Riding Wood
a sweet and smutty quickie
Abigail Graham
Vanessa Waltz
Photography by Alan Spiers
Cover art by Kevin McGrath
Edited by Beverly Horne
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Authors
Also by Abigail Graham
Also by Vanessa Waltz
Copyright © 2017 by Abigail Graham and Vanessa Waltz
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Author’s Note
Riding Wood was written by two authors who decided to join forces to give you short, steamy fun. If you’re looking to stay warm, this sticky-sweet novella will do the trick! It consists of an over-the-top alpha male and a clueless girl. Sweet & Smutty Quickies always end with a HEA. No ow/om drama. No cheating, ever. We hope you enjoy it.
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Chapter 1
Alexa
I stand in a grove of redwoods that tower over me like silent soldiers. The trees are huge, so tall I have to stare straight up to see the highest branches. They swallow all sound. The stillness wraps around me. It heals the ache radiating at the front of my brain. Hours of listening to friends bickering about the cold will do that. The cloying scent of nature saturates the air. It’s freezing, and my hands are stiff. I’m not dressed for the weather, but I need to be alone. Especially if I’m ever going to become the next Ansel Adams.
My frozen breath catches in my chest when I hear a rustle of leaves ahead. A deer head peeks around the trunk of a massive tree. Then the rest of her body follows. The doe picks through the brush, down to the gurgling water. She bends her neck to the ice-cold brook, and I carefully slide my Nikon out of the black nylon bag. Moving slowly, I pop the lens out and press the viewfinder against my eye.
So beautiful.
The doe’s soft, brown hide comes into focus as I adjust the lens. Her delicate lips touch the water and my mouth stings as I imagine how cold it must be. A pink tongue darts out, lapping. Ripples disturb the gentle stream. My finger hovers over the button. I know that she’ll probably bolt at the sound of the shutter, but I can’t help myself. It’ll be a gorgeous—
“DEER!” A lusty male voice breaks the perfect silence.
Her neck moves out of the frame.
Click.
The camera captures a blur of beige. I zoom out quickly even though she’s already crashed through the brush. She’s gone. Of course. And I’m going to kill the moron who ruined my beautiful shot.
“What the hell did you do that for?” I whirl around, locking eyes with a six-foot boy—I refuse to call him a man—dressed in a puffy black jacket.
Bryan.
This asshole hasn’t left my side this entire trip, which I have Jessie to blame for. She thinks Bryan’s the one who’ll take my v-card. Last week it was Eddie. The week before that? She tried to set me up with Frank. The guy in Spanish class. I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with getting me laid.
Bryan lets out an impish laugh, still staring after the deer. “Were you taking a picture?”
“I was. Then you ruined it.” Dumb ass, I want to add.
His smile falters as I storm past him, stuffing the camera back into my bag. “Alexa, wait up!”
Oh fuck off.
It’s not that I loathe men. I’m allergic to guys my own age. Their prodding fingers and sloppy kisses. Their inability to perform basic hygiene. A handful of disappointing sexual experiences was enough to know that I’m not interested in boys. They’re just—stupid. There’s no other word for it. The thought of handing over my virginity to a guy as dumb as a box of rocks makes my vagina want to shrivel up.
His broad hand slides over my shoulder. It’s hairless and smooth, just like his face, which is slightly rounded with baby fat. Even his teeth look baby-like. They’re so white and small. Maybe I’m brain damaged. He’s the type of guy the girls in my art classes would probably brag about fucking, but I cringe at the sound of his voice. He feels all wrong.
I step away from his touch. “What do you want?”
He blinks at my hostility, confused. “Shit, ’Lexa. I was just—”
“Annoying the hell out of me.” It’s not like me to bitch out like this, but it’s been three days of rebuffing his clumsy, not-so-subtle advances. I’m tired of it. “The whole point of this trip was to get away from campus. Lose ourselves in nature. Take some photos. Not wreck every moment of peace and quiet!”
“I’m just trying to keep you company.”
The idiot doesn’t get it. “I don’t want to be followed, damn it.”
A smarmy grin crawls across his face. “Jessie said you’d play hard to get.”
Oh God.
Let me guess. Jessie filled his head with nonsense about how I need a man in my life. “She says a lot of things.”
He utters in a stage whisper, “She said you’re a virgin.”
A horrified shock runs through me. That bitch told him? Who else did she tell?
Bryan smiles reassuringly. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s totally fine.”
It’s fine. He says it as though my virginity is a handicap. I might vomit. “Bryan. Go back to camp.”
He turns and then hesitates. “Are you coming with me?”
My God, he’s dense. “No. I’m staying behind.”
“But it’s kinda getting dark.”
I don’t care. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I don’t think I should—”
“Go away!”
Without waiting for a response, I spin around and head deeper into the forest. Rage ramps up in my chest, almost as strong as the frustration that’s been building up for months. Despite my attitude toward guys, I’ve dreamt of the man of my dreams. Bryan sure as hell isn’t him.
Unlike my friends, I know what I want to do with my life: pursue a career in photography. They’re too busy getting shit-faced at parties, smoking weed, and riding cocks like they’re on a carousel. It’s not that I’m a prude. I’ve lusted after plenty of guys. Most of them unattainable or not interested.
Unfortunately I seem to be a magnet for the boys at school. Jessie says it’s the way I dress. I look down at myself now, at the thin gray cotton stretched across my boobs, the V-neck showing off my cleavage. My face goes warm. I didn’t plan on giving Bryan an eyeful, but somewhere along the hike I got hot and tied my jacket around my waist. No matter what I do or how hard I try, I always seem to attract guys I have zero interest in.
It’s not fair. I just want my first time to be with a real man. Someone who knows what he’s doing. A man who has enough self-control to last long, and who won’t make me feel like I was made to please him.
A splitting sound makes me stop in my tracks. Heart beating wildly, I look around.
Crack.
The noise rips the air. Then I notice a sign up ahead: NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY. Curious, I place a hand on a thick redwood and peer around the trunk.
There’s a log cabin sitting just behind a thicket of branches and leaves. I admire the craftsmanship for a second before my gaze jumps toward the source of the rhythmic cracks.<
br />
My gasp hits the back of my throat when I see him.
A man—towering over six feet—wears a flannel shirt that’s unbuttoned, revealing slabs and slabs of hard muscle and a sprinkling of dark hair scattered over his powerful chest. He wears a frayed pair of Levi’s and scuffed construction boots. He grabs a log sitting on the ground, hefts the axe skyward, and then brings it down effortlessly.
I jump at the violent sound as the two pieces fall off the stump, perfectly split in the middle. He grabs the pieces—his hands are slightly dirty—and he throws them onto a stack leaning against the side of his cabin.
My jaw drops as he turns around, revealing a handsome face and scowling, dark eyes. For a second I’m paralyzed. Does he see me?
Then his gaze passes over where I’m hiding and flicks away. Pausing for a moment, he rolls the sleeves of his flannel shirt up his muscular forearms.
I can’t stop staring at him. His jaw is covered with black stubble, and I imagine for a moment what it’d feel like against my cheek. Rough, no doubt, just like those hands gripping that axe. He holds it with a casual confidence, as though it’s a part of his arm. I’ve never seen a man move like that, own the space he’s in so completely. He looks like the sort of man who’d drink me in slowly. Even though he barely looked in my direction, I felt the intensity blazing through his eyes with a clench in my chest, which is so hot I feel like fanning my neck.
God, he’s like a forest fire, radiating waves of warmth ten feet away. What would it be like to stand next to him? A blaze heats up my skin. I’ve never felt like this—at least, never from just looking at someone. My hand flies to my burning throat and my fingers graze my lips. I imagine it’s him, touching me.
Licking my lips, I glance around, hoping I can sneak closer to get a better look at him or even take a picture.
Are you crazy, Alexa? That’s creepy as hell!
I know damn well it crosses all sorts of lines to take a picture of a half-naked man on his private property, ignoring a sign that says to keep out, no less. But I can’t help but want a better look at him. I’m a moth, helpless against his flame.
I inch closer, quietly unzipping my bag and sliding my camera out as my heartbeat throbs in my throat. It nearly slips out of my grip. Then I aim it at him and pop off the lens, swearing under my breath as I zoom in to his chest. It’s beaded with a fine mist of sweat.
Like a complete perv, I ogle this poor, unsuspecting man. His face blows up. I study every line, weathered by working hard outdoors. I slip down the gorgeous hollow of his cheeks to his strong jaw, the dip just below it, the Adam’s apple just begging to be licked. Then I find his hands, searching for a wedding ring.
I nearly gasp. Nothing. How the hell is this man not married?
Swallowing hard, I zoom out to get Sexy Man in the Woods in my lens. He might not be married, but he’s definitely not single. I don’t understand how he’d survive a walk through town without a million women trying to jump his bones. For a second I consider going out there. Introducing myself like a normal person instead of creeping on him like a pervert.
The thought fills my stomach with lead. A man like him? No way he’d be interested me. I’ll take my photo, print it, and set it on my desk. And I’ll pine and my heart will ache every time I look at it. But it’ll be worth it.
Even if it’s totally inappropriate.
My hands shake. I take a deep breath as he swings the axe, admiring the way his muscles ripple. He pauses. Now’s my chance. I wind back the camera, blood rushing in my veins. My finger trembles over the button.
Click.
The snap of the shutter carries through the forest, right into perfect hearing distance of Sexy Man in the Woods, who stops at once.
“Who’s there?” he shouts in a gruff voice.
You idiot, you idiot, you idiot. I clap my hands over my mouth.
He buries his axe in the stump, searching the woods. A pair of dark, brooding eyes find me and hold me there. He sees me.
“Hi,” I whisper, my breath coming out in a white cloud.
Chapter 2
Lucas
The crack of the axe meeting wood splits the air and the two halves of the log, neatly divided, tumble to either side. There’s a good-sized pile to either side of the heavy block where I’ve been growing my woodpile. The autumn days are warm enough once you get used to it out here, but the nights are getting colder, and I’ll need a fire.
More than that, I need the work. A repetitive task to occupy my mind. Saw down the log with the chain saw, run the splitter, take the halves, the axe, and split them again. The shock of impact races up my arm. I feel the axe-head bite clean through and sink into the block. I lose myself for a brief moment.
I’ve been out on my homestead for six months now. I go days without talking to anyone. After I walked into my studio and found my now ex-wife riding her business partner, I decided I’d had enough of society. So I came out here to be with my first, truest love: oil painting.
I’ve got fifteen canvases of different sizes back in the cabin, all stretched over frames, all ready to become something. Michelangelo said he didn’t create sculptures, he just carved away the marble to reveal the beauty beneath. Painting is the same. I dip my brush in color. Use it to peel away the blank canvas to unveil the truth underneath.
I used to, anyway. I haven’t painted anything since I arrived here, haven’t even picked up my charcoals and sketched. Every time I grab a palette or taste the heavy scent of oil paint, I hear the creak of my shoes on the wood of a converted mill loft. The soft moan Shelly made when she took Leonard, co-owner of the gallery I’ve been working with exclusively for years, echoes in my head.
I try looking into the canvas to find the truth, but all I see is the stark, crystal-clear image of Leonard’s hairy balls pressed up against Shelly’s cottage-cheese ass.
Shelly was my wife. I loved her. It didn’t matter to me that she aged. I adored her flaws, the little marks around her eyes. She was the apple of my eye until I saw her fucking another man. Then she became something else entirely: puffy, saggy, and vaguely alien. I drive the axe-head home again and split the wood, as if I can cut away the grief I feel for the life I thought I’d built. I lived in a paper house.
Then I hear a soft click.
“Who’s there?” I shout, my own voice unfamiliar and raw from disuse.
My cabin is built in a narrow gully between two hills. A stream curves through it with the ease and confidence my brush once possessed as it transformed raw hue into meaning. Once in a while I’ll see a deer; a doe ran through not fifteen minutes ago, bolting like something scared her. There are coyotes here, bobcats, the occasional bear. Between keeping my food in a larder on stilts, the scent of fire, and human habitation, I am left alone by animals. Other humans have the good sense to stay in civilization where they belong.
Until this girl. If you ran down a checklist of everything I’d fall for, she’d be eleven out of ten. She’s maybe five-six, owing some to her brand-new, out-of-the-box hiking boots. She’s underdressed for the weather that came through an hour ago. She took off her jacket and tied it around her middle, and her V-neck T-shirt displays the most wonderful cleavage. Her legs are bare in too-short shorts, which show off her long, smooth legs, kissed by a light, olive tan. Long, dark hair streaked with too-bright red frames a face that is at once sultry, womanly, and youthful, still soft from innocence.
I should tell her to fuck off from my land, but my cock is as hard as the axe handle in my hands.
“Hi,” she whispers, though I see it more than hear it, a brief pursing of her soft lips, untouched by makeup.
“Did you just take my picture?” I demand.
Her voice is high and clear, changing everything it touches. My serene little valley hums with activity.
“I was taking a photo of your cabin.” She lifts her expensive camera as if to offer an excuse.
The cabin I was in front of. She was taking my picture. Splitting wood is s
weaty work. I got hot and opened my shirt. I can feel her eyes on my chest, my stomach, like an invisible finger tracing down.
I leave the axe in the block and take a few steps toward her.
She takes a halting step back, clutching her camera in front of her like a shield, and puts her foot wrong. Her heel scuffs some wet leaves, and she goes down with a yelp. The girl slides down the gentle slope, coming to a stop right at my feet.
Still grasping her camera, she looks up, blinking her big, pretty eyes. I study her look of wonder mixed with embarrassment, fear, and something else. No woman has gazed at me like that in a while. Especially not lying on the ground before me. It wakes something up.
I reach down and take the heavy black thing out of her hands. She resists for a moment and then lets go. I think she expects me to glance at the picture she took, or maybe smash it in a fury.
Instead I reach down, take her wrist, and draw her to her feet. She stumbles and bumps into me. For a half second I feel the soft weight of her breasts against my chest, and her scent floods my lungs. She washes in cheap soap, but it smells rich because it’s her. All her money went into this camera.
“Are you all right?”
“I think?” she says, distracted. Her eyes haven’t left me since she stood up.
I wish I’d shaved this morning. My once daily ritual has become biweekly unless I’m not in the mood. I’ve started to embrace it. Women shear off their hair after a bad breakup. Men grow beards.
The girl touches her own chin as if thinking about stroking mine. She leaves behind a streak of grime and flinches, glancing down at her hand.
“Damn, I’m filthy.”
I would disagree. She makes the dirt clean, even the mud in her long locks. “Try a ponytail next time. What’s your name?”
“Alexa.”
“You’re trespassing, Alexa. Can’t you read?”
Riding Wood Page 1
