by Vivien Vale
I hear something from the other side of the room, and I turn around.
And I shriek.
And then I realize who’s there.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
I try to slow my speeding heart rate. It’s uncanny how much he looks like a fucking bear.
And yet, as he stands there in the dark, wooden doorframe, he oozes manliness and animal magnetism. I want to walk over and run my hands down his broad chest, steel abs, and tree-trunk thighs.
I can’t explain the stirring between my legs. I haven’t felt like this in a very long time...if ever.
I hope he doesn’t see the effect he has on me. Already, my cheeks are going red. I quickly drop my gaze and study the color of the wooden floor intently.
If he had devious intentions, I might just be a willing participant⸺and this annoys the fucking hell out of me.
I can’t believe I’m even thinking like this. The sooner I get out of here the better.
Dylan
I wasn’t expecting her to be standing in the kitchen.
Her high, piercing shriek nearly ruptures my fucking eardrum, sending a chill through my bones. Not even running naked through the snow would give me a chill like that.
My ears are still ringing after she stops.
Fucking hell. The girl has one powerful set of lungs and sure knows how to use them.
While most of my senses are still recovering from that shriek, my eyes are totally fucking glued to her body.
I frown, scratch my head, and try not to stare.
Really, there’s absolutely no reason to stare. Her tits, her hips and her ass are all covered, hidden by my massive red and black checkered flannel shirt.
On me, the shirt is always a little tight around the shoulders, but on Emma, the shoulders are down by her elbows. The damn thing is so big it looks like she’s wearing a fucking tent instead of one of my shirts.
As my gaze travels from the top of her head all the way down to her feet, I catch a glimpse of the black pants I gave her last night. I can’t see much of them, since the shirt nearly goes all the way down to her ankles.
If she would’ve asked me, I would’ve told her not to even bother with those pants. They’re rolled to a thick sausage at the bottom of her legs, seeing as how they’re about several miles too long for her. I have no fucking idea how she’s keeping them up around her waist.
Her feet are bare, and I can see she’s painted her toenails pink. Inwardly, I roll my eyes. Pink fucking nail polish.
At first glance, the whole picture is a bit of a sorry sight. It’s not just the clothes, either. The soot that’s still all over her hair and face isn’t helping much.
But as I stare at her, she’s still starting to look incredibly sexy. No amount of soot or ill-fitting clothes could cover that up for long.
Her puppy eyes briefly meet mine, and I see a jumble of emotions. She drops her gaze, but I keep mine on her.
I’m not quite sure what’s wrong with me, but I could stare at Emma dressed like this forever.
Briefly, I imagine her perfect tits hidden in the bulk of flannel, her pussy buried under flannel and cotton, and her curves so inaccessible and yet so close.
To my annoyance, my fucking cock is stirring. The last thing I need to add to my growing fucking pile of problems is a fucking hard-on right now.
Come on Dylan, I admonish myself. Think of something else. And stop fucking staring and undressing her with your eyes, for fuck sake.
I clear my throat.
“You’re up.” Smooth, Dylan, real nice. “Good morning.” A little better, but she’s throwing grenades at me with those gorgeous, perfect, cloudless princess-blue eyes of hers.
“How does breakfast sound?” I ask. Maybe it’s time for me to stop.
Emma’s eyes lose some of their hostility, and for a brief moment, they widen in surprise.
“Well…I can’t cook.” Emma punctuates her response by sticking her chin out defiantly. She’s clearly confused about what I’m offering.
“Lucky for you, I can,” I reply, walking over to the stove where Emma’s standing. I wrap my fingers around her shoulders and gently move her out of the way. “You can watch from over here.”
First thing’s first: I start boiling a kettle of water and put together fresh mix of tea leaves to brew. After all Emma’s been through, I’m sure she could use a hot cup of tea—and not that lukewarm crap from last night.
As the tea brews, I start getting together ingredients to cook a really good breakfast to go with it.
“You’re not one of those vegans?” I ask, unwrapping a slab of bacon to cut a few thick slices. Bacon should be thick—I could never stand the paper-thin excuse for bacon you find at the supermarket. “Or on one of those gluten-free, wheat-free, fat-free, food-free organic water diets?”
I watch as she shakes her head and the corner of her lips curl up a little. I nearly got a smile out of her.
“Eggs okay?” I ask. “They’re fresh.”
Again, Emma only nods. I’m only making breakfast, the same thing I do every damn morning, but she seems to be mesmerized by every move I make.
“Where…” Emma starts a question but stops herself after one word.
Either this ordeal has left her shaken to the core, or Emma’s changed in more ways than I’ve realized. This is not the feisty, ready-to-argue-any-point Emma I know from the past.
“I keep chickens in a coop,” I reply, assuming she was about to ask where I get fresh eggs.
I watch Emma digest this. A frown appears, and her forehead creases, making her look a bit angry. I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that wants to walk over to her and kiss those wrinkles away.
There’s no fucking way I’m going to do that, of course.
Get a grip, Dylan, I remind myself.
With one hand, I crack open the first egg and empty into a bowl in a quick, fluid movement.
“Scrambled or fried?”
I like mine scrambled, and I haven’t made eggs any other way in years, but I want to give Emma the option.
“Uh…” She’s staring at me, her lips are parted a little, and I think I can see the tip of her tongue. “Well, what, I mean…however you’re having yours,” she finally blurts out.
“Scrambled it is.”
With my trusty whisk in hand, I beat the eggs, watching the egg yolk and white in perfect harmony. I whisk vigorously, making sure enough air gets in, and they end up as light and fluffy as scrambled eggs should be.
I rummage around my pantry, finding the salt and pepper.
Next, I heat some oil for the bacon in my blackened frying pan. I can’t add the raw bacon until the oil is sizzling, or else it won’t fry properly. I wait patiently until that oil’s sizzling good and proper before adding the thick slabs I’ve cut for our breakfast.
When I turn around to grab my tongs, I notice Emma watching me intently. Our eyes meet for about a nanosecond, then she quickly drops her gaze.
Part of me is still surprised she hasn’t acknowledged who I am. She still hasn’t called me by my name, and she doesn’t really seem to recognize me at all.
I turn up the flame on the stove. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t slowly fry bacon—unless you’re trying to ruin it for some reason.
With the bacon sizzling over one burner, I pour the egg mixture into another pan and turn on the heat.
“Where...” I hear Emma start another question, and I turn to look at her. My insides tighten, and I raise an eyebrow to show I’m listening. “Where do you get your bacon? Do you kill your own pig?”
I laugh and turn my attention back to cooking.
“I traded some bear skin for bacon. If you know how to look after it, you can keep it for several weeks without a problem.”
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see her nod. She seems to be chewing on the bottom of her lip, something I’ve known her to do when she’s nervous. I wonder what she’s nervous about?
The soft egg mixture is se
tting in the pan, and I turn off the flame. The bacon will need about another sixty seconds, so I use the time to pour Emma a fresh mug of tea.
I hold the mug out to Emma.
When she takes the hot steamy mug from my hand, our skin touches for the tiniest moment, causing Emma to flinch and pull her hand away as if she’s been electrocuted.
I grimace. Typical.
Emma never liked me in the past, and it’s not going to be any different out here in the wilderness in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I glance at her, but her eyes are still downcast. She’s gone from lost puppy to frightened deer.
If things were different, I’d go over and wrap my arm around her. I’d kiss her on her neck and whisper sweet nothings in her ear to reassure her everything is going to be alright.
“Is something burning?”
Her soft question rouses me out of my daydreaming.
“Fuck,” I growl, and lift the bacon out of the pan.
I inspect it—luckily it’s not burnt, yet. The edges are tiny bit darker than I usually like, bordering on black.
Oh well. I divide the semi-burnt bacon and scrambled eggs between two plates.
“Breakfast is served,” I announce, carrying the plates to the table and setting them down.
I pull a chair out for Emma and sit across from her.
It’s difficult to focus on eating. I find myself staring at Emma as her manicured fingers handle her knife and fork as she cuts a small piece of meat. She brings it up to her mouth, and I can’t ignore the sight of her lips as they open, her tongue poking out a little as she makes room for her mouthful of food.
Emma swallows, closes her eyes, then takes another mouthful.
“This is very good,” Emma says. “Thank you.”
My mouth suddenly feels really dry, as if I’ve spent a week, or five years, in the desert with no water.
“No problem,” I mumble and take another bite of eggs.
“So, could you tell me exactly what happened again last night?”
“Fire,” I grunt.
“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.”
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 reply.
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.
