Heart of Gold: A Mountain Man's Valentine

by Frankie Love

  “I love you,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around her, grateful that even if we haven’t always seen eye to eye, right now we do. Love is precious, and I am going to hold on to mine.

  My parents are thrilled as well, apparently, Samson pulled my father aside and asked for my hand in marriage.

  Listen, I’m a romantic at heart. I read romance novels and re-watch romantic comedies dozens of times, and make freaking wedding rings for a living. I wanted a love story. And I have one.

  “Think that’s enough small talk for me, I may be your fiancé, but I’m still a mountain man, and I need my woman all to myself.”

  My heart surges with pride as he calls himself my fiancé. I don’t think there is a better word in the English language. And so, when he takes my hand and pulls me away from the party, from the dinner and the drinks, I let him lead the way.

  In his room, with the door locked, he undresses me. One zipper, two snaps, three kisses along my neck.

  “You looked like a Valentine’s Day card today,” he tells me, whispering the words in my ear.

  I giggle, actually giggle. As if I’m a giggler. Before I met Samson I was a lot of things I’m not anymore. He has changed me.

  “Do you like Valentine’s Day?” I ask, his hand running over my hips, pulling me to him.

  “Now that I get to celebrate it with you, tomorrow, yes.”

  He drops to his knees and pulls down my panties. His mouth kisses my pussy, and my body is his. Now and forever. His strong arms wrap around my waist, and my hands run through his hair.

  “That feels so good,” I moan as his tongue finds my folds, sucking me like my body was made for him. I’m so wet, and his tongue licks me like he was made to taste me.

  He stands, cupping my breasts, pulling a nipple to his mouth and sucking it sweetly. He’s waking my body up, head to toe, and I’m in no rush. I get him now and I get him forever. Samson is mine.

  He takes off his clothes and I grin like a fool when I see his chiseled body.

  “How is it possible that you are more ripped than when I saw you last?”

  “I work with my hands.”

  “Oh yeah? You like to work with your hands?” I tease, my fingers inside the waistband of his boxers, pulling them off and then letting my fingers wrap around his long hard cock.

  “I love to work with my hands, sweetheart.”

  His fingers press against my clit as if he knows my pleasure spot.

  “Is your home nice?” I ask, my eyes fluttering closed as he touches me.

  “You’re gonna love it there. It’ll be just us, no distractions. I’ll spread your legs every day of your life, I’ll lick your pussy and make you drip.”

  “I don’t really want to drip,” I murmur. “I want to gush. I want you to make me so wet that my come gets all over your face. I want to sit on you, and I want you to eat me out like you were made to do so.”

  Samson growls in my ear, squeezing my ass and then picking me up. “How about we do that right now, baby,” he says, and I sigh out a yes.

  I push him on the bed and crawl over his perfect body, uninhibited with him, because after our emails and our heart-to-hearts and our tears and laughter—I feel so safe with him. So, I turn around, my ass in his face, sitting on his mouth, and drop my head so I can take him deep in my throat.

  I suck him, his hard cock, into my mouth, burning my throat. He’s so big and so thick, but I love the way it makes me feel when I run my tongue over his hardness. It makes me feel like a woman and makes me feel loved and beautiful.

  Samson’s tongue is deep in my pussy, licking me up and down, up and down, my clit is on fire, my juice all over him. He presses a finger inside me, moving in out, faster and faster, making me come. Making me pour. Making me gush.

  “Oh, my God, Samson, don’t stop. Don’t stop. Oh, my God,” I moan.

  He keeps finger fucking me, and I keep sucking him, cupping his balls with my hand, moving my thumb up and down the hard ridges of his length.

  “I’m so close sweetheart, I’m gonna come in your mouth.”

  “No,” I say. “I want your cock in me when you come. I want your come inside me, please.”

  He squeezes my ass, groaning as I turn around, gliding down on his thickness. Rocking over his chest, my tits bouncing. His arms wrap around my waist as I move with him inside of me. Rocking my hips as we fuck, as his come pulses within me, as my body lights up, the stars in the sky bursting.

  “Oh, my God, Ava Grace, never stop,” he groans, his string of words perfection in my ears.

  “That was magic,” I tell him, laughing. Giggling.

  “You know how it could be more magical?” he asks, his hands on my hips, his eyes on mine.

  “What,” I ask, still catching my breath, still amazed that the ring on my finger is the one I made.

  “We should get married on Valentine’s Day,” he tells me.

  “What?” I laugh. “Did you talk to my sister?”

  He shakes his head. “No, why?”

  “She said the same thing.”

  “Good. Because I want to, Ava Grace. I want to marry you tomorrow. Don’t make this mountain man wait.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “You, this hard-ass man, want to get married on the most romantic day of the year?”

  “Yes. For you? For us? Always.”

  Epilogue

  “I can’t believe I’m getting married today,” Sophia says. Our mother adjusts her veil; her bridesmaids are in their red dresses.

  “The fact that our hotel rooms weren’t lost to the fire is such luck,” my mother says.

  We all nod in agreement; it couldn’t have turned out better. Of course, the beautiful hotel is ruined, and we can’t have a wedding there, but all our clothing and personal items that were left in suitcases were salvaged.

  “I can’t believe you’re getting married, too,” Sophia says, looking at me in the mirror.

  My cousin Trudy is fixing my train, and the fact that I’m even in a white wedding gown is a miracle.

  “It’s so romantic that Samson had his mother’s wedding dress,” Esme, Samson’s housekeeper tells me. “He saved it all these years, a man who does that cannot possibly have a cold heart.”

  “I just feel so grateful that it was able to be flown here on such short notice.”

  The dress just arrived from Samson’s house in Faro. We’re having an evening wedding so that all the last-minute preparations could come together.

  “I just don’t quite understand why Samson had so many pink roses already.” Janet looks down at the pink rose bouquet in her hand.

  “He had them already,” Esme answers for me. “Because he wasn’t exactly sure how his proposal to our Ava Grace would go. There were a lot of scenarios and we were preparing for all of them. One option was to bring her back here alone. That’s what we were thinking was happening. No one planned on a fire.”

  I don’t know exactly how Samson would’ve proposed had it been just him and me here. I’m not saying I’m glad the fire happened, but somehow this all feels like it was supposed to happen. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

  “Everyone ready?” my father asks, stepping into the dressing room.

  Sophia and I nod, reaching for one another’s hands. Her dress is elegant, lined in fur just like she wanted. My dress is much more romantic. A long skirt made of soft chiffon, sleeves off the shoulder, lacy and delicate.

  “You look beautiful,” my father tells me. “Your grandpa would’ve loved to see you like this.” My father kisses my cheek and I blink back the tears thinking of Grandpa Bill and how he always believed in me.

  “I love you, daddy,” I tell him. He offers me one arm and Sophia his other arm, and then we walk down to the great room, where our double wedding is about to begin.

  The ceremony is small and intimate, the way Sophia wanted it, and I know that Samson prefers it this way too.

  Me? I don’t care. All I care about is the fact that I am standing before my
husband, slipping a ring on his finger, promising our forevers to one another. Sophia and Taylor have just finished their vows. Now it’s our turn.

  The officiate guides us, and I hold on to every word, every syllable. Binding the promises to my heart.

  “I do,” he says.

  “I do,” I say.

  Samson kisses me, on my lips, tenderly. He kisses me and all I want to do is sink into him. But before I can, music plays. The first notes of the song send shockwaves through my body.

  I pull back in surprise.

  “Is this—?” I ask, my eyes widening, a smile spread across my face.

  “You and me, we’re living on a prayer, sweetheart,” Samson says. He picks me up and then carries me down our makeshift aisle.

  We have a long way to go. I’ve never been to his home; we’ve never lived life together. In the words of JBJ, take my hand and we’ll make it, I swear.

  We’re already halfway there.

  I wrap my arms around my mountain man, grinning like a fool, hopelessly in love with my husband and his heart of gold.

  ❤️❤️❤️

  JOIN FRANKIE LOVE’S

  MAILING LIST

  AND NEVER MISS A RELEASE!

  Ohh … and for more fun, be sure to join

  Frankie’s Reader Group

  on Facebook

  for access to exclusive giveaways and contests!

  Kinky Resolutions and other New Year’s Disasters

  By Frankie Love

  Chapter One

  NYE 2016

  This is so typical. So freaking typical.

  How many times will I let Bridget drag me out of my apartment before I learn my lesson?

  She may be my best friend but she doesn’t care if I’m having fun. I’m in a bathroom while she’s making out with strangers at a swinger’s club.

  Except this isn’t even a swinger’s club. It’s a ... I don’t know what. And the lame truth is ... I wish I did. I wish I wasn’t so freaking uncomfortable with all this sex stuff.

  I may not be a virgin, but I am certainly sexually repressed for a twenty-three-year-old.

  Tomorrow marks a new year. That means a NEW GRACIE. That means it’s time I start living the life I’ve always been too scared to try. That means––

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Hello? Are you talking to yourself in there? Open the door. I gotta drop a load.”

  I pull open the door, not even a little embarrassed that I may have been talking to myself. Mostly because I’ve drunk half a bottle of Prosecco -- in like twelve minutes. And secondly, because I am not the person who should be embarrassed in this scenario.

  I squeeze past the guy in head-to-toe pleather. Orange pleather. I’d ask where he bought it because I am legitimately curious but I’m scared he’s gonna eat my face off. Because he’s clearly tripping on something more hardcore than an eleven-dollar bottle of bubbly.

  “Excuse me,” I say, wincing as I move, scared of getting jabbed by what is a serious boner. Like a ridiculously raging hard-on. He must see my wide eyes because he laughs loudly.

  “You like that, sugar? Don’t worry, I’ll be looking for you later.”

  He closes the door and I run for Bridget. This party is too much. And I’m not being judgmental. Instead of furniture, there is a pile of mattresses on the living room floor. And a whole lotta naked.

  Bridget is wearing nothing but a bodysuit. The kind I wore as a kid in the eighties but that have oddly made a comeback this year. And her long flowing hair swishes past her shoulders giving her the air of a fun-loving-flower-child.

  I’m jealous. Straight up. Because she is so comfortable just putting it all out there.

  But I am also a little horrified with this place she has dragged me to.

  “Where’s your skirt?” I ask, pulling her away from a girl who has her arms snaked around my bestie. “And what are you doing? Were you just making out with that girl?”

  “Stop it, Gracie. Just free yourself.” Bridget sways to the music. Which would be fine except that there is no music playing.

  Which is kind of creepy. Why is there no music at this party? Can it even be called a party?

  I look around, the room is dark and hazy, a disco ball spins but all it offers in terms of lighting is a twinkling glow to an otherwise dizzy space.

  There may not be music, but there are all sorts of noises.

  Sex noises.

  “Just have fun,” Bridget begs, grinding her ass against the random man who has come up and wrapped his arms around her. And this guy is not the pleather guy. This guy is full on naked. But his boner? Let’s just say it’s equally at attention. “Listen,” she says, “You’re always so wound up, Gracie ... tonight let it all go.”

  I want to tell her that is exactly what I want ... but just with a few more boundaries. Like knowing the name of the person who is groping you.

  “Whose party is this?” I ask, putting my hands on both her shoulders, trying to steady her as a stranger basically tries to ass-fuck her in front of me.

  It’s all very confusing.

  When I’d shown up at Bridget’s an hour ago, in a little black dress, she’d been oddly evasive about the locale of this shindig, but now I need details.

  Also, I need a bar. A loud bar with pop music, full of semi-drunk guys who might be okay with kissing the most average of average girls when the ball drops. A nice, maybe even open-mouthed kiss. A kiss that just says HAPPY FREAKING NEW YEAR. That’s it. That’s all I want right now.

  Not this sex party.

  “Is this an orgy?” I whisper in horror.

  “That word is so 2012, Gracie,” Bridget says, lowering the straps of her leotard until her perky little boobs are right up in my face.

  She may be my BFF, but this is getting way too personal.

  “I gotta go.”

  “But we’re just about to start the New Year’s Daisy Chain,” the naked-ass-man says as if that is something I should know about. “You don’t want to miss that, love.”

  My jaw drops, I don’t even know what a daisy chain is, exactly, I just know the I don’t want my flower petals plucked by any of these people.

  “This is a whole new low, Bridget,” I hiss in her ear. “Add this to the list of reasons I don’t go out with you.”

  “What’s new? All you do is make lists and notes, Gracie. Stop recording everything that happens around you and start living.”

  I roll my eyes, stepping away from her.

  “That isn’t nice. I like my notes. It makes my life--”

  “Oh, Gracie,” Bridget tsk-tsks me in pity, her eyes half closed as the man cups her breasts right in front of me. Like I’m not even there. Or maybe that’s the point. I am here. “Your life is vanilla but maybe it’s time you got some double fudge.”

  Not knowing if that’s another sex thing, I just grunt in disgust and walk away.

  Bridget may be my best friend, but she is not the person I want to take sex advice from.

  It’s barely 11 pm, I’ve got my shoes in my hand and my little black dress is as tidy as it was at home; I am more than ready to get out of here. I couldn’t muster the courage to go to a bar solo, so instead I’m unlocking my apartment door to greet 2017 all by my lonesome.

  I’m not looking for a pity-party.

  I’m mostly pissed at myself. I should have known going out with Bridget on New Year’s Eve would be asking for trouble.

  Why couldn’t I just have done a few shots and loosened up and not been so freaking uptight?

  The girls who play it safe may finish first in the books, but their lives are also boring.

  I’m speaking from experience. Obviously.

  Maybe this is the wake-up call I need. Maybe in 2017 I won’t be the same girl I am today.

  As I struggle to get the key in the door, someone’s hot breath is on my neck. And in my ear. Causing all my lady parts to basically seize because I know this move. There is only one human being on the planet that ca
n pull that off without coming across as a creeper.

  My across-the-hall neighbor Cooper. Cooper with his golden eyes and dark auburn hair, all wavy and long. Cooper with his perpetual stubble and his slow, mid-west accent.

  Cooper with his mouth so close to my skin.

  He blows another perfect puff into my outer ear.

  I moan inwardly because how can something so cliché feel so freaking good?

  Cooper loves to sneak up on me – well, anyone, I’m not flattering myself here – and blow warm air in their ear.

  It is pretty much the best pick-up line I’ve ever not heard.

  It gets me wet in like twelve seconds which is saying something considering I’m not your typical vibrator-stashing, dildo-collecting, virginal heroine you read about in romance novels.

  Nope. I may read those books, but I am just an average girl who has had marginally better than vanilla sex with at least one guy.

  My pussy works, sure, but it doesn’t get “dripping wet” every time a bad boy walks into my bedroom. I may devour those books in lieu of writing my research paper for my women’s studies graduate degree... but the truth is, no mafia-motorcycle-gang ex-con is knocking on my door.

  Though Cooper being here is better than those alpha-holes. Because Cooper is real.

  But let’s not get confused – Cooper is one of those alpha-holes. He’s the prototype and carbon copy all rolled into one.

  “Hey Coop,” I say, turning to face him, holding my keys at eye level. Well, my eye level. Cooper is 6’4”, with a chip on his shoulder and hands that know what they are doing.

  Literally. I mean, he’s a catcher for the Yankees.

  “Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, what are you doing home at this hour?” He’s in a black suit, the tie undone, his hair falling in his eyes. A bottle of champagne in his hand.

  And a woman standing behind him. A woman that may very well be sugary sweet but is also basically wearing lingerie, stiletto heels, and can be summed up as platinum blonde perfection.