Page 17 of Whiskey and Wildfire

Was he big? Small? Average? I wasn’t sure I really cared to be honest. He was so handsome, I’d work with whatever he had. The one I dreamed up was just right, girthy, plump, and with a large vein running down the top of his shaft. The moment I saw it clearly, my body reacted.

“No,” I muttered, stepping away from the washer. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

I left the room, not turning the washer on just yet to conserve hot water. Walking around the corner to the bathroom, I flipped the shower on, setting it to nearly scalding. The glass door fogged up quickly as I stepped inside, and I let out a sigh of relief as a week’s worth of dirt and grime began to slake off my skin. However, the heat wasn’t doing anything to help my… problem. In fact, it was making it worse.

Glancing down, I saw my cock, rock hard and pulsing between my legs. The image of Logan came back to my mind, except this time he wasn’t showing off at the end of the bed. This time he was in the shower with me, on his knees, his lips nearly touching the tip of my uncut dick.

I shook my head, trying to clear the tantalizing image from my mind. But it was no use. The hot water cascading down my body only seemed to intensify my arousal. I leaned against the cool tile wall, closing my eyes as my hand drifted down to my throbbing cock.

“This is wrong,” I whispered to myself, even as I began to stroke. But I couldn’t stop the flood of fantasies now.

In my mind, Logan’s strong hands were exploring my body, his lips trailing kisses down my chest. I imagined the feel of his stubble against my skin, the heat of his breath on my neck. My hand moved faster, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I pictured Logan’s green eyes looking up at me, sparkling with lust, as he took me into his mouth. The imagined sensation was so vivid I let out a low moan.

My hand moved faster, gripping tighter as I lost myself in the fantasy. In my mind, Logan’s tongue swirled around the head of my cock, his lips sliding up and down my shaft. I could almost feel his strong hands gripping my hips, pulling me deeper into his eager mouth.

“Logan,” I breathed, my voice barely audible over the sound of running water.

The tension built rapidly, coiling in my lower belly. I braced myself against the shower wall with my free hand, my legs trembling as I approached the edge. In my fantasy, Logan looked up at me with those piercing green eyes, silently urging me on, his mouth open waiting for my load.

With a strangled groan, I came hard, my release painting the tile wall in front of me. My body shuddered with waves of pleasure as I stroked myself through the intense orgasm. As the last aftershocks faded, reality came crashing back in.

I stood there, panting, as the hot water washed away the evidence of my indiscretion. Shame and guilt flooded through me, replacing the fleeting pleasure. What was I thinking? Logan was my boss’s son and in a transition period in his life. The last thing he needed was for me to be a distraction to him. And the last thing I needed was to put my only job and home on the line for a quick fling. This fantasy could never be more than merely a fantasy.

I scrubbed myself roughly, as if I could wash away the lingering thoughts along with the dirt and sweat. By the time I stepped out of the shower, my skin was tinged pink and raw. I dried off quickly and decided not to put any other clothes on. After a week stuffed into layers and layers, I wanted some room to breathe.

As I walked back to the washing machine to start my load of laundry, my eyes fell on a shirt that had fallen to the floor. It was crumpled in a corner, forgotten in my haste earlier. I picked it up, intending to toss it in with the rest, but I hesitated for a moment, realizing it wasn’t mine. It was one of Logan’s. I wasn’t sure how it got there until I recalled picking it up from the debris the morning after his tent got trampled. It was the one he’d been wearing before bed that night.

Glancing out the door just to make sure I was completely alone, I lifted the shirt to my nose, inhaling it deeply.

The scent of Logan filled my senses - a heady mix of sweat, dust, and his expensive cologne. I closed my eyes, savoring it for a moment before reality crashed back in. What was I doing? This was crossing a line.

Disgusted with myself, I tossed the shirt into the washer with more force than necessary and slammed the lid shut. I started the cycle, the loud hum of the machine filling the small space.

As I walked back to my bedroom, guilt and shame warred with lingering desire. I needed to get a grip. Logan was off-limits, end of story. No amount of fantasizing would change that fact.

I flopped onto my bed, wincing as my sore muscles protested. The cool sheets felt heavenly against my clean skin. Exhaustion from the long days on the trail finally caught up with me. My eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted off to sleep, trying to push thoughts of Logan from my mind. But even in my dreams, he haunted me.

I woke with a start several hours later, disoriented and groggy. The sun had set, leaving my cabin in darkness. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was or why I felt so sore. Then it all came flooding back - the cattle drive, the shower, my inappropriate fantasy.

Groaning, I rolled out of bed and fumbled for the light switch. My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since our meager trail breakfast that morning. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt, then headed to the kitchen to scrounge up some food.

As I was heating up a can of soup on the stove, there was a knock at the door. My heart leapt into my throat for a moment. I wasn’t expecting company. Usually, the Bakers didn’t come out to bother me after a drive. They knew I needed rest. I hesitated, wondering if I should pretend I wasn’t home. But that seemed stupid. They knew I was home. Besides, curiosity got the better of me, and I padded over to the door, opening it cautiously.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw Logan standing there, his green eyes bright in the dim porch light. He was holding a covered dish and had a sheepish smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “I, uh, thought you might be hungry. Mama made some of her famous chicken pot pie, and I figured you could use a real meal after all that trail food.”

I stood there for a moment, frozen, unsure what to say. Logan shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting for my response.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I finally managed, stepping back to let him in. “That’s real kind of you. I was just heating up some soup, but I’d rather have this,” I said, gesturing at the dish.

“I don’t blame you.” Logan stepped inside and pulled a bottle full of brown liquid from behind his back. “And I figured we could both use a drink.”

I eyed the bottle nervously. “I… uh… I don’t drink.”

Logan’s face fell. “Oh.”

---