Come Back to Me_A Brother's Best Friend Romance

by Vivien Vale

  I guess that makes sense—who’d go into the kitchen to hide?

  Although, this bear-man might decide he needs to bake a cake or some other shit. I mean he’s totally into self-sufficiency. Who knows, maybe pounding flour into submission is his thing?

  In my rage and inability to find Grizzly, I throw open every closed door I find. Nothing.

  What the fuck? He couldn’t have disappeared.

  After covering all of the ground floor, I hover at the bottom of the stairs.

  Would he have gone outside or upstairs?

  From where I’m standing, I can see the blizzard still raging outside. Surely, even bear-man wouldn’t go out on a day like today.

  Would he?

  Resolutely, I start on my way upstairs. If I can’t find him there, I’ll try my luck outside.

  I tackle the stairs two steps at a time. When I reach the top, there’s nothing but a small, empty hallway and two closed doors.

  Moving decisively, I open one of the doors—and immediately wish I hadn’t.

  Torn between tearing him to shreds with a tongue-lashing and getting as far the fuck away as I can, I hover where I am for what seems like an eternity—but is probably really no more than a few seconds.

  Something tugs at my insides, squeezing them until it becomes difficult to breathe. I’m not sure what’s more disturbing, seeing the mammoth size of his cock or the cream-colored cum squirting out of it—and onto him.

  His eyes are rolled upward, focused on some invisible spot on the ceiling. I follow his gaze, half-expecting to see some picture of a naked woman up there.

  As if he’s now just finally noticing my intrusion, he looks over. His right hand is still wrapped around his tree trunk-sized cock. Fucking hell, I’ve never seen anything so imposing.

  I can’t help but wonder what the fuck that would feel like inside of me.

  “How dare you just barge in on me while I’m naked in the bath, you rude, arrogant, ill-mannered brute?” I shout anyway. I’ve got my hands on my hips, and I’m shaking all over. “You deliberately came in when you knew I was…”

  My voice abruptly stops like somebody hit the pause button.

  I can’t bring myself to say it out aloud in front of him. I mean, I hardly know this beast.

  Watching me and slowly absorbing my words, he sits bolt upright. His eyes are blazing. “Look who’s talking?” His own voice is raised a little. “If you sit in a glass house, you can’t throw fucking rocks.”

  Open-mouthed, I stare at him.

  “Stones,” I correct at him. “If you live in a glass house, you shouldn’t throw stones. And even that’s not the exact…”

  “Who gives a fuck? You just walked in on me. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t know what I was doing in here!”

  He’s shouting. It’s not like I had any clue what was doing, but he does have a point—not that I’m about to admit that.

  “What? How am I supposed to know you’re in here masturbating...while thinking about me?” I yell, trying hard for my voice not to rise too much. I don’t want to appear hysterical.

  To my horror, he doesn’t immediately deny it. In fact, I think I can see the smallest trace of a dreamy look settling over his eyes.

  What a sleazy, sexy, hairy bear-man.

  I clench my fists, nearly ready to walk straight into the bedroom and punch him right between the eyes.

  But oh god—he’s such a fucking stud. I try and picture some of the men I know—men I work with, men who I see at the gym, at the club, shopping at high-end fashion boutiques. Not only do they pale in comparison, they pretty much fade into insignificance when held next to the pure, primal magnetism of Grizzly here.

  “It takes one to know one,” growls Grizzly, and I just stare at him.

  Has he always had trouble communicating, or does that come with living with the bears in the wild?

  “What?” I frown. What is he getting at?

  He rolls his eyes, and briefly I fear they might fall right out of his head if he’s not careful.

  “And let me guess, Goldilocks, you weren’t thinking about me when you were humping my bathtub.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

  I feel myself burning with shame. How dare he accuse of me of that?

  “Y-you must be joking. No, you better be! Y-you’re so full of yourself. And I wasn’t, you know, h-hu…”

  I can’t bring myself to repeat his words. I feel myself blushing deeply. If the ground were to open up right now and swallow me, I’d be mighty grateful.

  Maybe after swallowing me up, the ground could spit me out somewhere, anywhere, as long as it’s far, far away from here.

  If I don’t have to see this beastly man ever again, it won’t be soon enough.

  His bushy eyebrows rise into a perfect arch. “Oh. I see. You were thinking about one of those slimy bastards from the city in their designer suits and pretentious, thousand-dollar haircuts, right? I suppose you’re missing them, missing the attention they give you and all that crap. How many did you fuck? I bet it’s a different one every week.”

  His words cut me so deep, he might as well have stabbed me with a real sword. Making me sound like a floozy is not fair. Outrage gushes through me, and all I want to do is defend myself.

  “No.” I can’t get out anything after that one word. My eyes are stinging, and I bite my bottom lip hard to keep from bursting into tears. I’m not a little girl anymore, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of crying.

  “Don’t deny it. I bet you’re real popular back in the city.”

  “Stop!” I shriek, putting my hands to my ears. Each one of his words is inflicting more hurt than the last. I suppress a sob.

  “You know nothing about me.” I keep yelling as I’m walking towards him. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but for your information, I am not an easy target, and I don’t sleep around. Just because I’m a city girl does not mean I fuck anyone and everyone. And what’s more…what’s more is that I’m still a virgin!”

  There, I’ve told him. By now, I’m standing so close to the bed I’m almost touching it.

  He says nothing, and I don’t want him to.

  The cum is still dripping down Grizzly’s chest. I can tell by his silence that he believes me…but he might be making even more assumptions now that he knows I’m a virgin.

  It’s time to teach this grizzly-man a lesson about making assumptions.

  Without warning, I jump up on the bed and lean over his cum-covered chest. I start licking those juices right off of him, no hesitation whatsoever.

  I may be a virgin, but I’m not a complete novice.

  Grizzly says nothing, does nothing, and barely even breathes. I’m getting right into it. My hands push against his chest as my tongue does the dirty work of cleaning him up. And then I spot the tattoo.

  I’m not big on those things, but they work for some men.

  But this one…this one looks oddly familiar.

  I stop cleaning him with my tongue as suddenly as I started. I place my fingertips right over the tattoo and part the thick wilderness of chest hair to get a better look.

  The tattoo is plain and black. Digging further, I can see it’s just a series of numerals, with a couple dots.

  It looks like a date, with the day first, then the month, then the...

  Wait.

  No.

  13.09.46 x

  OMG.

  Dylan. Dylan fucking Westmont.

  My business partner—who disappeared long ago, who I just happened to be thinking about just before the fire—had the very same tattoo.

  I remember him telling me all about it. It’s his mother’s birthday, and he got it when she died of cancer years ago.

  How many years ago?

  I can’t think straight.

  How did Dylan’s tattoo end up on this hairy beast’s chest? It doesn’t make sense.

  Unless this hairy beast is Dylan.

  Is this hairy beast Dylan?

&n
bsp; I peer at him through a haze of fog, confusion, and disbelief.

  “Dylan?” I can feel my limbs starting to shake. “Dylan Westmont?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs me, pushes me out of the way, and leaps off the bed. Confused, hurt, and distraught, I watch him hastily pull up his pants before storming out of the room.

  Stunned into silence, I listen as he treads heavily down the stairs and out the front door.

  “Dylan?” I call out to the empty cabin, feeling like I’m speaking to a ghost.

  Dylan

  It’s well below freezing.

  There’s a colossal nor’easter blizzard moving into the area, and it’s just getting started—and yet I’m wandering around outside, wearing nothing but jeans and a flannel shirt that I haven’t even bothered to fucking button.

  Because right now, I’ve only got one thing on my fucking mind: the vision of Emma sitting on my lower abdomen, a leg on either side of me, licking my chest.

  It’s still sending shockwaves through me.

  Alright, there’s also something else on my mind—that bit of news she decided to deliver today.

  Emma. A virgin.

  It’s un-fucking-believable.

  To avoid getting into even more of a shouting match with her, I didn’t question the accuracy of her statement. Besides, I actually believe her.

  There’s no one here she needs to impress, and there’s no reason she wouldn’t be totally honest. There’s also no reason for her to tell me—and judging by her sudden change in attitude when she saw my tattoo, she had no fucking idea who I am until a few minutes ago.

  I shake my head. Surely, I haven’t changed so much that I’m beyond recognition?

  I’m being fucking dense. Of course I’ve changed that much.

  I suppose that since I don’t look in the mirror very often, I can be forgiven for thinking I look roughly the same as I did before I disappeared from Emma’s life.

  It actually does make sense that she blurted out that secret about her virginity, whether she knew who I was or not. I was baiting her, and she was defending herself.

  But if she expects me to just calmly discuss this with her right now, she’s on another fucking planet.

  I can’t deal with any of it right now. That might be the case for the entire time she’s here in my vicinity.

  It’s not like I can fuck her. That would be out of the question.

  Fuck, this whole nightmare is getting harder and harder to deal with.

  I shake my head. On top of everything else, talking is the last thing I want to do right now. Conversation, words, excuses, and all that other crap will have to wait.

  That’s why I needed to get out of there—and fast.

  But it still took every ounce of self-control to force myself to leave that room after feeling and seeing Emma run her tongue all over my chest.

  Ultimately, I’m going to have to forget that ever happened, because otherwise the memory is never going to leave me alone, and I will lose my fucking mind guaran-fucking-teed.

  Fuck. Why did she have to come into my room just as I finished? I mean, her fucking timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Of course, I’m sure Emma doesn’t realize what kind of effect this would all have on a man.

  Or does she?

  To even do what Emma was doing, you have to have some knowledge and some idea about the sort of thing that turns a guy on. And, of course, she knows enough to masturbate herself.

  I saw very clear evidence of that today—and that’s another memory that’ll haunt me for the foreseeable fucking future.

  It’s sure as hell haunting me right now.

  Fucking woman. Surely, she would know what effect she was having and how it would drive me right up to the brink of insanity and beyond?

  I’ve got needs, and I’ve spent my years of solitude trying to subdue, suppress, and outright deny every bit of loneliness and lust that tries to rise to the surface. For Emma to lick my chest, half-naked, in my bedroom…

  It’s like she found that highly combustible cache of stifled longing and desire, walked right up to it, and lit a fucking match.

  Fuck it. I only have myself to blame. With all the planning and work I’ve put into this—not to mention giving up my entire fucking life—this is one situation that I didn’t think through at all.

  I just didn’t see it coming, which is fucking ridiculous.

  I groan, sending a puff of vapor into the frigid evening air.

  I’m fighting everything inside me, a monstrous magnetic force that wants me to run back inside, find her, give her a good fucking spanking before fucking her from behind.

  Am I going to give in? Of fucking course not.

  There’s no way I can fuck her. My purpose is to protect her, look after her, make sure nothing bad happens to her.

  Fucking her right now would not work towards fulfilling that purpose. How could it? It would be taking advantage of her.

  This is going to be a fucking trial, but like every other challenge in my life, I’ll get through it. I’ll have to exercise utmost self-control, naturally, and I’m sure I’ll be taking plenty of long walks in the snow.

  I’ll probably have to add the occasional ice-cold shower to my routine.

  I pace through the snow, swearing under my breath.

  Damn.

  What the fuck was I thinking bringing her here?

  The answer is to that is obvious: I wasn’t thinking. When it comes to Emma, my ability to think takes a leave of absence.

  Stop it, I growl at myself. Get a fucking grip and come up with a solution. Fucking navel-gazing and self-pity won’t solve any fucking problems.

  I kick at the snow, which is already accumulating fast, and watch it fly off in different directions.

  If the blizzard wasn’t so bad, I could maybe take her somewhere else, somewhere safe, and figure out a way to make it easier for both of us.

  But there’s a blizzard, already the worst one of the season, so that’s not an option.

  Another kick unleashes another flurry of snow, and I curse some more, getting louder. Solutions. I need to come up with a fucking solution fast.

  This shouldn’t be this fucking hard for me. I mean, I was once in charge of a massive business, with massive, complex problems that involved millions of dollars.

  I know it’s fucking freezing, but I barely even fucking notice. My mind is not on the temperature.

  My mind, if you haven’t guessed, is on Emma and me, in a confined space, for who knows how many days.

  And her body is off-limits.

  The word off-limits hovers around my head. I start repeating it, a new mantra.

  Like I’m mediating. Like I’m fleeing from my heated cabin, full of earthly temptations, to try and find some inner peace in the snow.

  Those darn perky tits of hers are pushing any inner peace aside.

  Off-limits. Be strong. Fulfill your purpose. Stop thinking with your fucking dick.

  This is getting me fucking nowhere. I’m stomping with each step, compacting the snow. Right now, I’m more effective than a Sno-Cat.

  Emma. Off-limits. Together in cramped cabin.

  That kind of sums it up.

  I sigh and look skyward, as if searching for inspiration up there. There isn’t any, just a lot of fucking snow falling down.

  I’ve stomped a fair distance from the cabin by now.

  There’s a snow-covered pine in front of me. It’s not overly big, but it’s not exactly small either. The trunk is thicker than my thigh.

  I stare at the trunk, trying to decide which direction to go, like I’m Robert fucking Frost or some shit.

  I’m not going back to the cabin, so do I go left around the tree?

  Or…

  I form a fist with my right hand and punch right the fuck into that fucker.

  That’s the option I choose. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I started punching a fucking tree.

  Right hook, left hook,
right, left, faster, harder.

  There’s no pain. There’s only me, the tree, and my confusion and frustration.

  And I’m still not feeling the fucking cold, only the fire raging within me.

  My silent opponent takes the punches like any tree would. I go harder and faster until the trunk starts to shake. After one especially solid left hook, it also starts to move.

  At first, the trunk starts leaning just a tiny bit. I stop punching, and without warning, there’s a loud crack, and the trunk splits and the entire pine slopes to the left before tumbling onto its side.

  I step back and look.

  For the first time, I notice my heavy breathing and the beads of sweat rolling down my chest.

  And then I notice something else: I’m not alone.

  I begin turning around. I know it can only be Emma. If it were a bear, or some other intruder, I would have instinctively sensed the danger by now.

  “Oh, wow. Such a male way to resolve problems. Let it out on some poor, innocent tree, destroying nature instead of communicating. How mature.” She stands there, hands on her hips, her eyes blazing at me. “But then, I guess you don’t know how to do that: communicate. You never have.”

  I watch silently as Emma surveys the damage. Her eyes stay on the cracked, broken tree for a long moment before slowly moving to my bare chest. I think it’s dawning on her that seeing a dude destroy a tree with his fucking fists is not something she sees every day.

  I watch her turn on her heels and storm back toward the cabin. Heat rages through me, despite the snow all over my beard and chest.

  Eventually, I move. If I stay out here any longer, I’ll be covered from head to foot in snow—buried.

  How I’m going to fucking survive this ordeal I have no fucking idea.

  Emma

  “Dylan!” I call one more time.

  Although I’m not really calling his name, I’m just saying it.

  That’s Dylan. Grizzly is Dylan. Dylan Westmont.

  I think about his face, the face I knew, and compare it with the face now covered in a ragged beard. That’s Dylan, and now he’s gone, again—literally. He just ran out of the cabin.

  At first, I wasn’t even thinking of following him. I mean, if he’s crazy enough to go out in the snowstorm without a shirt on, that’s his problem.