Mountain Man (The Smith Brothers Book 1)

by Sherilee Gray

  That didn’t mean I didn’t want to feel close to someone, to feel a connection to another human being from time to time.

  It had definitely been a while between times, though.

  When I moved to Eaglewood six months ago, I’d busied myself with work, with the small garden at the house I rented, and my hobbies. I hadn’t tried to meet anyone. I was also used to taking care of myself.

  But I could admit that having Hank do that for me felt nice.

  Really nice.

  Heat radiated from his big body, and I was plastered to his side, but it wasn’t enough. “Can you…w-will you p-put your arms around me?” I asked, teeth still chattering a little.

  He said not one thing, just grunted and unfolded his arms. I immediately took advantage and slid in closer. A shudder moved though me when I was finally surrounded with his intense warmth.

  Slowly, the heat of his body soaked in, warming me in a way that was bone deep. My eyes got heavy and my limbs relaxed. I didn’t have the strength to move away, my muscles feeling sluggish after being so tense from cold. My eyelids drifted shut.

  I’d move soon.

  3

  Birdie

  A loud, repetitive sound dragged me from my sleep, and I lay there for several seconds trying to work out what it was. A kind of whack/thump combo that made me jump every time I heard it. I sat up, shoved my hair off my face, and looked around the cabin.

  I was alone.

  Which meant the sound I heard was being made by Hank, since no one was getting on or off this mountain with the amount of snow currently outside. Pushing the covers back, I climbed out of bed and winced when my bare feet hit the worn rug by the bed. Even with the fire roaring, cold seeped through, plus my ankle was still smarting. I looked down. It was still quite swollen and bruised, but better than the day before.

  My clothes were still on the rack above the fire, and since I had no clue how to work the thing and get it down, I limped to the dresser where Hank had gotten me socks last night and pulled open the top drawer. After a quick search, I discovered sweaters, pants, thermals, hats, and gloves. The cabin was well stocked.

  There was no way I’d fit any of the pants, but I fished out a pair of thermal bottoms and tugged them on. They were way too big, so I bunched up the excess fabric, pulled my hair tie from my wrist, and secured it. Next, I dragged on a big green jumper over the shirt I’d already borrowed, followed by a pair of thick socks.

  The sweater smelled like Hank mixed with that unmistakable scent of wool. Real wool, not that synthetic stuff, and was obviously hand knitted. It was well worn, had several spots that had been patched over the years, and was snuggly and warm. I pulled on a hat and headed for the door.

  Yep, my ankle had definitely improved because I managed to slide both feet into my boots. I unhooked one of Hank’s huge jackets by the door and tugged it on. It swamped me even more than the jumper.

  I headed outside. It was snowing again. Maybe it hadn’t stopped—I had no idea—though it was lighter than last night. I headed to the outhouse, quickly did my business, and then followed the whack/thud sound to the back of the cabin.

  I found Hank.

  He was chopping wood.

  Oh my.

  My mouth went dry.

  He was wearing those outdoorsy-type pants that were cargo but also waterproof, and they fit him like a glove. He was also wearing a white thermal top with a blue and black checkered shirt over the top. Both had the sleeves rolled up revealing muscular, corded forearms. His longish hair was poking out the sides of a faded red woolen hat.

  I watched as he picked up a chunk of wood, placed it on a large stump, then swung his axe. He brought it down hard with one mighty hit, rending the wood in two like it was a twig, not a massive branch. He bent forward, picked one piece up, and flung it onto the pile he’d already chopped.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I mean I knew he was strong—he’d carried me five freaking miles—but still. The man amazed me.

  He’d just flung the second piece when his head turned my way.

  His massive frame froze for a split second, then his blue eyes moved over my body, taking in what I was wearing.

  “I, ah…wasn’t sure how to get the drying rack down to get my clothes,” I said by way of explanation.

  He didn’t answer for a couple of beats, then said. “You should go inside, out of the cold.”

  I couldn’t look away from him. If any man existed that was more masculine, more…God, manly, I would insist on seeing proof to believe it. Hank Smith was like nothing, no one, I’d ever seen before. Just looking at him made my belly feel funny and sent inappropriate thoughts shooting through my head.

  He also aroused me to the point of insanity.

  The man made me all hot and bothered. Which was crazy, especially when he could barely make himself touch me. He’d laid there last night, hands behind his head, while I wrapped myself around him like a python suffocating her next victim, trying to get warm. The man struggled to even make eye contact with me. He had been nothing but a perfect gentleman. He was no threat to me, not in any way. My freak-out when I first woke to find myself in his cabin had long gone.

  Yes, despite the way he looked and where he lived, he was more of a gentleman than any man I’d met. The last guy I’d dated had been a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He hid his true nature, only letting it show when he’d got what he wanted from me.

  Hank hid nothing. I barely knew him, but I knew that. Right then I was as isolated as anyone could be, and I felt safer than I had in a very long time.

  “Birdie?”

  I jumped. God, I was still staring at him and he was waiting for me to do or say something. His brows lifted.

  “Sorry, yes?” I felt my face heat.

  “Get out of the cold,” he said again, voice low and gruff. “I’ll be in to make breakfast soon.”

  “Right.” I forced myself to turn away and head back into the cabin. The least I could do was make him breakfast. He’d already cooked for me once, and going by what he’d told me, I doubted he’d had someone return the favor in a while.

  Hank

  I’d stayed outside for as long as I could. But the snow was falling heavier and I needed food. Birdie would, too. I walked toward the door to the cabin, and my gut tightened the same way it had last night while she’d lay almost on top of me, the lush softness of her curves pressing into me. A warm weight that had made me too hot, but craving more of her heat all at the same time.

  I’d never experienced anything like it. I wasn’t an idiot—I knew what I was feeling—I just had no clue what to do with it. A woman like Birdie would never want a man like me, and I wouldn’t know how to please her even if I worked up the balls to do something about it. Humiliation washed over me. I should know this stuff. I should know how to act around a beautiful woman, how to exercise control over my body instead of having it respond like a hormonal teenager, but I didn’t.

  I wasn’t like my brother. I hadn’t had a lot of experience.

  I’d only ever been with one woman. Roxanne lived in town, a good woman who made her money on her back and had offered herself as my nineteenth birthday present, free of charge. My grandfather had brought her out to the homestead after a visit to town for supplies.

  He’d left her with me and gone hunting.

  I remembered being excited, but feeling on some level it was wrong as well, that it wasn’t what I really wanted. My body had grown achy and hard when she stripped in front of me, like it had last night when Birdie had lay beside me. Last night, though, there’d been no feeling of wrongness.

  The episode with Roxanne had been fast. I’d rutted into her, let my body, my need to get off, control my actions. I’d felt disconnected from my mind the whole time. Then she’d screamed, and I’d felt her contracting around me, and I’d emptied myself, gasping and shaking like the inexperienced idiot I was.

  She’d laughed afterward, teased me about my lack of stamina, and patted me on
the cheek. “Maybe next time you’ll go a little longer, boy.”

  A shudder moved through me and I shoved the humiliating memory from my mind, and pushed the door open.

  The rich smell of bacon, beans, and eggs cooking hit me instantly.

  Birdie stood at the fire, stirring a pot on the hot plate. She’d worked out how to get her clothes down and had changed into a pair of leggings and a fitting thermal that hugged all her curves. She was still wearing my socks, though, and the woolly hat. Her dark hair was loose, falling down her back.

  She smiled at me. “I made breakfast.”

  “We need to go easy on supplies. The snow hasn’t let up yet. We could be stuck up here for weeks.”

  She bit her lip and glanced at the food she’d prepared. “Oh, of course. I just thought…I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t think.”

  I felt like a giant asshole. “It’s fine,” I said. I didn’t know how to act around her, and that pissed me off. I shoved off my jacket and hat and hung them by the door.

  She didn’t speak while she dished up what she’d cooked and handed me a plate. Her fingers brushed mine and a jolt shot up my arm again. Jesus Christ.

  I dragged out a seat, sat my ass down, and started eating, trying to get my body under control. I should probably talk, make conversation. What the hell would I say?

  I glanced over at her. She was in the chair across from me, her portion a lot smaller than mine, eating quietly. “Not used to company,” I muttered. I didn’t want her to feel bad, and obviously my gruff response to her cooking for me had done just that.

  She glanced up and her big brown eyes caught mine. My gut tightened.

  “When did you last have visitors?” she asked.

  My gaze dropped to her full lips, then back up. “My brother visits when I’m down at the homestead.”

  “That’s it? No one else?”

  I shook my head and shoved in another mouthful. This was another reason I didn’t like talking: people wanted to know things, personal things about you. Assumed you were abnormal if you preferred your own company.

  She lowered her knife and fork. “I don’t know how you do it. Don’t you get lonely?”

  “No.”

  We ate in silence after that, and then I went back to chopping wood. When that was done, I checked my traps. Rabbits were still fairly plentiful if you knew where to look. I could make rabbit stew tomorrow. I cleared and reset my traps—two wasn’t bad, especially with this weather—and headed back to the cabin.

  I’d stayed away all day, so I had no idea how Birdie had occupied herself. I was just counting down the days until I could get her off this mountain. I couldn’t handle this restless, achy feeling in my gut for much longer. Didn’t want to deal…shit, I didn’t even want to think about the way she affected me.

  I shoved the cabin door open and was hit with hot humid air and the smell of stew.

  In the corner, where I kept my old tin tub, a sheet had been nailed up as a privacy screen.

  “Hank?” Birdie called from behind it.

  She had a camping lamp back there with her, which meant the white sheet might hide her, but her shadow was projected on it clearly. I could see the outline of the tub, as well as her shoulders, arms, and head. She was running a cloth along her arm.

  She stilled. “Hank? Is that you?”

  I quickly cleared my tight throat. “Yeah.”

  She started moving again, if I had to guess I’d say washing her shoulders.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I desperately wanted a bath. I’ve already eaten. I heated up the stew from yesterday if you’re hungry.”

  I grunted, unable to form actual words, and forced myself to take off my boots, coat, and hat, and dish up my dinner. I took my usual seat, then realized that wasn’t such a great idea because I had an excellent view of what was going on behind that sheet.

  I couldn’t make myself move.

  I couldn’t goddamn eat.

  I sat there and watched her. Every shadowed move behind that sheet, listening to the sound of the water splashing, moving with her. My head filled with images of her bare skin, wet and glistening. Of her running a cloth over her soft, full breasts, between her thighs…

  My hand dropped to my stiff cock and I squeezed it, biting back a groan. I was about to get the hell out of there, go to the outhouse and do what I needed to do to make it go away, when she stood.

  Her naked body was outlined perfectly, every lush curve. She turned slightly.

  Fuck.

  I could make out one of her nipples. It was jutting out, a hard, tight peak. My mouth watered.

  Roxanne had had a beautiful body. She was slim and delicately curved. But it wasn’t her I thought of when I stroked myself at night alone. The faceless woman in my head was soft, wide hips, rounded belly, bottom and breasts that overflowed my hands.

  She was Birdie.

  That faceless woman now had a face to go with that beautiful curvy body, and I knew it would be her I’d see from then on. Every time I closed my eyes and stroked my cock, it would be Birdie who was letting me do dirty, wicked things to her.

  I needed to get up and leave, but the way her breasts swayed as she dried off and dressed had me mesmerized, glued to my goddamn seat, balls throbbing, cock harder than it had been in my life.

  The sheet was pulled back and I dropped my eyes to my dinner, shoved a now cold forkful into my mouth, and started chewing. My face was hot, flushed, and that pissed me the hell off.

  “Oh! You caught rabbits?” she said.

  I sucked in a breath through my nose and lifted my eyes. She was in her own pants but was wearing one of my sweaters again. “Yeah.”

  She bit her lip and that caused another gut clench. “I’ve never eaten rabbit before.”

  I grunted, my eyes dropping to her breasts without my say-so.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed another sweater? They’re just so warm and soft. They’re hand knitted?”

  “My mother knitted most of them for my dad.”

  She slid into the seat across from me. “She used to live up here?”

  “She left when Beau and I were eight.”

  Her brown eyes widened. “She left you?”

  I dipped my chin, not sure why I was sharing this stuff, but I was willing to do anything to stop the ache in my groin, and talking about my parents was sure to do that. “She left us and our dad. Didn’t like it up here. Didn’t like the solitude. Dad died a short time later. That’s when our grandfather took over raising us.”

  Her hand slid across the table and her fingers curled around my wrist. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shrugged, but couldn’t take my eyes off her hand on me. How small it was. How pale and smooth her skin was in contrast to mine.

  My heart started to pound harder.

  “Hank…”

  I shot to my feet. “I need to check on something.” I shoved on my boots, jacket, and hat and headed back out.

  I spent the next two hours stacking wood behind the cabin, until the lights dimmed inside and I knew she was in bed. I waited another fifteen minutes then went back in. She was curled up in my bed, cheek resting in her hand.

  I stripped down to my thermals and started across the floor to the makeshift bed I’d made by the fire.

  “There’s room in here,” she said sleepily. “It seems silly for you to sleep down there when there’s a perfectly good bed we can both fit in.”

  I started to shake my head, but she flicked the covers back. I glanced at her face. Her eyes were shut, and going by how relaxed her features looked, on the verge of falling asleep.

  I started for the bed, intending to drag the covers back over her and go to my own bed, but when I got there I couldn’t make myself walk away. Memories of her from the night before, how she felt beside me, her sweet curves pressed against my hard muscle, were so fresh in my mind. I craved that again, to feel her draped over me, the warmth of her body, the softness.

  I slid in beside h
er before I fully thought about what I was doing.

  Reaching over, I turned off the lamp beside the bed and stared up at the ceiling, watching light from the fire flick against the beams. I lay like that for what felt like forever. Birdie’s breathing had grown deeper and even. She was asleep. She’d moved a few minutes ago onto her back, facing me, one hand on her belly, one on the pillow by her head. The blanket had dropped a little and I could see the swells of her breasts through her top. Her knee was cocked and all I could think about was that place between her thighs. The heat of it, her scent down there, how tight I imagined she’d grip the aching length of my cock.

  Christ. It throbbed, resting hot against my stomach.

  My breathing increased in speed, my heart pounding so hard it was all I could hear. I needed relief, and though I knew it was wrong in so many ways, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding my hand inside my long johns and giving my dick a rough tug.

  My back arched, and I couldn’t stop from doing it again. I watched her sleep as I did it, her face, her breasts, her spread thighs. I imagined thrusting in and out of her, the feel of her soft curves pressed into me, her moans of pleasure.

  I wasn’t the incompetent asshole with little experience when I was in my head. In my head I knew how to please her, how to make her pussy grip me tight, how to make her wet, how to make her scream my name.

  I stroked up to the head, twisting a little, then down to the base. The bed shook slightly, and Birdie’s breasts swayed with the movement. I was lost to the sensation, to the images in my mind, the real-life vision of her beside me.

  I gripped myself harder, stroked faster…

  Something touched my arm. I jolted, my eyes shooting up to hers. They were wide, on me.

  I started to yank my hand out of my long johns, but her grip tightened around my arm and she shook her head.

  Her hand slid over my wrist, down to just above the waistband of my thermals. “Don’t stop, Hank.”

  It should be impossible, but having her eyes on me made me even harder.

  “Please,” she said.

  My fingers spasmed around my cock and I groaned. “No…I—”