Page 8 of Scolded By the Mountain Man

“Swallow it all,” I tell her. “Just like that.”

And she does. Without even gagging or coughing or pulling back once, she allows me to finish fully before slowly sliding back out of her lips. That post-orgasmic shiver slides through my body and causes me to let out a long, deep breath. But once that’s finished, I reach out and gently caress her cheek with the back of my fingers.

Our eyes lock, and it’s as if something is being said between us with no words being spoken. It’s as though she’s asking me to keep her in this cabin forever, and I’m telling her that’s been my plan all along.

5

PENNY

I wakeup with a nose full of the cleanest, crispest air I can ever remember breathing. I open my eyes to a horizon of trees and a sky filled with violet colored clouds spilling down a tranquil patter of rain, and my heart is instantly filled with joy.

What an incredible contrast to the brown and dusty urban landscape I normally rise to every morning in my apartment back in New York City. My ears are free from the screeching sound of cars braking, the hissing of busses, and the roar of trucks outside my window. I can’t remember the last time I felt this peaceful.

There is one thing I hear as I sit up in bed and brush my hair from my face, and that’s a rhythmic chopping sound coming from outside as though someone would be out there cutting wood in this weather. That’s not possible, though. Is it?

I slide out of bed and walk naked over to the window and look out, seeing the hulking frame that could belong to only one man: Tyson. And he’s wearing a poncho and swinging an axe, chopping enormous logs in half with a single swing like it was nothing.

A tingle runs through my body as I watch. What is this type of man? I’ve never been around anyone like him. All the men I’mused to are city guys. Brokers, lawyers, accountants, guys who dress in suits with soft hands who have multiple pairs of shoes for different situations throughout the day.

It’s hard to imagine Tyson changing his clothes even once unless it was completely necessary. And the calluses on his hands would never fit in with the Wall Street crowd I could introduce him to. I can’t even picture him getting together with any of them and going out to one of their hot spots for an evening. I can’t even picture him in the city at all. It would be like a dog riding a unicycle.

There happens to be a shower in the bathroom, but the water is freezing cold, so I’m in and out in no time. I have no change of clothes, so I’m forced to wear the same things I wore yesterday. And just when I am coming down the stairs, Tyson is coming in from outside.

“You’re finally up,” he grunts, stripping out of his poncho, which he hangs on a hook by the door.

“Finally? What time is it?” I ask.

“Seven–thirty.”

“That’s notthatlate,” I laugh. “I thought you were gonna say like eleven.”

“Well, you wake with the sun when you live with nature,” he responds, as though what he just said was obvious wisdom I should have been taught when I was a little girl. Of course, thinking about it now, it does seem quite obvious. There are no blinds or curtains on the windows in the bedroom, so it does make sense that Tyson would rise and sleep with the sun.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again,” I tease.

He turns and stares at me, and it’s like I’m suddenly frozen in place. His eyes are filled with such power. I haven’t even known him a full day and yet somehow, I’m desperate to understand him.

“Do you know how to cook?”

“A little. But I’m not that great,” I confess.

“Well I’m hungry,” he replies. “I need to wash up. And while I do, I need you to make me some bacon, eggs, and toast.”

Before I can even reply, he kicks off his boots and starts to head upstairs, as though I’m just going to accept what he just said.

“Wait a second,” I reply. “Youneedme to make some bacon, eggs, and toast? Why? Because I’m the woman I’m just your slave that you can order around to have do whatever you want? Isn’t that a bit stereotypical?”

Tyson stops midstride, and a pit instantly forms in the middle of my stomach. I know I just said the wrong thing.

He turns back to look at me, and I see a serious, stony look on his face. Very slowly, he takes several steps toward me and stops when he’s only a few feet away. I can smell his sweat. His manly musk must have built up from working outside, and my body instantly starts to tingle again.

“Let me ask you something, city girl,” he says, his voice low. “Did I not save you yesterday from being lost in a terrible storm in the mountains where you could have gotten hypothermia and died?”

It’s impossible to describe how stupid I suddenly feel as I process his question.

“Y–yes, you did.”

“And what about that?” he asks. “Should I not have saved you because it was ‘stereotypical’ for the man to save the woman?”

---