I'm on day three of the extensive application process.
Fuck if I know what I'm doing. All these questions are stupid as fuck. Who cares what kind of toothpaste I use, or whether I prefer sleeping with my socks on? What does this shit have to do with finding the perfect woman for me?
I lean back in my chair and let my eyes unfocus for a minute. I've been staring at the damn computer screen for the last two hours trying to finish this up.
I can't believe I'm going through with this.
I'm not going to spend another year alone though. I won't make it through another holiday season, watching my folks gush over grandkids that I haven't given them yet, listening to Grant talk about his vacation plans with his new family, watching the way Amelia looks at him like he hung the damn moon.
I want that.
I want what my brother has and I don't want to waste any more time trying to find it on my own.
I close my eyes for a minute and think about what kind of woman Raven will find for me. What kind of woman my friends and family will find for me, actually.
She's gonna have to be ready for kids, that's for sure. I want kids yesterday. I never thought of myself as daddy material but watching my buddies from college and the way they swell with pride when their kids do something for the first time, and the way little Taylor hangs on to Grant's neck when he holds her.
Turns me to fucking mush. And I have to shrug it off and make some dumbass joke about my brother being pussy-whipped so no one sees how it tears my heart out I want it so bad.
Of course, I'm not lookin' to trade sex for babies. Hell no. I need a woman who loves cock. Who loves my cock. And not just in missionary position with the lights off either. Fuck that. I want a woman who feels beautiful in front of me, I'll make sure my woman feels beautiful in front of me. I'll make sure she knows she's worshiped every day. But she's gotta enjoy sex. In every position and in every room of the house.
That's the thought that has me forgetting about the application a little longer.
I imagine a sexy woman with a curvy body, spread out on my bed in front of me. She'll be naked and looking at me with her eyes glazed over with lust as she touches herself, begging me to take her.
Oh yeah. I don't care if she's a moaner or a screamer. I don't care if she's blonde or brunette or a redhead with all that pale skin and freckles.
That's not the shit that matters to me.
I just want someone to love, someone who loves me back. And loves having my hands on her, because I plan on putting them on her a lot.
I pull myself out of my fantasies and go back to answering the questionnaire. The sooner I get through this, the sooner I get to meet my wife.
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A Sample of:
BUSH: A Wild Romance
Full Length Stand Alone Romance
by Rocklyn Ryder
Melissa
Look, we all know there's a huge difference between fantasy and reality. Especially when it comes to sex. So girls like me, we read cheesy books and burn through batteries in the privacy of our own beds but out in the real world? We date guys that ask permission every step of the way.
Is it OK if I get your number?
Is it OK if we hang out sometime?
Is it OK if I call you?
Is it OK if I kiss you?
Is it OK if I put my hand on your ass?
Is it OK if...
You get the point.
Most guys are so terrified of making the wrong move, they won't even make eye contact. By the time you get to second base you've lost interest.
I'm not saying I want to go back to caveman days. I don't want to be scared to wear a mini skirt for fear of getting dragged into an alley but...
...shit....
I gotta wonder what it'd be like to have a man who's so fucking turned on by me that he can't help but push his luck. Not worried about going too far too fast, you know?
A man who doesn't need my permission in writing and notarized with witnesses.
What would it be like to have a real man? Getting all up in my personal space, getting me hot and bothered because he knows he gets me hot and bothered? Leaning in with a quirk on his sexy lips and growling the filthy things he wants to do to me in my ear while his unshaven jaw brushes against my cheek.
A man who doesn't need to ask my permission because he can read my body well enough to know that he can take what he wants.
And he knows exactly what he wants.
I shift uncomfortably on the bench and watch the men working around me. Ever since I landed in Alaska, I can't seem to get comfortable. There are a lot of men here.
Jeans and flannel and boots and hats. Not as many beards as I'd expected but even the clean shaven faces are masculine as fuck. The entire state reeks of testosterone. It's not doing me and my fantasy life any favors.
But it's Rogue that finally put me over the top. My pilot. The guy that I've been stuck in a tiny little cockpit with since this morning and the guy that I'm going to be stuck in a tiny cock pit with for the rest of the day.
The man exudes masculinity, he is the epitome of rugged, the poster child for wild Alaskan man.
And his name is Rogue for crying out loud! Who names their kid "Rogue?!" I saw his pilot's license. It says "ROGUE!" Rogue Masters. I couldn't make up a name like that.
He basically makes me want to rip my panties off and climb on his lap while he flies.
Did I mention the pilot part?
We are not talking major commercial airline pilot in a perfectly dry cleaned and pressed uniform. We are not talking about Top Gun fighter pilot jumpsuit-- although, gotta admit, I grew up near an Air Force base-- fighter pilots can be pretty hot.
No, we are talking about one hundred percent Alaskan bush pilot smexiness. Six foot, three inches of broad shouldered, corded muscle, wrapped in blue jeans, hunting boots, and thick flannel shirt. topped off with hair so dark it's almost black, scattered on top of his head like he basically doesn't give a fuck that he needed a haircut a month ago and a chin covered in thick stubble somewhere between "I'll shave tomorrow" and "fuck it I'm gonna let it grow." Eyes that match the glaciers I saw on our way into Anchorage and a voice so low and rough that every time he talks to me I get worried that I'm going to leave a wet spot on the seat of his plane.
Have you ever met a man that makes your entire body come alive? A man who turns you on so much that your body knows when he's standing behind you even when you didn't hear him walk up?
I know we all fantasize about a guy like that. We all want to believe that kind of animal attraction really does exist.
Let me tell you-- it exists. Because right now? I know Rogue's standing behind me. Even though I haven't heard his voice.
I can feel him. It makes my nerves light up in anticipation, like my skin is just waiting for him to touch it. My nipples get rock hard and my pussy gets wet. Embarrassingly wet. And this is how I've been feeling for hours now. It's getting uncomfortable and I swear if he doesn't get me to the cabin soon, I'm going to snap.
I keep my head down, eyes glued to the reading app on my phone, acting like I don't know he's there. I rest the hand that's holding my phone against my leg, hoping I can steady it enough that he doesn't see how bad it's shaking-- or sweating.
His breath hits my neck and at least I don't have to pretend I don't know he's there anymore. His arms drape over the back of the bench I'm sitting on, caging me between them as he casually dominates my personal space in a way that feels far too intimate. Like he just assumes it's totes cool for him to be hanging over my shoulder, breathing down the neck of my t-shirt while he...
Oh shit. I close my eyes, utterly mortified as he begins reading aloud, "licking her pussy till I wring out every drop of her orgasm, lapping at her wetness and coating my beard with her juices while her pussy clenches on my fingers..." I feel his face turn toward mine and I don't have to open my eyes to see the wry grin on his perfect lips, "shit, woman, no
wonder you're all fidgety if this is what you been reading this whole time."
My face burns with embarrassment as I feel him watch me blush and then turn back to the book in my hands, "she moans as my thick rod spears her, separating her walls and stretching her tight little cunt over my huge cock-- you're seriously reading this shit?"
Rogue phrases the question sarcastically, like he's making fun of me, but I swear his mouth just crept an inch closer to my ear and his voice turned down a notch in both volume and tone, going soft and dark as his breath tickles my skin.
"Well come on, we've got another stop to make before we get you up to Wolf Ridge and I still have to turn around and make it back in time for the game, so hop up and let's get."
His hand pats my shoulder twice and then stills on my body just long enough to burn its outline into my memory before he stands and turns.
I pick up my bag, close the reader app, and slip my phone back into my my pocket. I turn and follow him back to his plane in time to watch his denim-clad ass make a brief appearance as his flannel rides up when he reaches for a grip on the strut under the wing and steps up into his seat.
We've done this enough times now that I don't need his help anymore. Which is good, because when he picked me up this morning he had to hold my hand and show me how to get into my seat and I thought I was going to orgasm on the spot from just touching his damn hand.
Where ever we are now was our fourth stop on the way to the cabin I'll be staying in this summer.
Rogue's a bush pilot. Oh God, even his job is sexy. I've never been so grateful to be stuck in a ridiculously loud prop plane in my life. At least there's no way he can hear me moan when I watch his powerful thigh muscles work to push his perfectly toned ass into the seat in front of mine.
His plane is itty bitty. Just two seats and barely enough space for my duffle bag and all the stuff he has to deliver to a string of places he calls "towns" along the way.
I haven't seen a town since we flew out of Anchorage. The two airports before this one were nothing but long fields with a shed at one end. This one, at least, had a real building. With real bathrooms, real coffee, and a staff of a few guys that seem to mostly stand around talking shit and gawking at my boobs.
"Ready?" he's asks from the seat in front of mine as I buckle myself in, then he looks back at me over his shoulder and his eyes gesture meaningfully at my phone, "don't get too into that 'book' you're reading," he waggles his eyebrows at me, "I'll feel it in the plane if you move around too much."
I feel my face go beet read again as he adds, "And this baby doesn't have a rear view mirror so I can't watch if you start touching yourself."
He's joking, dimples appearing in his cheeks and sexy lines crinkling the corners of his eyes with his grin, but he has no idea how glad I am he doesn't have a rear view mirror.
Rogue begins our taxi down the thin strip of gravel that passes for a runway at this particular outpost of civilization and I squeeze my thighs together, hoping to avoid any telltale squirming.
Before I know it, we're in the air again. I'm getting used to the way the plane bounces on the air currents and the unbalanced feel of the wings tipping from side to side as Rogue pulls us up and finds "that sweet spot" as he calls it; the place where the plane and the air get along best.
This is my first time coming to Alaska. It's the end of May now, not too cold and the nights are still long enough to be called night but Rogue is dropping me off at a place called "Wolf Ridge" and when he saw me this morning, he double checked 3 times to to make sure he understand me right when I said I was staying all summer alone.
From up here, it's beautiful. We soar over forests and rivers, and lakes and mountains-- well, we don't really soar over all the mountains. More like we fly between them. Which is truly stunning but also more than a little scary.
After another hour in the air, the plane starts to lose altitude and I see another clear field yawning out beneath us through the windows.
"Last chance to bail," Rogue says with a grin as he waits for me to climb out, "this is the last town before I abandon you in the wilderness, you sure you wouldn't rather spend the summer in a nice hotel?"
I follow him toward the hut that serves as an airport and look around, "I'm not saying yes, but where would I find a nice hotel around here?" I ask.
Rogue uses a key to unlock the bolted door of the shed and exchanges the bag of mail he brought with him for the one hanging inside the door before locking it again.
Just like that, we're headed back to the plane. I'm not even sure why I got out.
"Isn't there supposed to be someone here?" I ask as I break into a slow jog just to keep up with Rogue's version of a casual pace.
Damn his legs are long, I think as I watch the way his steps are powerful and graceful without any effort. I also really like watching the way his shoulders move with each step, and when he's not carrying a sack of mail over one shoulder like Santa delivering presents, I like the way his arms swing at his sides.
Mmmm. He could deliver something to me, I think as I totally space out watching him. Which is how I miss the rock in the field and land on my face.
Rogue
I hear her go down behind me and know exactly what she just did so I'm not at all surprised to see her face down in the wet grass and mud when I turn around. I am surprised to see her tits plain as day through her now soaking wet t-shirt.
Mel grew up in the lower 48. She thinks cuz she's been camping in a place without toilets that makes her a rough and tumble girl. Thinks she's ready for this place.
She might do all right if she hung back in the city. She's not a total waste of tits and ass like a lot of the women I see come up here. Women looking for men, reading articles on how easy the pickins are gonna be for em. Thinkin' they're going to find themselves some burly mountain man type find happy ever after sitting by a fire all day.
Most of those girls go right back home as soon as they can. They can't hack the dark or the cold or the light or the heat-- and nobody believes me when I try to tell em that it gets hot up here in the summer-- or the mosquitoes or the wildlife...or the men.
This place ain't a couple weeks at summer camp, it's the real deal.
My thoughts are all disjointed. Have been all day. Ever since I picked her up in Juneau. It's a long fucking time to have someone else in the Cub with me. I'm just not used to so much company, that's all it is. Been telling myself that all day.
I'd be just as worried about anyone that I was tasked with dropping off in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I try not to growl my frustration as I head back to pull her off the ground.
"You OK?" I pat her down, checking for sticks or rocks or blood or whatever, making sure she didn't bust something when she went down. Not that the ground this time of year makes for a hard landing. There was still snow on the ground when I made the run last week. The air field is a swamp right now.
She's soaked to the bone and her skin is cold from the ice water she just took a dunk in but I'm not stupid enough to believe that's the reason she's shivering as I run my hands over her.
I am just about stupid enough to think I could warm her up though.
"You got spare clothes in that bag, right?" I ask as I head toward the plane, making sure she follows me before I climb in the back and grab her duffle.
Melissa pulls out a new t-shirt and a pair of clean jeans and then gives me a cold stare, "Are you going to turn around or what?" She demands as she wiggles her finger in a circular motion.
I don't believe for a minute that she'd mind if I didn't.
I almost say what I'm really thinking, then I think better of it, "OK, OK, I put my hands up in mock surrender and turn around. I'm standing on the step rail of the strut, waiting for her to hand back her bag so I can put it right where I need it in the back to keep the load balanced.
While Mel changes on the ground behind me, I stare off through the windows of the Cub into the trees on the far side of the fi
eld.
There really is a hotel here, it's about 12 miles from here in a town of about 200 people. The place gets a fair amount of tourist hunters and there's a real sweet B&B just up the road from the general store.
It'd be a better place to spend the summer than that little hut they call a cabin up at Wolf Ridge.
Mel's an oddity. I haven't quite fingered her yet... my train of thought derails as I catch movement through the window. No. Not through the window, in the window. I can see Melissa's reflection in the grimy Plexiglas and my last thought gets stuck on repeat as I watch her bend over and pull dry jeans up her thighs.
Nope. Haven't quite fingered her-- yet. My cock doesn't want me to waste any time with fingering though. I sure as hell ain't gonna stop appreciating the view, so I have to reach down and adjust myself, making sure I give the fucker room to get get completely hard. Cause I know its gonna, I've been fighting all day to keep from scaring Melissa off with the bulge in my pants. Although, after watching the way her breathing hitched back there when I was reading over her shoulder, I'm not so sure she'd be scared.
Mel's working dry jeans over her wet skin, tugging them up a set of thighs that are full and smooth. At one point she bends forward, her ass in my direction. She's wearing a thong, not one of the ones that are supposed to be sexy, but since when is a thong of any kind not sexy? I mean, there's a strip of silky hot pink fabric disappearing between her ass cheeks and then a flash of that same hot pink covering what I'm currently imagining as the prettiest little pussy I'm likely to get this close to before she straightens up and gets the jeans over her hips with a little jump.
That jump sends her tits into motion and my cock gets harder. She's still got her bra on, something thin without any padding that's completely transparent from the water as she turns to grab the dry shirt.
She's gotta know that if she doesn't take that bra off it's just gonna soak her clean shirt right through, right? Part of me hopes she doesn't think that through and she ends up with another wet t-shirt peep show.
A Real Keeper: Arranged Marriage Romance Page 10
