giving her the ring, a diamond from a slick pawnshop. Then, when he saw her face was damp with tears as well as perspiration, he gentled her, stroking her hair, whispering “my darling sugarplum.” And then he rammed her hard in bed. The roses were an added touch that he was still proud of.
And during their honeymoon, she was loving it like heroin; she was a sex addict just like him. But, after a time, her feelings seemed to slip. Marriage was for keeps, forever. Didn’t she know that? He swore under his breath. Bitches he’d had before, but none like this; none had her class, her skin, her breeding. His manhood boiled and swelled his pride.
And so, he took her far up north where they’d be alone without distraction, where there’d be no one she could turn to except for him. She questioned it, but didn’t complain. And then, up where the air was cold, his dick got rigid and his body raged. The pleasure overwhelmed him, made him frenzied as he savored her, ravished her breasts, drilled down her cunt until she cried out even as he pierced her. Had he gone too far?
Though he apologized for hurting her, for the bewildering fury of his lust, her feelings for him appeared to change a lot. Bruised and weeping, she withdrew. From then on, she was passive as he humped her, even cried aloud in agony each time he stuck his dick in her. And now, she was gone.
Sitting there alone at the table, his back hunched, he curled his broad lips under his teeth as he tried hard not to grind them. He had been a grinder since grade school, despite trying fruitlessly to stop it. Anxiety over his father’s beatings, over the lessons at school he couldn’t understand, over the urges his mother throttled, had triggered the habit. The surge of rage overwhelmed him. A molar cracked as he ground down hard, then furious, he smashed a chair against the wall. A wooden leg broke off and splintered in his face, leaving a gash. Blood trickled down the stubble on his chin, but he merely scowled.
He’d had to chain her to him and lock up her cell phone. She started calling home, and he couldn’t allow it. His temper flared again. Picking up the broken chair leg, he snapped it in two. Glancing out the frosted window, he saw the storm had not abated. By the time it stopped, she might be anywhere. Perhaps she was dead, lying frozen solid in a snowdrift somewhere.
For a moment, the thought of her rotting and bleeding cheered him up. But then he realized it would mean he would never see her again; that he would never fondle her soft tits, paddle that sweet vanilla ass—
No. His thinking raged uncomfortably. She must be alive out there; she must have taken shelter. Yes, she was alive. But where? And, how would he find her?
Absently, he rubbed his palms together, as if the friction would spark a plan. His nails were long and dirty, and needed cutting. Fidgeting, he pulled out a blade, began trimming the cuticles. The Bowie was an old friend, his favorite sticker. He remembered she had taken his smartphone too, ripped him off while he was sleeping, wiped out and drugged from sex. Clever bitch. He shook his head.
Then a thought occurred to him. That stupid whore. He could track her using GPS. He was not a physicist, but he knew a little electronics, a bit about computer systems. Cell phones were two-way radios, sending and receiving. The GPS-assisted ones, like that bitch had stolen, were even more sophisticated: they could send and receive from orbital satellites. And while even GPS devices might be difficult to locate in cities crowded and dense, in the wilderness here, there was nothing to block triangulation.
Feeling good, he jerked off until he spouted like a fountain against the wall, then watched the viscous liquid trickling down like diluted custard. His mind dredged up a phrase: how sweet it is… He slammed the table with his fist.
It didn’t matter how long the storm lasted. She couldn’t hide from him as long as she had the stolen cell phone. He could find her easily. Even call her if he wanted to.
He smacked his lips loudly. Hi sweet cheeks, it’s hubby. How you been? He began laughing wildly.
No, no, that wouldn
’t do. He wouldn’t call. That would just warn her, and then she might think to ditch the phone. He would bide his time. Find her and take her fast, before she had a chance to escape. Yep, the rich Ivy League bitch thought she was clever, thought she could outsmart him; but she was not as clever as she thought—no, not as clever as he was. He would find his woman, find her and teach her manners, her proper place. Then poke it in so hard she’d love it.
No, there was no hurry, no hurry at all. He ate some cold leftover chicken straight from the bone, chewing even the skin, then washed it down with lukewarm Heineken. Yes, when he found her, he would give that piece of ass a good, sound beating; then he would fuck the hell out of her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The curtain arrangement was Carol’s idea, an image resurrected from a classic movie. Josh had jury-rigged a makeshift telescoping metal rod between two walls of the cabin. Over the rod, he hung a curtain of heavy opaque green vinyl to divide the room. She had asked him to do this and now she’d have the privacy she badly needed when she slept, disrobed, or attended to personal grooming. He agreed that she was right. The small bathroom with its clasp lock afforded some privacy, but a woman alone in a small cabin with a strange man needed safe personal space.
He had also spread out a sleeping bag he said was often used outdoors in snow. He placed the bag in the far corner of his side of the curtain, as far away from the bed as possible in the cramped quarters, and he told her that was where he planned to sleep while she was there. She pondered this, at first doubting his motives, even though he seemed sincere.
Yes, she guessed she’d be OK with him sleeping there, at least for a while. That is, unless… She blinked; and the rash, lascivious thought faded. Had her brain been poisoned by the sex with Dugan? Was his sexual promiscuity contagious? Or was she lonelier than she imagined…
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