by Dani Wyatt
“Maybe this will help you remember,” he whispers as his lips come down and press into mine.
Everything stops. For a moment, there is nothing. No sound, no time, no universe.
And then something new starts.
The kiss is soft but demanding, needy. His warm lips hold on to mine for a long moment. Not taking more than he should. His tongue sweeps out of his mouth, glancing along my lower lip, going no further.
It’s as though he’s not just tasting me, but savoring me. When he’s done, he stands back even taller. His shoulders hitch up then back, and I watch in awe as every muscle and tendon seems to turn to solid iron. Each one stands taut and stretched under his skin, as though they are spring-loaded and ready to go off.
Our eyes are locked. His hand comes to graze down the front of my neck and rest there at the base, without hesitation, as if it belongs right there. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, in a way that is possessive and yet not threatening.
The sunshine that covered us evaporates. A cloud of gray pushes in front of the yellow fireball and turns all the hues around us soft and desaturated.
My lips open. I’ve remembered my name. I’m ready to give it to him, to let him take it and hold it, but somehow the spell breaks, the magic dissipates, and the sound of horns and shouts of merriment break through the hypnotic draw of those eyes.
“I’m—” I start.
I dare to look into his eyes. His face is that of a man who needs nothing from anyone else. He is as rugged as he is refined. His left eye droops, just a bit, along with the eyebrow above. Crooked, yet perfectly so. Somehow, he is the sexiest specimen of maleness Mother Nature ever created.
I take a breath, calm my nerves and try to continue. “I’m Le—”
An arm loops around my waist and jerks me backward, nearly pulling me right off my feet.
Just then, a resounding bang comes from the demonstration area. I glance forward to see several drunken fairgoers have ignored the rope barriers and are grabbing up hammers and forged knives from the display, banging them on the hot furnace and laughing. Another miscreant grabs a sword and holds it in mock triumph over his head. The derelict crew is swinging them around, hitting the furnace and coming dangerously close to each other.
I stumble back into whoever has grabbed me, unable to regain my footing, while keeping my sight on the action in the front of the dissipating crowd. The forger’s assistant struggles to control the escalating situation, but the four men are clearly substance-impaired.
The blacksmith flips his head around to regard the commotion, then back to me. Then back to the forge again. Distress clouds his dark eyes as I find my feet and turn to see my dad’s smiling face over my shoulder.
“Come on, you,” he says, and I smell the hint of Guinness on his breath. “Time for one last parade before we have to leave. Our last one, sweetheart. Let’s enjoy it.” His voice is a strange mix of joy and melancholy.
He’s too lost in his excitement to even notice what I was doing. He clearly missed the kiss in the chaos of the parade. I want to stay, but how can I deny him? I’ll be back. I’ll come back after the parade. I will.
I nod, feeling myself being sucked into the Royal Parade with him. I can’t, I wish for just one more moment. “Just one sec,” I nearly beg, turning back to find the forger stepping forward, following me, but the chaos behind the ropes is heading for disaster. “It’s my dad,” I tell him. “I have to—”
An angry shout from his assistant rises over the other noise, and he turns from me. The parade shifts behind me, bodies pressing in all around, and the wave of humanity carries me forward with my dad beside me, a smile on his face, unaware of what he just interrupted. His hand comes down to grip mine, and his voice rises in excitement. “I’m going to miss you so much, Lela. Thank you for today. This is the perfect send-off for my little girl.”
I twist my head around, but I’m surrounded by bodies. My five feet two inches has me lost in a sea of taller fairgoers, and the forger is gone. Panic grips me.
I will never be back here. Doesn’t anyone realize? I’m going away. The letter from Dan Sullivan in my pocket says it all. My little training video impressed him. I’ve been hired. An actual job of my own, training dogs for a living. For a famous The Animal Channel celebrity. Doing the thing I love most in the world.
And all I can think is, I’m never going to see the forger again.
“Wait, Dad!” I gain my footing and strain my neck, trying to peek over the crowd.
Another earsplitting boom from the direction of the forge, and the flashes of polished silver spark above the crowd. Swords are raised into the air like some sort of medieval declaration of war. Voices from the demonstration area turn angry.
I give in, allowing my dad to pull me away and let go of the few moments of fantasy that still lay in my chest like a flower frozen in mid-bloom.
“Lela,” I whisper toward the ground, to no one in particular, as I let the momentum of the parade and my dad’s joy carry me away. “My name is Lela.”
C H A P T E R O N E
MILLER
Three Months Later
Steam clouds around me, drawing a deep breath is harder than out in the open air. My balls pull tight against my body, ready to heave, but I bite into my lower lip, wanting to last longer, to keep myself going. I need more.
I groan low, feeling the sound scratch at my throat. Releasing a sound like a cornered animal, I do my best to steady my breathing as the tingling of my orgasm starts, spreading up from my toes.
The near scalding water rushes against the center of my back as the flat of my hand plasters against the cooler glass of the shower wall. I lock my elbow, steadying myself as my other hand holds my dick. I’m stroking my erection slowly, the image of her shimmering blue eyes and open lips dancing in my fantasy.
It’s the same sort of morning I’ve had more times than I can count over the last few months. The same fight I’ve lost several times a day, either lying in bed, standing inside this glass cage... Hell, even in my fucking truck on occasion.
In the beginning, I fought the urge, but I always lost. I don’t fight anymore. I’m jerking off every fucking morning because I can’t get her out of my mind. Then at least twice during the day and God knows how many times at night.
I’ve never come so much in my life, I swear, and she’s little more than a fantasy to me. A moment in time. One quick kiss. One touch. And I’ve been lost in her ever since.
“Lela,” I moan out her name as my grip tightens around the head of my cock.
The only reason I even know her first name is because her father called to her as he dragged her away.
I squeeze the tip of my dick, counting to ten, holding back the come that threatens to spray just at the sound of her name. Even now, when I’m struggling for release, I still want it to last. The battle to hold back, to keep her in my mind just a few moments longer, wages war with the need to let myself go.
To think of where my cum belongs.
Inside her.
On her.
Cascading from her lips.
Like my badge of honor.
The soap is slick under my rough palm as I give in and start the forward and back motion again. My grip tightens. I’ve been hard at the thought of her thousands of times over the three months since I found her standing there.
Watching me.
Watch her.
I’ve learned to be careful about when and where I think of her. I mean, popping a woody my size when I’m sitting at my mom’s house for Sunday dinner would not receive Emily Post’s approval, nor does it go over well when I’m doing a demo in front of a crowd of testosterone-fueled weapons enthusiasts.
Not to mention, it’s uncomfortable as hell sporting this bad boy when there’s no time or place to relieve myself. I practically snapped my dick in half a few times already when I couldn’t get it under control fast enough.
“Fuck,” I groan, speeding up, biting the inside of my cheek
at the same time.
The fantasy playing in my head has her lush curves under me, my hands gripped tight into her sand-colored hair spread beneath as she arches upward into me. Her silver-blue eyes tell me she’s close to her own release; the look on her face hides nothing from me.
“It’s right there, Pip,” I speak out loud, pretending she’s here. “Give it to me. I need you to cum first, Lela. I need to feel it on me.”
The words rumble, low and heavy into the steam. Somewhere in the three months since I first saw those three freckles on her adorable nose, I’d started in my mind calling her Pip. It just fit and now I can’t stop.
Shutting my eyes, I draw myself up tall, tossing my head back into the hot water. My fist slams back and forth on my cock as I imagine it’s the inside of her pussy, clamping down as she cums just for me.
Always and only for me.
Oh my God I hear her words in my head.
That’s it.
Done.
With the image of her pleasure, my cock twitches, my balls draw up, and multiple spasms rock me as my orgasm erupts from some pent-up volcano deep inside me. Jets of cum spray on the wet glass wall as my breath catches in my throat and my arm shoots out, bracing myself again as the room goes dark and my body shudders.
I cum so hard my thighs shake and twitch. The thought of sending my spunk into her body makes me moan, my breath furious. Watching her face as she takes all of me, her legs as wide as she can pull them apart, giving herself to me in every way.
As soon as my breathing slows, I push out my chest and straighten up. My head falls back into the water for one last rinse, pushing the desire to go again down somewhere deep, locking it away. The light in the bathroom has warmed to a golden glow from the sunrise visible through the wall of windows across from the shower.
I reach over to twist the chrome handle until the water shuts off.
“Jesus.” I shake my head, an arc of water spraying as I step out into the warmth of the bathroom. I run a hand down my face, resting at my chin. Water clings to the coarse hair. Four days I’ve been putting off shaving, and I grip my hand tighter over my jaw, squeezing out the last of the moisture.
It’s near ninety degrees in the bathroom. I like it warm when I get out of the shower, so when I built my place, I made sure I had a separate thermostat just for this room. Standing here, looking out over the woods in the morning, this is my church.
The water drips from my body onto the steel-gray shower rug my mom bought when she decorated the place, and I shake my head again. Not so much to release more water but to try to shake her from my mind, if only for a few moments.
Not my mom. Lela.
That sunrise is a glorious thing. Out here in the middle of nowhere it’s lazy, taking its time, tipping the pines with orange as it makes its way into the sky. I turn, ready to step over to the window, not caring that I’m naked. There’s nobody out there to see anyway. But before I can truly appreciate it, I hear the whining start.
Snatching a towel from the hook on the wall, I step toward the open bathroom door which leads into my master suite.
“It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning, Little Shit. Give me a break. You were just out.” I drag the towel down my chest, dry my still hard dick, and roll my eyes. I’m tired as fuck. And I’m out of socks.
I look toward the cardboard box on the floor by the side of my bed. The first night I found her, I had to bring the box into my bedroom because when I tried to leave it in the laundry room, Little Shit yelped and cried nonstop, so I brought her in here with me around midnight and thought it would solve the problem.
But she continued to yelp and cry until I put her demanding ass in the bed with me. And every night I try again. Put her wagging ass in the box but end up with her snuggled next to me in the bed.
And not just snuggled. I’m off on the far edge of the bed holding on while she’s on her back, snoring tucked under my neck.
Now, early this morning after a quick outside break at 4:30 a.m., I put her back in the box so I could at least get my shower.
At least one of us ended up getting some sleep last night.
I should be pissed as hell. But that little vixen knows how to work those chocolate-brown eyes, and as much as I try to fight it, I’m falling for the fuzzy demon more every day. It’s a battle in my heart I know I’ve already lost.
She twists in excited circles when I come into view over the box.
Mental note: call my mother.
As cute as the little fur ball is, my mom needs to get over here and take her to her place. There is not a minute of my day or night that is not spoken for, and a puppy does not fit in.
Seriously. I called her once already and begged her to take on the mutt. The morning when I found the puppy sitting at the bottom of my driveway, looking abandoned I scooped her up and brought her to the house. What else was I going to do?
Now, it’s like a week later and the Little Shit has me on all fours cleaning up messes and wondering how such a tiny little mouth can do such damage.
Once Mom knew the dog was okay, she’d just laughed at my frustration. Said it was a sign. I needed a girl in my life.
Mom was still laughing when I hung up, cursing under my breath. The last thing I need is a woman in my life. I’ve done just fine without one thus far. If you don’t count the handful of less than successful dating episodes in my life. Because I sure don’t.
Lela.
The drumbeat of her name is relentless.
With a sigh, I walk to my closet and stuff my feet into a clean pair of jeans, grab a fresh flannel from one of the hangers, and tug my boots on in haste sans socks as Little Shit’s yelping raises the roof.
I stomp back toward the box. “I’m coming,” I half shout. “Jesus, you are fucking demanding for such a little thing.” When I get there, I reach in and scoop her up with one hand then step to my nightstand and snatch up my phone.
Looking down at the screen, there are three texts from my mom since I’ve been in the shower. She knows I won’t respond. If it’s urgent, she’ll call. She knows my hard line about texting, but she’s my mom so I give her more leeway than I would anyone else.
I groan as I grudgingly read the messages. She knows I’m an early riser, but today she’s more in my business than usual.
Mom: Don’t forget. I set up Dan Sullivan to be there at eight o’clock. Don’t get lost in your work and forget because you need the help and he’s a busy man. I love you.
Mom: Oh, and I’m not taking that puppy home with me so don’t ask again. She’s yours, your responsibility. I’m telling you, you need this. It’s good practice. For a girlfriend. Or someday, maybe a wife. If I’m lucky. Then kids. You do well keeping your plants alive. This is the next step. The universe speaks, Miller, you need to listen. You’ll figure out work won’t keep you company forever. Those knives and blades you make aren’t going to give me grandbabies. LOL
Mom: One more thing, don’t mention anything to Dan or the trainer about Norman. His dad never has gotten over me, and I know if he had the chance, he’d be right back in my bed. Can’t blame him. LOL
I cringe and shake my head, shoving my phone into my back pocket. Norman is my mom’s newest gentleman friend. Dan Sullivan is a dog trainer whose compound is in Remington, about two hours east. He’s made a brand for himself on The Animal Channel, and he’s fast becoming a household name. My mom dated his father a year or so ago, and clearly, they are still on good terms.
Fuck, I don’t even like to think about my mom in that context, but apparently, she managed to stay friends with the Sullivans after they broke up. When she was here yesterday and saw the puppy taking a leak on my rug and dragging over one of a pile of chewed up Duluth Trading socks, she got on the horn and called in a favor with Dan. Now he’s set up to come here today and help me deal with this miniature hurricane named Little Shit.
But I have a fuck-ton of work to do. I always have work to do.
I’m not complaining
, mind you. I love what I do. I more than love it.
I live it.
Twenty-four seven. Knives and blades and forging are my life. I’m a lucky man; I get to do what I love and make a damn good living at it.
When I bought these forty-three acres seven years ago, determined to build my own house and shop with my own hands, I never dreamt my hobby would turn into what it has.
More than a hobby, I suppose. An obsession. With blades. With forming them. Forging them. Creating them.
Listening to the metal sing as I work. Hearing its voice tell me what it’s to become. It’s something most people wouldn’t understand, something that develops over time.
On the log wall above my bed hang some of my first and finest creations. I started working with metal and blade forging in high school when my metal shop teacher, Mr. Greg Kraminsky, took me under his wing. I was a pain in the ass back then, even I have to admit it. How my mom put up with me, I’ll never know.
With no father around, the stereotype of angry teenager fit me well. Mom worked like a slave to keep me in a good school district and in line. Even with her two jobs, she never missed a teachers’ conference or one of my football games.
When I would go out on the field, she would always say it didn’t look fair. Me out there with all those other little boys. She must have fed me some special Wheaties or something because even as a freshman I had six inches on all the other players and the kind of bulk that grown men would envy. My size still draws eyes, along with the occasional drunken challenge which holds no appeal.
Mr. Kraminsky was also the offensive coach for the football team, and he became the first and only father figure I’ve had. He forged blades as a hobby, and before long, I was hanging around in his garage and I’d manipulated steel into my first blade. I was hooked from day one. Soon enough, it was my obsession.
Set up my first homemade forge in a shed behind a house Mom rented when I was about seventeen. It kept me out of trouble and now has turned into a nice career. My mom thinks I work too much, but what the fuck else do I have to do? She also thinks I need a wife. Or even a girlfriend. But I disagree.
