by Vivien Vale
“I’m in your fucking bedroom, come on!”
So much for not fucking rushing. I charge up the stairs, taking two, three, and finally four steps at a time, the sound of Emma’s giggling encouraging me to get there as fast as humanly possible.
I bolt to the bedroom, but I’m not fast enough. I need to be a fucking cheetah, taking twenty fucking feet or more in a single stride.
It might just be a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity before I push open the door to find Emma reclining at the bed, with fire in her eyes and a saucy smirk on her lips.
Now is the moment.
Emma squeals as I leap onto the bed, and she laughs as I kiss her eagerly.
The fire never let up, not for a second, and now it’s burning in every part of me.
Emma’s eyes have me trapped again as I massage her drenched pussy with my frenzied fingertips.
Our eyes stay locked, and I see passion, lust, desire, but also anticipation in her gaze as my cock begins to succumb to the gravity of her waiting pussy.
My hands gripping the sheet underneath us, I shift myself, gradually, feeling the moment taking hold and not letting go.
My eyes go out of focus when my cock gets close enough to feel the warmth of her pussy.
As my dick starts to make contact, Emma’s eyes roll to the back of her head. I go completely fucking blind for a second as I let out my own growl to match Emma’s own moans.
I grunt as my eyes refocus, and everything becomes crystal fucking clear.
“Ooh,” Emma groans, pleasantly surprised. “Ooh!” she says again, but this time she’s moving past surprise.
Her expression of astonishment transforms into a giant grin, and it fucking electrifies me. I push in a little more, and the whole universe starts fucking shaking around us.
Emma gasps, and my voice cracks with a moan.
I pull out and start going back in slowly, ignoring the desire trapped within me that’s been stifled and left to fester unchecked for years.
I ignore the yearning to let loose, the desire to have the wildest, most fucking unbridled, animalistic sex possible. This isn’t about me; it’s about Emma.
She moans and digs her head into the pillow. I shudder at the wave of warmth and pleasure crashing through me.
It might not be the unbridled sex I imagined, but this is all of that and more. It’s enough to quench that fire in me—in both of us.
The moment has me in its grip, and I start going faster. Emma continues to moan and grip my shoulders, digging in tightly.
I let out another grunt as the fire reignites, stronger than ever.
“More. More!” Emma demands.
I grunt, and Emma screams as the world catches fire.
She moans and quivers as her cunt squeezes around my cock. Another orgasm rocks her body as a mighty climax travels through me. I collapse in happy exhaustion at Emma’s side.
Emma
“This has been a long time coming,” I say.
Dylan’s relaxed like I could never have imagined him—hands behind his head, contented eyes looking up at nothing in particular.
“For both of us.”
I’m lying on my side, facing Dylan, and still feeling the animalistic heat in my eyes. I’m willing him to look at me with that heat, to keep connecting, even though the deed is done, for now.
It totally works. Dylan turns onto his side, and I flush as he faces me.
“Does it stay this exciting?” I ask him.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this. Us...or anyone, I guess. Making love, then just lying together. This part’s exciting, too. Is this just like, the first flush, or will it always be this good?”
Dylan lightly strokes my arm, giving me goosebumps and instilling me with warmth.
“It’s not always exciting at the start, and it’s definitely not always this good. But for us babe, it’s always going to be exciting and good. I’m fucking sure of it.”
He brings me closer to him with his arms of steel.
“And why is that?” I don’t know what I’m asking or why. I think the feeling of being cocooned in Dylan’s rugged embrace erases every care and concern in the world.
“Because there’s nobody as good or as exciting as you. I don’t think that’s going to change, so...”
“Does that mean you’re going to stick around to make sure it stays so good, so amazing, and so exciting? I think you’re part of that, too.”
He kisses me softly once but with an underlying fevered desire.
“Emma, I couldn’t imagine not sticking around for more of this, more of you…”
Dylan stops for what may be a dramatic pause, but I find myself floating off to sleep, wrapped up in those words and Dylan’s secure, devoted embrace.
I sleep like a rock, hours passing in the blink of an eye, before I reawaken and find myself still in Dylan’s arms.
His eyes have fallen shut, and he’s snoring softly, barely audible in the early morning sunlight.
Even as he sleeps, I can’t deny the real passion and warmth in his embrace.
Is this really the same Dylan I knew in New York? Sometimes, it’s hard to believe.
Physically, it’s the same man. I may not have recognized him at first, but his eyes and face had been burned into my mind, my heart, and my daydreams...even after all these years apart.
But his body...it’s better than I recall, better than I could have imagined.
Nobody else could live up to—and exceed—my expectations in that department.
No way.
But this cabin...and that feral, untamed edge.
I don’t know how much sleep I got. It couldn’t have been much, but it was high fucking quality. Feeling well-rested, I slip out of bed and walk across the cool wooden floorboards on bare feet.
I’m up now, full of energy, and it’s hardly dawn yet.
I look out the window by the bed. There’s just enough sunlight to see the man still sleeping soundly. He’s facing the spot I left, his arms hanging limply without me there to hold.
It’s unreal, like everything else these days…like this cabin.
The Dylan I know—or thought I knew—is a city boy through and through.
I don’t mean that as an insult—that can be something to brag about. I know plenty of city boy-wannabes, desperately trying keep up with and cling to the latest fashions and trends.
The Dylan Westmont who still lives in my mind, floating gracefully though the cutthroat world of Manhattan real estate, didn’t have a drop of desperation in him. That Dylan has a thorough appreciation for the upscale, the fashionable, and the refined.
That Dylan Westmont understands those things intuitively; they’re in his bones, in his soul.
The last place you’d expect to find someone like that is a cabin in the middle of nowhere, unshaven, with closets full of flannel.
I watch this present version of Dylan, slumbering like a grizzly bear in his bare, rustic bedroom, and it makes me doubt whether he was really the one who took my virginity with wild abandon.
I know it was him, but I don’t know if Dylan is still Dylan Westmont. Is this just an image he’s presenting to me, or is it something else entirely?
All those options seem hard to believe. I start wandering around the cabin as the morning grows brighter.
Dylan’s going to wake up sooner or later, and before that, I want to get some idea of who he really is now.
I just don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to do that, so I go to the bathroom.
The first thing I see, before I turn on the light, is the blade of a straight razor reflecting the tiny beam of sunlight coming through the door. Apparently, Dylan does some shaving—but where?
I had just spent the last few hours exploring every nook and cranny of his body, and I didn’t see any sign that a razor blade had even touched his skin.
The razor’s sitting by the sink next to a wooden bowl of shaving cream. Hell,
Cabin Dylan can use that to transform himself back into the Old Dylan Westmont if he wants.
That would be something. If only I can see him like that, in the flesh, maybe this will all make more sense.
Fuck, if only I can just catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest—clearly, I mean. Not covered in a forest of hair like it is now.
I can’t take my eyes off that razor and small wooden shaving bowl. That’s all it will take, just a quick couple minutes of shaving.
I wonder what Dylan will think if the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is me standing at the edge of the bed, holding up the straight razor with a big, eager grin.
Hmm... It might be better to ask him, but how will I even start to explain why I’m asking? It’d be easier to explain why it happened...after I shave him myself.
It’ll just take a minute, and I could probably get it done while he sleeps. How long will it take him to even notice?
It doesn’t matter. I want to see that tattoo; I want to see some of the Dylan I remember. I scoop up the razor and shaving bowl before I can talk myself out of it.
Dylan’s sleeping like a large, masculine log when I walk into the bedroom. He’s in the same position, on his side, which means I’ll be able to get to his chest easily.
So, this should be a breeze.
I scuttle around to my side of the bed, realizing I need to fucking get started. I look at the glob of shaving cream in the bowl. It’s undoubtedly homemade, and it’s sitting in a bowl meant for shaving soap, and I don’t have a brush...
But I need to do this now; there’s no time to run back to the bathroom to check.
I spot the set of numbers on Dylan’s chest easily. I use my fingers to lather some of the cream gently over the tattoo.
There’s a pleasant peppermint scent as I lather, and I picture Dylan growing the peppermint plants himself and distilling the leaves into essential oil for shaving cream and other purposes.
That seems to be who he is now.
The cream is no match for Dylan’s chest hair, and I’m not able to get much of a lather going. I open the straight razor, which looks sharp enough to quickly remove just a few inches of chest hair without much trouble or much shaving cream.
I gingerly angle the blade right at the top of the tattoo, and it just rests on the daunting blanket of Dylan’s chest hair. I try putting just a tiny bit of pressure on the blade, and it breaks right off the razor handle, falling onto the mattress.
Dylan’s chest hair and his awe-inspiring pecs glow in the brightening morning sunshine. That freaking razor never stood a chance.
I carry the broken razor and shaving bowl back to the bathroom, trying fruitlessly to get the blade back on its handle. I switch on the bathroom light when I get there, and the first thing I see is someone in the mirror, staring back at me.
Some...person. Her hair is a mess, her complexion looks so lifeless, and her features look so plain.
She has a gloomy look on her face, like she knows how ugly she looks without makeup.
The mirror doesn’t lie—that’s me. That’s what I look like right now, without my usual routine.
Holly crap. It really is me without makeup.
It’s like I’ve been hiding myself, and now I see why. I snap the blade back onto the handle with tears in my eyes.
I’m so ugly, and I didn’t even realize it.
I tearfully put Dylan’s shaving stuff back and bury my head in my hands, hoping never to have to look at myself again.
Dylan
Waking up on your fucking own never feels good. Even after what feels like an eternity alone in this cabin, I’ve never gotten used to it.
Feeling the warmth of the sun on my face is enjoyable as it should be for once, because I’m waking up to the awareness of the beautiful body and beautiful soul making my bed a little less big and a lot less fucking lonely.
That enjoyment dies the moment I open my eyes and see that she’s not there.
“Emma?” I ask, my arms still stupidly stretched out to her side of the bed.
Her side...the bed feels emptier than ever.
“Emma!” I call loudly, listening for any evidence that this whole thing hasn’t been the crazed dream of a lonely, isolated mind.
Last night seems like a dream now—the best damn dream I’ve ever had.
All I hear is the chirping of distant birds and the usual silence from the rest of the cabin.
Was I going fucking mad now? Had too much fucking time on my own finally taken its fucking toll?
The pillow next to mine looks like it’s been slept on, though. My heart starts beating faster when I notice the single long, blond hair on the pillow, glistening in the sun.
I’m considering whether to call Emma’s name again or to just get out of bed and find her, when I finally hear a sound drift through the room.
I lie still, concentrating. Where the fuck could she be? No sound is coming from the kitchen. And then, I hear a strange noise coming from somewhere outside my bedroom.
Given my present circumstances, there’s a lot that could be happening, and I need to deduce everything I can about the situation before I take fucking action.
It only takes a second or two for me to realize that what I’m hearing is Emma sobbing softly.
I don’t think I’ve ever leapt out of bed so fucking fast.
Waking up alone is one thing—and bad enough in a way—but waking up to the sound of Emma crying is a million times worse.
Once I’m up, I can hear Emma in the bathroom. The door’s slightly ajar. I approach slowly.
The sound of Emma bawling is too much for me to bear. I open the door, ready to do anything for her.
She’s standing in front of the sink with her back to me. Her shoulders are heaving lightly as she weeps.
“Emma?”
She turns towards me when she hears my voice. Her eyes are red and full of anguish, tears running down her face.
“Emma...”
That’s all I can say. I want to take Emma into my arms and get rid of her pain, anything to make her feel better.
I start with a gentler approach, taking a step closer and placing a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m ugly!” she exclaims before dissolving into another series of sobs, and I’m suddenly very confused.
“Emma...what?”
I give Emma a moment to gather herself, because I’m at a serious fucking loss for words.
“I-I got a good look at myself in the mirror with no makeup, and I haven’t done any of my skincare regimen for days, and this is how I look, and I’m so ugly.”
Emma wipes away a tear with the back of her hand. She looks calmer but still utterly disheartened.
“Emma, Emma, Emma...”
So far, all I’ve said today is her name. The problem now is I’m still stunned speechless.
“I can’t believe you’re serious,” I say and quickly add, “but you clearly are.”
Emma looks at me for a long moment, trying to buy into what I’m saying. It looks like she needs more convincing. I can definitely do that.
“Emma, you’re so beautiful it’s almost painful. You’re so beautiful that it defies belief. I’ve always felt that way, and I’m right.”
“No, not today you’re not.” Emma shakes her head, her eyes cast downward.
“Especially today, Emma.”
She looks at me. The sadness in her eyes is persistent, but it’s faltering. This is what she needs to hear.
“But…how?”
“What makeup do you use, Emma? Foundation? Lipstick?”
“Yeah, of course.” Emma’s eyes are cast downward again. I’m losing her. “Lots of others, too.”
“All that crap is a pale imitation. That’s my opinion, at least.”
“Dylan…what the hell does that mean?”
“Emma, when you’re excited…aroused, or when you have an orgasm, there’s this natural glow about you. It’s beautiful, Emma, and it’s all without cosmetics.�
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Emma looks at me quizzically. “I have that kind of glow?”
“Emma, after all those orgasms…how many was it?”
I see a flash of a subtle smile on her lips. “I don’t know—about a trillion, a trillion and one. It’s somewhere in that ballpark.”
“That sounds about fucking right. And after all that coming, you’ve still got that glow. In fact, you’re fucking glowing so much you look radioactive.”
Emma looks back into the mirror, and I see her eyes take in the reflection.
“I don’t know.”
Does she really not see the captivating image staring back at her? Emma turns her eyes towards me again. I see her sadness finally starting to fade.
“That glow is still there, Emma. But that doesn’t even matter. Glow or not, you’re still ridiculously beautiful. And hot.”
“Ridiculously?” Emma eyes me skeptically, with a touch of playful mockery on her face.
“It’s absolutely ridiculous how beautiful you are.”
Emma rolls her eyes slightly, but the tears are gone. She turns around to look in the mirror.
“I don’t know about ridiculous.”
“Emma, your beauty is staggering.”
“Even now?”
“Right now. And always, but especially right now.”
Emma watches me hug her from behind in the mirror, and I watch her reflection break out into a captivating smile.
“That’s a bit dramatic, Dylan Westmont, but I’ll take it.”
“Dramatic? I think I’m holding back.”
I tilt my head down over Emma’s shoulder to give her a kiss on the cheek before whispering in her ear.
“You look so fucking hot I can hardly even fucking believe it’s true.”
Emma’s blushing and beaming, as she looks down over her other shoulder.
“I’m still feeling that glow, since you mention it. But I’ve had enough looking in the mirror for now.”
“Not me. I could look at you all day.”
“Does it have to be in the mirror, or could you look at me while cooking breakfast?”
“Maybe, although I might get distracted by how fucking hot you are and end up accidentally burning down the cabin.”
