Page 117 of Snowed In

There. I feel better already.

That explains some of his snark, though. Fortunately, I’m an only child. After a lifetime of experiencing my cousin Trent, I’m grateful for it. Imagining having five siblings makes me shudder. The squabbling must have been endless. I bet his mother had to drink heavily.

His palm makes a few more passes along my back. I never imagined being too warm while I was stuck here, but this might do the trick.

“That, um… must have been a busy household growing up,” I offer.

Chuckling, he doesn’t cease the soothing glide of his hand. Beingtouched by someone who sounds like they’re in a good mood is a cruelty my mind doesn’t need to experience.

He’s not in a good mood because he’s touchingyou, Marshall. Get your frozen thoughts out of the self-pity holiday gutter.

“You meanmy parentswere busy, as inbusy doing things,or busy because of all the people under one roof?” he asks coyly, making me realize my poor choice of words. “I suppose you’re right on both counts.”

The sounds of the room and the storm fill the silence that follows. Gingerly, I retract my hand from his broad back, slowly skirting it around to fold against my chest. To make it not so obvious, I take a stab at productive chitchat.

“Do you think the snowplows are out yet?”

“Mm. Maybe, if there’s no black ice on the roads. I doubt they’ve made it to country roads, though, yet. They probably have their work cut out for them, keeping the highways and county roads cleared first.”

When I don’t offer a response, his hand strokes my hair again. Do I sound worried? Is he… comforting me? I’ve spent my life being self-sufficient and the last few years worrying about my mother. Comfort is a dangerous drug I don’t need a hit of. It doesn’t exist outside of Mom’s mothering. She supplies me with what little I need.

“I’m sure the storm will quit soon. It sounds like it’s dying down a bit,” he adds, and I swear his finger just traced the shape of one of my curls. “It’ll warm up when the sun rises and starts melting the snow, then the world will get back to functioning again.”

His sage reassurance plants a root of sadness in my chest. He said ‘functioning,’ but I know he’s referring to the hustle and bustle of life. In the grand scheme of things, I know my situation isn’t like a hiker stranded on a snowy mountain who walks away with a new outlook on life after their harrowing experience. Someone will come for us, or the cabin’s trail will be cleared so we can walk out to the main road and flag down a ride into town. I won’t perish. Yet, a moment of soul-searching tells me this happened for a reason, that I should take something away from it.

I’ve become a bit of a robot. Work, check on Mom, carve in the wood shop behind my house. Repeat. There’s nothing else. Have I been hiding from living?

Maybe I’ll get a passport and take Mom on a trip. I could join some kind of club or see if the high school needs a guest speaker for shop class. I should do more than just function. If I don’t, what else will I have—days blurring into one another until Mom eventually passes, finally reunited with Dad? I’d like her to leave this earth knowing I’m as happy as I claim to be. She doesn’t elaborate, but I can read between the lines each time she asks me if I’ve met any eligible men since relocating.

“Yeah,” I concur softly and close my eyes.

Maybe the school’s shop teacher is into guys who are squishy-in-a-few-places with a solid work ethic. Maybe the county has a woodworking club with an affable lumberjack who would be down to help me decorate my craft mall stand. Maybe…

Chapter Five

Idecided on the affable lumberjack. Congratulations, Marshall—see what’s behind door number two. Tickly, under-the-jaw stubble that feels incredible to burrow my nose into—that’s what.

His body is a wonderland I want a lifetime pass to; discovering each muscle on his back, the warmth of his shapely thighs brushing against mine as I shamelessly nudge my hips into his. By day, I can pretend I’m an anomaly who can live without sex, but in this fantasy, my deprived cock is making a speech that sex is compulsory, dicks deserve daily attention, and the one I’m rubbing against is a vital meeting of the minds. My cock just got my vote. It’s official: I’m never waking up.

“Whittle me,” I tell my lumberjack, lips tracing his pulsing jugular. “Whittle me with your dick like a piece of Basswood.”

One of his strong hands grips my hip. He doesn’t mind my love handles. Heloveshandles. So, I return the favor, doing some handling of my own. His skin is like hot suede as my palm slinks underneath his flannel and travels up his back.

“Marshall,” he rasps, as though my touch is his undoing and he’s warning me he’s about to go savage on me.

Ha! Like I need a warning. I am well overdue for some savagery. This is the best dream I’ve ever had. He can do whatever he wants.

Truly…

He can.

It ismydream, after all. Savagery it is. Thank you, me.

“Yeah, Lumberjack?” I ask, all sultry, testing his barely checked lust.

That would never sound sexy in real life. I tried talking dirty once and decided I sounded part psychopath, part poorly scripted porn. Right now, however, my needy dream voice is on point because he gasps.

Thrusting my hips forward, I grind them against the special log Lumberjack packed just for me, pushing this epic fantasy to the limits. He grunts in approval.

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