Page 7 of Burly Lumberjack

Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. She doesn’t say anything, but her blush tells me all I need to know. I’m not the only one lusting here.

“Before I forget. I have something for you.” I walk to the truck, and grab the wooden flower planters I built. I hadn’t even planned to make them. I just couldn’t stop thinking about her after I left last time, so I picked up some extra wood at the hardware store. I remembered how Ophelia’s eyes lit up when she talked about her porch and how she wanted to get some planters so she could have flowers surrounding her while she sat on her porch.

So I made exactly what she described.

When I carry them back up the steps, she gasps.

“Oh,” she breathes, stepping forward. “Rowan… These are perfect. I was just saying I wanted planters.”

I set them gently beside the railing. “I remember you mentioning it. I made them for you. I bought a bunch of seeds, too. You said you wanted flowers, but I didn’t know which ones, so I picked up a variety.”

She presses a hand to her chest. “That’s so thoughtful. No one’s ever made me anything before.”

The way she says it—quiet, surprised, almost a little sad—makes something deep in my gut twist. How has no one lavished attention on her like this? If she was my woman—whenI claim her as my woman—I’ll treat her like a queen every damn day of our lives.

“Well, I have something for you, too,” she says, her smile sweet and shy. “Let me thank you for all the work you’ve done.”

Ophelia’sat the kitchen sink rinsing the plates after serving me cherry pie. She hums under her breath, soft and aimless, and I watch the sway of her hips, the gentle curve of her waist leading down into full, strong thighs. That skimpy white tank clings to her in all the right places and doesn’t hide the way her tits jiggle when she walks. Her cutoffs are so short I can see the tops of her thighs and nearly the curve of that peach of an ass. She’s barefoot, relaxed, and unaware of how she affects me. My cock is so hard I can barely think straight.

I move toward her, slow and steady, each step louder in my own head than it probably is in the room. I don’t speak. I don’t need to. She looks over her shoulder at me, a sweet smile on her pretty lips.

When I reach her, I don’t waste time. I lay my hands on her hips, thumbs brushing over the waistband of her shorts. She gasps, just a little, but doesn’t pull away. I step in close, letting my chest press to her back. My cock, hard and aching, finds the curve ofher backside and presses firmly against her. My breath comes fast and heavy as I feel her dreamy curves against my body.

I bury my face in her neck, the scent of her skin overwhelming. She smells like soap and sunshine, and I can smell how horny she is. My hands slide up from her waist, finding the softness beneath that tied-up tank top. Her belly is plush and warm beneath my palms, and her muscles flutter at my touch.

“You wore this for me,” I murmur, my voice thick with lust. “Didn’t you?”

She nods slowly, her breath catching. “Yeah.”

I slowly raise my hands up her body, brushing the sides of her breasts. My cock throbs against her, trapped behind my jeans, and it takes everything I have not to grind into her. But I want her to feel it. I want her to know exactly what she does to me.

“Why?” I ask, though I already know. I need to hear her say it.

She turns her face slightly, and her cheek brushes mine. Her voice is trembling and breathless. “Because…I want you, Rowan.”

My grip tightens on her hips, and primal lust surges through my veins.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” she adds. Her voice is an irresistible mix of shy and bold, and it just ignites my lust even more. “It’s like…my bodydoesthings when you’re close by. I can’t control it.”

I close my eyes, overwhelmed. This woman—lush, soft, gorgeous in ways I want to explore for the rest of my life—is offering herself to me not out of obligation or curiosity but becauseshe wants me. How did I get so lucky?

I turn her gently, letting my hands stroke her generous curves. Her belly, her hips, the full weight of her breasts under that thin tank. I want to touch every inch of her, memorize how she feels under my hands, how her body reacts when I kiss her, how she sounds when I make her come on my cock.

I kiss her—hard. Her mouth opens to mine, and she moans into the kiss, wrapping her arms around my neck, pressing that glorious body flush against me. Her softness against my hard cock is too much. I grind into her instinctively, and she gasps, rocking her hips in return.

She’s breathing hard, eyes wide, lips swollen. Her thighs press to either side of mine as I lift her onto the counter. My hands cup her ass, fingers splaying over the soft, perfect roundness, dragging her forward into the heat between us. The heat between her legs is hotter than the sun, and her scent makes my mouth water.

“Sweetheart,” I growl into her ear, “you have no idea how close I am to losing it.”

She leans back just enough to meet my gaze. “What if I said I felt the same way?” She bites her lower lip and I know there’s nothing and no one that could stop me right now. I’m going to claim sweet Ophelia and show her what I can do with the wood she gives me every damn day.

God, I want to. I want to rip that tank top over her head, spread her thighs, and bury my face between them, and eat like a starved man. I want to make her come with my mouth, my hands, my cock—again and again until she’s happier than she’s ever been in her life.

But not here. Not in the kitchen.

I kiss Ophelia again, slowly, teasing the corner of her mouth, lightly kissing her neck. I hold her face in my hands.

“Are you sure?” I ask, voice hoarse. God help me if she says no. My desire for Ophelia isn’t the kind that can be eased by jacking off. Jacking off doesn’t even dent the burning need I have for her. My need for Ophelia can only be sated by claiming her and loving her until my dying day.

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