This time, the cabin smells like wood smoke and spices and mango body lotion. I keep sucking in greedy lungfuls, hungry for the scent of home, and for that subtle extra hint of Jana.
Jana.
Yeah, there’s no beating around the bush. There’s one obvious change that’s toppled me into my dreamlike haze.
My gorgeous, prickly fiance. Christ, I can’t get enough.
“Hey,” she mutters every morning as she slips out of bed, the covers rustling against her legs. Jana avoids my eye, even though by the time she’s up and at ‘em, I’m always wide awake and sitting upright on the sofa.
Watching her. Contemplating. Trying to figure out how not to waste this shot. If Jana finds it weird that she wakes up every morning to find me watching her sleep, she hasn’t said anything yet. She just shuffles that peachy little ass to the edge of the bed, waves at me without looking, then stomps her cranky way to the bathroom.
Next comes the shower. The creaking handle as she turns it on; the groan of pipes. Then the drumming of hot water as steam seeps beneath the door, laced with the coconut scent of Jana’s shampoo.
A clatter echoes from the bathroom. My fiance always drops the shampoo bottle, without fail, and always curses loud enough to hear through the door.
I palm the front of my jeans with a hiss, willing my suddenly hard cock to back off.
Every morning, it’s the same: the thought of Jana, naked and wet and slippery beneath the spray, makes me harder than granite. I go from lounging back on the sofa, one ankle resting on my knee, to sitting bolt upright with a vein pulsing in my temple.
This morning, I distract myself the same way I always do: by striding to the kitchen area and making us both a coffee. Mugs clink against the counter top, and I fish in the cutlery drawer for a spoon.
Ever since that first mug, when Jana took a sip and made the sweetest, filthiest little moan of approval, I’ve been searching for ways to coax that sound out of her again. Cooking for her; baking fresh bread and slathering it in butter; bringing hot drinks on cool nights or iced teas on warm days; and rubbing her stiff, slender shoulders.
So far, it’s just the coffee that brings out that rough, needy sound.
Fresh coffee every morning it is, then.
My breath pauses a fraction before the shower cranks off. We may have only lived in this space together for a few days, but I’m telling you, my body is tuned in. I know instinctively how long Jana’s showers take; what she sounds like when she gets snacky; the way she ruffles up her own dark hair when she’s frustrated by something and trying to think. I already know to turn my back, facing the kitchen counter tops and the half-made drinks, as Jana scuttles out of the bathroom in only a towel and dresses at record speed behind me.
She could take her clothes into the bathroom, obviously. Could change in there, where the thought of her bare, brown skin might torture me less, and where there is zero risk of me accidentally turning around too soon and catching a glimpse.
She doesn’t, though. And I’m sure as hell not gonna suggest it.
No, I’m gonna grip the edge of the counter with one hand, holding on to keep myself from turning around, and stir cream into the coffees with the other. The rustling sounds behind me make my teeth clench. What does she look like right now? What is she putting on?
Don’t do it.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t cross the line, asshole.
I never do, for the record. I’d never do anything to make my fiance uncomfortable.
But lord, what I’d give for a single glimpse of Jana in that towel.
* * *
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting out on the deck together, sipping our coffees and watching the birds flit past overhead. Sometimes, a braver bird will land on the wooden deck railing and peck at the seeds that Jana scatters there. A magpie hops along the railing now, beak drumming against the wood, the sunshine bringing out the iridescent blue sheen of its feathers.
This is part of the morning ritual, too. Sharing a moment with Jana as we both brace for the day.
I fucking love it.
“I’m working the late shift tonight,” Jana says, fiddling with the hem of her black Flint’s polo shirt, flipping it up to inspect where the thread’s coming loose. Beneath the shirt, her perfect thighs press at the seams of a pair of gray leggings. “So don’t wait up or anything. I’ll try to be quiet when I come in.”
“Sure,” I say, already knowing full well that I’ll meet Jana at work and walk her home. As if I’m gonna leave my girl to wander around the mountains alone at night, vulnerable to any wolf or bear or unsavory hiker. Nope, not happening.
I’ve seen plenty of the world during my adventuring career. I’ve seen the best of humanity and the wilderness, and the worst of both too, and I don’t care if it’s not truly my place: I’m gonna shelter Jana from all the bullshit that I can.