by Vivien Vale
It’s a luxury that men like me were supposed to sacrifice to keep the good people back home safe.
But now, it’s been returned to me. A little gift left on my doorstep and, for once, it’s not just another flaming sack of shit.
No pillowcase soaked with sweat. No screaming.
I didn’t have any nightmares last night.
I know who I have to thank.
Avery. Sweet little Avery, too good for an old, rusted-out piece of shit like me…and somehow, against all odds, she hasn’t realized it yet. In that sense, I can’t help but feel like I’ve taken advantage.
But she wanted me. Me, of all fucking people. I gave her all the warnings. Put up all the signs. Danger: Do Not Fuck With.
And she blasted through every goddamn one of them the same way she blasted through the safety rail and over the side of this mountain.
If I wasn’t so certain that girl has a death wish, I would be admiring her pluck.
But there are plenty of other things about Avery worth admiring. Her skin, for one—like moonlight on freshly fallen snow, that fucking skin of hers. The smile that lights up her whole goddamn face, and the room she’s standing in to boot. That smile of hers is gonna blow out every light bulb in this damn cabin, it creates such a power surge. And then, there’s her laugh—that pretty little laugh, like sleigh bells on Christmas morning.
Her mouth, so soft and sweet and eager. Her neck, long and slender and too fucking delicate to be in the hands of someone so rough and dangerous as me. Her collarbones…her breasts…
I grunt as I shift my body on the mattress, rolling over to enjoy those breasts again. Like big, heavy mountains of whipped cream, those breasts of hers, with stiff little peach nipple peaks. My mouth goes wet at the thought of taking one of those nipples into my mouth again—
Then, in an instant, it goes bone dry.
She’s gone.
She’s fucking gone.
Instantly, I blame myself. It’s my own damn fault. Too rough—too desperate for her—too fucking undeserving of a woman like Avery’s presence.
I slept with an angel last night. I know it’s fucking true.
Should have known better—what the good Lord giveth, he taketh the fuck away. God punishes the man who dares try to claim something so holy.
What we had last night has changed something in me. It wasn’t just getting my dick wet, though Lord knows I’ve needed it.
It was fire. It was ice. It was fucking magic washing over me with her every kiss—an angel’s blessing, healing me over and making me whole again.
And now, it’s gone, and Avery with it.
That’s another fucking luxury. Waking up in the morning and finding the woman you spent the night with still there, curled up, sleeping soundly, and warming your bed.
Fuck’s sake. I’ve become a fanciful fucking man in the last day, haven’t I?
I didn’t come up on this mountain for luxuries. I came up here to chop firewood, stew in my fucking angst and be alone.
If it was anyone else—any other woman on any other week—I would have let her go. Chalked it up as yet another mistake in the great, ever-fucking-growing ledger of Things Jack Has Fucked Up.
But this is Avery. Headstrong, stubborn, death-wishing Avery. Smart as a whip when she wants to be, and when she doesn’t, dumb as fucking rocks.
And there’s a blizzard on. Storm of the fucking century, which I’ve already saved her pretty little ass from twice now.
I told myself I wouldn’t do it a third time.
Guess it shouldn’t surprise anyone, least of all myself, to discover that I’m a fucking liar too.
My clothes from last night are still there beside the bed where I left them, damp and humid and useless to me now. I’ve got a fresh set of coveralls down by the door, where I’m sure I can drum up an old jacket and a dry pair of gloves as well. I hook my fingers into the ankles of my boots and thunder down the stairs, naked as the day I was born (albeit with a significantly greater amount of chest hair now).
It’s only about halfway downstairs that I smell it: bacon fat, sizzling in the pan. A little burnt, maybe, but still edible. I smell farm fresh eggs scrambled into oblivion and the roasted goodness of slightly over-brewed coffee. Thick, sludgy black coffee that I know damn well will put some pep in my step and grow more hair on my balls.
Balls that are currently tightening against my thighs as I trip down the last few steps and set eyes on my angel, gorgeously clad in my flannel and frying me up a proper breakfast.
“Hey,” she says with that sweet little voice, looking up from the stove top and over her shoulder at me.
“Hey,” I say back.
I’m wearing nothing but a sense of relief and a smile. Her own smile widens to match as she takes me in.
Buck thunders past me, completely fucking ignoring me in favor of trying to get some bacon from the pan before I can eat it all up.
And when Avery orders him down off the counter, he listens.
Goddamn. My woman even has my dog whipped into shape.
I’d pinch myself if there were any way to do it a little fucking discreetly. It’s been a long time since another human being has looked at me and smiled. Particularly not one so beautiful and pure as this goddamn celestial seraph frying up bacon and eggs in my fucking kitchen.
“I thought, uh…” she says hesitantly. “Thought you might be hungry after…last night.”
Last night. Those two words hold a hell of a lot more implication for us than they ought to now. I consider going up behind her, wrapping my arms around that tiny waist of hers and holding her body against mine just to remind her how good I can make her feel.
But I’m still naked, and she’s still too damn good for me. Even after last night, the little scare she gave me this morning only drove that idea deeper into my mind.
She seems happy to see me, but anxious at the same time.
So. Are we bashful lovers, gone all fucking blushing and shy in the wake of our fresh union?
Or is she putting on an act because she’s too fucking scared to tell me, “Stop!” or “Put some fucking pants on, Jack,” or, worst of all, just a big, resounding “No!”?
I won’t have any woman of mine afraid of me, dammit.
But I don’t even know if I can call her my woman. One night between the sheets together and I already feel possessive of her. I bet whatever poor bastard she had on that wedding dress for felt the same.
I slump into a chair at the table. I built it myself, so I know it will hold me, but still—it creaks beneath my weight. She bites her lip as she slides my plate in front of me, and I can’t help myself but reach out and grab her wrist.
“Didn’t think you knew how to cook,” I find myself saying.
Christ. Can I avoid being all gruff and accusational for one goddamn minute?
Her cheeks turn pink at my words. Cutest thing in the entire fucking universe.
“I, uh…I don’t, really,” she says with an embarrassed smile, turning away.
I eye the plate she’s put in front of me. Bacon, black at the edges but nice and crunchy within. Eggs, scrambled all to hell and boasting little bits of shell…but still edible. A little eggshell wouldn’t hurt a bear in the wild. Certainly won’t hurt me.
“Looks like you know what you’re doing just fine,” I grunt.
She smiles a little like I’ve just paid her the best damn compliment she’s ever been given. For a moment, I think she’s about to raise my fingers to her lips. Kiss my knuckles in thanks.
But she doesn’t. Instead, her wrist slips out of my grasp. She leaves my fingertips wanting—as she turns back to the counter to gather her own plate, I realize I’m still reaching for her.
I have to lower my hand quickly when she turns back my way before she sees what an ass I’m making of myself.
I pick up my fork instead and dig in.
“Is it good?” she asks as I crunch away at the gritty scrambled eggs.
“The be
st,” I say, which is only a little bit of a lie—I just want to see this girl fucking smile again.
Avery puts her plate down on the table across from me, then turns to pour us two cups of coffee. I watch as she plunks two sugar cubes into hers and quickly locates the cream. Mine, she leaves sludgy and black.
She’s been paying attention to what I like. That fucking slays me, warms my heart and brings me back to life all at once.
But I don’t say that, and when she smiles at me, I realize she doesn’t need me to.
Instead, she holds up her pale, slender wrist, which now bears a bright pink welt on it. Like a slow day at show and tell.
“Bacon fat,” she explains. “I already ran it under some cold water, but—”
“Here.” I reach across the table, snatching her wrist up in my big, clumsy fingers, and pull it to my mouth.
I don’t know what I’m fucking doing. Working on instinct, mostly.
But the way she looks at me, the way she closes her eyes as I pull her wrist to my mouth, blowing cold air over the welt and then pressing it beneath my lips—
Whatever I’m doing, it fucking works.
Chapter 26
Avery
After Jack finishes the breakfast I made for him, he dips his mouth down to the plate to lick it clean.
I watch as he does it, my breath catching in my chest.
It’s not just that I’m flattered, even though, well, I am. I’ve never been complimented on much of anything beyond my beauty before—my beauty, and what a good girl I am. But being pretty never even felt like it was my own accomplishment.
The men in my family have always been powerful enough to win over the most beautiful women, and those beautiful women have passed down to me all of their beautiful woman tricks.
Dieting and genetics—that’s all anyone has ever liked about my looks. As for being a good girl…
My pussy clenches, and a shiver runs up my spine when I think of what I did with Jack last night. How he saved me—literally, in full mountain man fanfare, wrestling a bear to death with nothing but his hands and whisking me away with his steaming hot body from death’s icy cold clutches. And after…
Obviously I’m not a very good girl anymore.
Jack doesn’t seem like the kind of man to pay many compliments. Words don’t seem like his forte—no, he’s a man of action. When you come from an entire world of false words and empty compliments, it’s refreshing, honestly.
So when he dips his mouth down to the plate that my bacon and eggs occupied mere moments ago to lick it clean…well, let’s just say that there’s not really a higher compliment he could have paid me.
Jack likes my cooking.
I don’t even like my cooking
I beam down at him with pride.
But like a dog who’s been caught with its paws on the dinner table, lapping at the Christmas goose, Jack freezes as he notices my eyes on him—mouth open, tongue extended mid-lick.
“Boof!” woofs Buck, popping his paws up on the kitchen table himself. He gives Jack an offended look.
“Sorry,” Jack grunts, straightening and pushing the plate away. “Forgot myself.”
“I—I don’t mind,” I say, because in truth, the sight of his tongue is making me wet even as we speak. “You don’t need to put on any…airs or niceties or anything. I mean, it’s your house.”
But Jack is already shaking his head and wiping his lips with the checker-print cloth napkin I laid out for him to eat with. He even wipes his mouth off in a manly way. I guess it’s probably because he wants to make sure there’s no food stuck in his beard.
“Men ought to mind themselves around women,” Jack says with a rugged certainty. “I’m sure the men back home would do the same.”
Back home. The idea makes me want to roll my eyes.
“Men back home mind their manners above the dinner table,” I scoff, recalling the way Adam once pinched my thigh so hard it bruised when I used the wrong fork for the oysters. “It’s what they do beneath the table that’s not so nice.”
Jack looks at me for a long, hard minute, and I feel my cheeks slowly rise to a blush. I know this feeling well—the feeling that I’ve just said something stupid to the French ambassador’s wife and now everyone thinks I’m an idiot for not knowing how to pronounce guillotine.
But then he smiles and breathes a sharp, hard breath out of his nose. It’s the closest thing I think he has to a laugh.
“Ain’t that the truth,” he chuckles. “Come here. Let me get another look at that burn you gave yourself.”
Jack leads me to the sink by my fingertips, turning on the cold tap. I’m tentative to subject my skin to the cold again—especially after my little romp through the blizzard last night—but Jack’s gentle touch and assertive gaze convince me to cowgirl up.
I brace myself as the cold water splashes down on the burn. At first, I relive the pain of the burn all over again.
It stings, maybe even twice as much as it did when it first happened. But then the water soothes the pain, washes it away and down the drainpipe.
“Better?”
I look up at Jack, biting my lower lip, and nod.
“Good. Now, where the hell is that—”
Jack rummages through the cabinets, banging around and softly swearing until he returns to me with a little jar of salve.
“Cure-all Ouch Cream, my grandma used to call this.” Jack chuckles, unscrewing the top of the tiny mason jar. “Old family recipe—but this should help the skin heal. Keep it from scarring. You survived that car crash okay—I’d hate for a little kitchen accident to mar that pretty skin of yours.”
I wince as Jack applies the cream onto my wrist. It has the consistency of petroleum jelly, but it smells like coconut and olive oil, fragrant flowers that I don’t know the names of, and a hint of lavender.
I close my eyes, enjoying his touch. It feels like Jack is rubbing the pain right away. Greedily, I think about how I could get him to do the rest of me with it as well.
I want him to rub my whole body like he’s rubbing my wrist right now. Completely cover me in the stuff.
The moment ends just as quickly as it began. But before I can pout about it, Jack points to the countertop.
“Up you go then,” he grunts, and when I hesitate to ask him what he means, he just scoops me up and places me on the marble counter anyway. It’s a little cold beneath my bare ass, which is no longer covered by the flannel, but thankfully the rest of the kitchen is nice and warm.
So are Jack’s hands.
“Let’s get a look at you then,” he says, and I don’t miss the hooked little smile on his lips when his fingers reach for the top button of the flannel I’ve stolen from him.
“Gosh, Jack. It’s almost like you’re looking for a reason to undress me,” I say, leaning into his touch.
That makes him snort again. When our eyes meet, his dark irises are sparkling.
“Maybe I am,” Jack says, popping the shirt open with one rough tug from his fingers.
The flannel slumps away from my body and Jack takes it even further, pushing it away from my shoulders. What he uncovers is a world of purple-green bruises, scrapes, and shallow cuts—and beneath them, my body betraying my innermost desires with its pebbled nipples and sex-scented skin.
“Mmpf,” Jack grunts wordlessly, nodding as he takes me in. His fingers run down my shoulder like he’s testing something, though I can’t imagine what that something might be.
His resolve, maybe.
His ability to control himself now that he knows he can have me. Fuck me. Make me his. Anytime, anywhere.
“You’ll heal,” comes the verdict. And then, “Spread your legs, baby girl.”
I don’t have an Inner Goddess. I don’t even know what she would sound like if I did have one. But I do have a pussy—a wet, aching pussy still cum-soaked and sore from last night’s coupling.
And when Jack tells me to spread my legs, my pussy throbs so hard that my whole b
ody rocks forward.
When he calls me baby girl? That’s just icing on the cunt-cake.
I don’t move quickly enough for Jack’s liking—it’s almost as if I never do—so when I hesitate, Jack spreads my legs for me. The healing balm on his fingertips smears across one knee as he parts it from the other, exposing my sex to him—my pussy, and the dripping wetness that his words have coaxed out of it.
“Christ, Avery,” Jack breathes. He crouches down to put himself at eye-level with my cunt, resting his forearms on my knees.
He closes his eyes to take a deep breath in. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a hunger in their darkness that only serves to make me wetter. “You fucking want it, don’t you?”
“Y-yes,” I whimper, biting my lip. If it had been any other man, I might have denied it. But not with Jack. Jack sees right through me.
When Jack looks at me with those dark, glinting eyes of his, he’s staring right past my skin and into my soul.
Jack could see how bad I want him in the fucking dark.
I breathe in, bracing myself for his kiss on my sensitive lower lips, but it doesn’t come.
“Too fucking bad,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a trace of a cruel little smile coming out of that rugged, overgrown beard of his. “You’re sore, honey. I tore through you last night.” He runs his tongue across his lips, lowering his gaze with regret. “Should have been gentler. I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t have been,” I say with certainty. “You warned me. Once we started…”
“Mmpf,” Jack grunts wordlessly in agreement. “I warned you. Not that it’s ever stopped you from doing exactly what you fucking wanted before.”
For a second, I’m afraid he’s mad at me. Pissed that I listen about as well as I cook bacon—I do it, but I still end up burning myself. But then I see the softness, the amused little sparkle in his eyes, and relief washes over me.
Whatever my pussy does to Jack, at least it’s soothed his big bad mountain man temper a little bit.
Jack dips into his Secret Family Recipe salve and, to my delight, rubs it between my legs. I can feel the part of me that’s raw and sore from last night when his fingers pass over it, but the thick, oily wetness of the healing cream takes the pain away from that just like it did for my burn.
