Mountain Man

by Jules Barnard

  I drink about a gallon of water and one beer. The beer was obligatory, a mudder tradition. For a minute, I worried it would make a reappearance. Turns out pushing your body to the limit, then pouring alcohol down your throat, is not a good idea.

  Cali holds out my purse. She applied eye black at some point to get into the spirit of the race. “You sure you don’t need me to stick around? Go with you to the hospital?”

  I sling my small bag across my chest and shake my head.

  “We’ll make sure she gets home,” one of my drunken teammates shouts way too loudly. None of them placed, but they drank after the race like they had.

  No way am I getting a ride from those drunken asshats, but Cali and Jaeger have plans and I don’t want to interfere. “I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

  My team and I mingle for an hour with other Alpine Mudders, basking in the glory of having trained like a Navy SEAL, or a Green Beret, or whatever this race is about. For me, it was about stepping outside my comfort zone and holding my own in a male-dominated environment.

  Nessa and her secret Buddhist wisdom. She was right. I am stronger. That strength began the moment I decided to face a fear. It snowballed, shaped me. I couldn’t face one without facing others. Which brings me to Lewis.

  He is the embodiment of all my fears—of opening up, of having my heart crushed, of trusting. I’ve jumped at every opportunity to push him away, but he’s asked me to give him a chance. He’s been there for me in ways no man has. That’s why I’ll listen to what he has to say.

  And because I love him. The person he is, the way he makes me feel—all of it.

  Off to the side, Lewis hesitantly chats with another mudder who’s unabashedly sticking her double-Ds in his face. I don’t blame the girl one bit. With caked-on mud, blue war paint, and muscles bulging from competition—really, the entire package—Lewis is a little mysterious and a lot hot. I drool in his presence; of course other women do too.

  He sips water, glancing at me every few seconds through the throng.

  My drunken teammates are celebrating in a corner. I grab more water and make my way back over.

  “It’s the girl who won!” A goofy guy wearing a green headband waylays me as I pass, slipping his arm over my shoulders. “Dude, you crushed me on one of the uphills.” He lists to the side, obviously having dabbled in free alcohol for a good while, and steers me toward the keg, in the opposite direction of Zach and the others. “What’s your—”

  Lewis grabs my good hand, leans down, and throws me over his shoulder, my purse digging into my side. “She’s with me,” he calls to the guy as he strides away.

  What the hell?

  I glance back. The guy quickly shakes it off and approaches a half-naked woman doing a body shot.

  “Hey.” I slap Lewis’s back, my gaze catching distractedly on the muscled ass carrying me away. “What are you doing, caveman?”

  “Taking you out of here.”

  I agreed to listen to him, not to be his girlfriend, though who am I kidding. It’s what I want. “What about the girl you were talking to? Sure you don’t want to see if you can get her digits?”

  “Oh, I know I can get her digits.”

  I sort of asked for that, but still. “Arrogant much?”

  “Not really. It’s the truth.”

  He wasn’t interested in the girl who cornered him. He never stopped looking for me. Rationally, I know this, but somehow this discussion has me pissed off. This is not how you go about reassuring someone that you’re committed to making it work. I wiggle on his shoulder and try to slip off.

  “Quit it, Genevieve. I could drop you.”

  “Then put me down.”

  He boosts me off like he’s going to hurl me, then catches me and walks toward the parking lot, arms braced beneath my ass. He looks me in the eye, our chests plastered together. “We’re getting your hand checked, then we’re going to talk.”

  “My hand, caveman. The legs function just fine.” I kick out a foot in demonstration.

  He snorts. “Yeah, those work too well. I need to tell you some things before you take off again.”

  “Hey, I’ve been around. It’s you who’s been distant.”

  He stops beside the passenger door of his Jeep. We’re nose to nose, so close I can see the sweat at his hairline, mud, smooth skin, dark eyes. Only then does he loosen his arms and allow me to glide slowly over every ripple and ridge of him until I touch ground. His hand supports my lower back, tucking me close as if he’d rather not let me go. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve been trying to make things right, but it’s taken time and a lot of coordinating.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I guess that’s what we’ll discuss. I step away and wobble, because if Lewis is hot from a distance, up close he’s like an inferno. “What about the guys?” I glance behind us, belatedly remembering our drunken comrades in need of a ride. Nessa had to fill in for someone today, otherwise she’d be around to take them home.

  Lewis opens my door and waits for me to enter. “All taken care of. Zach found them a sober driver.”

  Urgent care is closer than the ER, according to Lewis, so that’s where we go. My middle finger is in fact broken right below the knuckle, which makes for an attractive splint. I’ll be perpetually flipping everyone the bird for the next three weeks.

  The doctor says the bone is aligned and not a severe break. It should heal well if I keep the splint on, but it’s my right hand, so, of course, I can’t write, or work as a cocktail waitress, not that I intended to return to Blue. Drake made working there less than ideal, but I had no idea how truly dangerous.

  “Why are you driving north?” My eyes follow the casinos sweeping past. My house is in the opposite direction.

  “I thought my place would be better for talking without an audience. Is that okay?”

  I nod and look out the window, eyes unfocused. I’m scared and excited. Pretty much the two divergent emotions that grip me around Lewis. It’s a heady mix.

  We pull around the bend of a long eastbound road to Lewis’s quintessential ski lodge nestled amongst ancient boulders and forest. Beams of sunlight stream through the trees and shine off the red roof of his house. The dull sting in my chest flares, the one that’s kept me company since the night I found him here with Mira and realized she would always be a barrier between us.

  Lewis pulls the key from the ignition and we walk up to his small porch. He unlocks the front door and gestures me inside.

  I had a good view of the interior the night I came by, so there are few surprises. The only part of his house I couldn’t see was the staircase and the second level. Considering that the living room, with an oversized man-couch and a granite and pine kitchen, takes up the downstairs, there’s probably a bedroom up there. The house is an A-frame and not much else would fit.

  Lewis walks past me into the kitchen and drops his backpack on the island. The kitchen is small and the island is more of a peninsula, attached to the wall with the oven, but the materials are top quality, gray-speckled granite with knotty pine cabinets.

  He purses his masculine lips, which has me fantasizing about that part of him up close and personal. His head turns slightly to the side. He lets out a slow breath and glances down my body. “We should shower.”

  Heat blooms in my cheeks and my breathing speeds up. “Excuse me?” I choke.

  He stalks across the room and climbs the stairs, disappearing up the stairwell.

  “Lewis?”

  “Come on. Towels are up here,” he calls.

  How will taking a shower help the situation?

  The sound of a door opening comes from above, along with a shower turning on. I’m covered in dirt and I guess it would be more comfortable to shower before we talk.

  Screw it. I toss my purse on the counter and climb up after him.

  The upstairs is taken up by the largest bed I’ve ever seen, and a master bath. There’s really no place for me to go except inside his bedroom.


  Lewis pulls a plain white T-shirt from a dresser and holds it out. “Will this do? I’d give you boxers, but I’m pretty sure they’ll fall off. The shirt should hit your thighs.” His gaze lingers there and I glare at him.

  The shirt is simple and clean, but with nothing else on, it won’t cover much. I had planned on going home after the race and didn’t bring a change of clothes. “We did come here to talk, right?”

  He sets the T-shirt on the bed. “Yeah, after we clean up. The mud’s starting to itch.”

  Good point. I look down and realize I’ve tracked dirt on his clean carpet. I slip off my shoes and take the towel he hands me.

  I hold up my splint. “What about this? Do you have a tub in your bathroom? Might be better if I drape my arm over the side.” His eyebrows rise, and I realize it looks like I’m giving him the finger. My lips quirk.

  “No tub. But we could wrap it. And I could help you wash.”

  Oh I can just imagine how he’d help me. “No way.”

  That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. I may be naïve, but I’m no amateur.

  “It’s not a big deal, Gen. I’ve seen you naked.” He does a terrible job of hiding the mischievous grin that twitches the corners of his mouth.

  “You are insane if you think I’m getting naked with you.” That is a recipe for sex. I don’t have that much self-control. Okay, I have none around him.

  His grin fades. “This could work, if you try to understand how serious I am about you and give us a chance.”

  I shake my head. “Mira—”

  “I’m working on things with Mira. It’s going to be different.”

  “You’ve kept me on the outside and I can’t take that. I need a real boyfriend.”

  “You’re right, and—” He scratches his arm and dried mud flakes to the floor. “Look, let’s take a shower, then talk. You can even leave your underwear on if you want.”

  Nothing about this moment is romantic. I’m not sure taking a shower together is the safest thing, but he’s right, we’ve already seen each other naked. And I’ve already tossed safe out the window. “Fine.”

  The master bath is surprisingly large for a small upstairs, the shower taking up an entire wall with a built-in seat. Lewis reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, his bare chest mesmerizing me for a moment before I wrench my eyes away and unzip my sweatshirt. He tugs down his shorts—and goes completely naked.

  “Um?”

  He glances up. “You can stay in your panties. I’m getting clean… What? I trust you not to grope me.” He grins.

  My jaw drops, eyes narrowing to slits. So that’s how he wants to play this?

  I pull off my top, not elegantly, as my damn splint is a bulky bitch, and shimmy out of my yoga capris until I’m only in my panties and sports bra. Lewis does a good job keeping his eyes averted, until I ask for help.

  “Can you unhook my bra?” It’s a massive industrial type with a four-prong hook in the back and not at all sexy, but there are boobs underneath. I’m not shying from the challenge he just threw down.

  His eyes dip for a fraction of a second, before he schools his features and twirls his finger for me to spin around. The gesture is casual, but the hand that unhooks the clasp shakes and his thumb trails my spine for a moment before lifting. When I turn, he’s looking away adjusting the shower nozzles.

  I smirk. He can pretend all he wants, but erections don’t lie.

  I slide my panties off and add them to the pile of filthy clothes on his clean slate floor. For some reason, I have the urge to test him, which makes no sense, given I’m the one who wants to keep things platonic, at least until we’ve figured things out. But there’s something about Lewis struggling to keep his hands off me that appeals after all the times I’ve attacked him.

  He gestures for me to climb inside, his gaze not straying below my face, though there’s a tension around his eyes that didn’t exist before.

  I step into the shower and lower my head under the water, keeping my splinted hand high and out of the stream. Totally forgot to bag it, but it doesn’t matter. Lewis guides me to the side, his front to my back, and does all the work, sudsing my hair with shampoo and massaging my scalp.

  My head drops back to his chest and I close my eyes, because, Jesus, his hands feel good. The next thing I know, I’m closer than I thought, and my ass brushes his erection.

  His hands still.

  I glance back and find his eyes closed. When they open, they’re black and hooded. He starts scrubbing my scalp less gently, more urgently. He rinses out the shampoo and repeats the steps with conditioner, then does the same with his hair.

  The mud runs down the drain, but the body paint on our faces, necks, and legs is waterproof.

  Lewis grabs a green bar of soap and lathers up, watching me the entire time. My gaze follows his wide hands as he runs the soap over his chest, beneath his arms, over the ridges of his stomach, past his huge erection, and down muscled legs. He ducks under the showerhead, letting the water sluice over his wide back and shoulders, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, Your turn.

  I give myself a mental shake, because oh my God—this was a bad idea. Why did I think I could watch something like that without going into hormone overload? This is Lewis, the guy who took my frigid ass and set it on fire.

  He suds up his palms. “Close your eyes.”

  I do as he says and smooth, efficient fingers close over my cheekbones, my neck, my shoulders.

  My back goes lax.

  “Rinse your face and I’ll get the rest.”

  Oh, God, the rest.

  Holding my wounded arm out of the water, I stand under the shower nozzle. “That’s good for now,” I say. “I’ll wash again later.” I’m not sure how much more I can stand without plastering myself to him. My plan to get him to crack has backfired.

  “You’ve got paint on your arms and legs. It’ll only take a second.” He holds up the bar.

  Lewis’s self-control has proven stubbornly resilient. A part of me wants to test it further to see who cracks first, only I’m afraid that will be me. We need to talk, but suddenly this, the physical tension, seems important. Who says we can’t connect in other ways and get to the talking later? There’s no logic in this—I should avoid anything physical at all costs until we’ve hashed things out—but then, I’m not thinking with my brain.

  I nod and he starts down my arms, then up my neck. His fingers linger on my collarbone, his eyes catching mine before his wide palms glide over my breasts to the ribs beneath. My lips press together, stifling a moan.

  Lewis doesn’t seem to notice. He’s concentrating like he’s painting a masterpiece, or keeping himself contained.

  Thank God I’m not the only one.

  He lathers more soap and runs his fingers down my legs, bending on one knee. His palms run up my calves, lips taking a moment to gently brush the bandage on my leg. And then his fingers move over the backs of my thighs to my ass.

  My eyelids close and I roll my head against the tile, struggling to hold it together. It takes me a second to realize his hands have stopped. When I look down, his face is level with the apex of my legs. He’s breathing heavily, his fingers gripping my skin.

  “Gen?” His eyes meet mine. The look on his face is a silent question—Is this okay?

  “Yes,” I sigh in answer.

  He leans forward and presses his nose right between my thighs. I gasp at the same time he groans.

  He pulls my leg up and rests it on his shoulder and I brace my hand against the wall. His lips brush the spot that’s hyperaware of every move he makes, responding with an answering throb.

  I can’t believe this is me, here, doing this. I avoided oral sex and now I crave Lewis’s mouth on me.

  His wet tongue darts out and licks. I moan and flatten my good hand on his other shoulder while his tongue does some kind of acrobatics that defy logic and have me shaking. He reaches up, cups my breast, and runs the pad of his thumb over my nipple. I bu
ck, my hips grinding against his mouth. I’m moaning, grasping his hair, and so close to orgasm, mini flutters erupt. His finger enters me and I explode, shaking and crying out with release.

  Lewis groans and rubs the spot his tongue tortured until the last of the orgasm fades, his mouth trailing up my body. He eases the arm with the broken finger around his neck and lifts my thighs, pressing me into the wall. He kisses me deeply.

  I reach down and circle him with my good hand, pulling him to my entrance.

  His body tenses. “Fuck, wait—I don’t have…”

  “I’m on the pill. But you’ve been tested?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to move my hand—he’s inside me, kissing my face, my neck. “Yes.”

  After a second, he breaks from the wall with our bodies still connected and carries me to the bed, ignoring the running shower. We fall on the mattress and I gasp at the penetration from this angle.

  Lewis pauses as if wanting to make sure I’m okay, and I move my hips, urging him to get a move on.

  He sets a steady rhythm, touching my hip, my waist and breasts—everywhere he can reach—like he can’t get enough. I flatten my hand to his chest and run it up the ridges of his shoulder, over his muscular neck to cup the side of his face. He drops his head and kisses me, and all I can think is: This is real love. This is what I’ve been missing.

  His rhythm grows frantic. The muscles of his arms tense and he breaks our kiss, his face tightening. He groans, his body shaking with release.

  Lewis presses his cheek to my temple, his lips grazing my hairline. His breathing slows and he pulls me close, rolling onto his side so we’re facing each other, my head tucked beneath his.

  I shouldn’t have allowed this to happen. We need to talk, but sex after the mudder race has sapped my last reserves. I literally can’t move—can’t keep my eyes open.

  Vaguely, I sense Lewis get up and turn off the shower. Seconds later, he’s manipulating my limbs back into position, because I’m a zombie. And that’s how I fall asleep, cocooned in his arms.