Page 9 of Falling for the Lumberjack

“My brothers will be here in the morning. We can cut the tree then.” That was the only promise of rescue I could offer her and to myself an end to this torturous proximity. We finished the soup in silence. I quickly washed up the few dishes, turning my back to Sally and bolstering my control. Usually on evenings like this, I read. Or sat out on the small porch and watched it rain, letting the sound soothe me into a meditative state.

When I turned back around, I almost lost it. Sally had removed her shoes and jeans and was now sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but my t-shirt and a pair of panties.

Blue. Her fucking panties were blue. Like the sky on a clear day. Like the forget-me-nots that grew in the meadow behind my main cabin. A small scrap of fabric between her legs that I knew would haunt my dreams for weeks to come.

I should’ve looked away. Should’ve thrown a blanket over her, turned my back, done anything but let my gaze drag over those soft, smooth thighs. The curve of her hip. The dip of her waist beneath my too-large shirt.

Instead, I felt my blood heat, my body reacting like I was some kind of fucking animal. Like I’d never seen a woman before. Like Sally Carter was the first and last woman on earth, and I was dying to get laid. And she knew that was exactly how I was feeling.

Oh, she knew.

That smirk, that slow, teasing arch of her brow. Like she could see exactly how much I was fighting myself. Like she was enjoying every second of my torment.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The pain was grounding. Centering. A reminder of who I was and what I couldn’t have.

I’d spent months pretending I wasn’t obsessed with this woman. Pretending I hadn’t jacked off to the memory of her mouth the first time I saw her lick her lips behind the counter at the hardware store. Pretending I hadn’t memorized the sound of her laugh, the way she moved, the scent of her skin when she handed over an order.

And now she was in my bed. Half-dressed. Looking at me like she wanted me to take her. Claim her. Make her mine. As if it could be that simple. As if I was the kind of man who deserved something so good.

I swallowed hard, dragging a hand over my face, trying to shake off the urge to pin her to that mattress and taste every inch of her. Trying to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea. All the ways I could hurt her. All the ways I would inevitably disappoint her.

She’d removed her bra. I saw it laying over her jeans, an invitation to temptation. She stretched, arching her back just a little, her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of the shirt, her nipples hard and hungry. The motion was casual, natural—and utterly devastating to my self-control.

God help me.

I started to pace in front of the window, shoving a hand through my hair. “You need to sleep, Carter.”

She made a small hum, a smug, wicked little noise that shot straight to my cock. I wanted to wipe it off her face with my mouth. Wanted to see if she’d make that same sound when I slid my hands under my shirt and touched her the way she was begging to be touched. With rough calloused hands that would leave bruises.

“Is that what you want me to do?” she mused, voice like honey, sweet and thick with promise.

My eyes narrowed on her, my muscles coiled tight. Because no, that was not what I fucking wanted. I wanted to crawl overher, shove my knee between her thighs, and see if she was as wet as I imagined. I wanted to hear her moan my name, feel her nails scrape down my back, make her beg until she was hoarse with it.

And that was exactly why I needed to keep my distance. Why I needed to hold onto my control with both hands. Because once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d consume her completely, take everything she offered and demand more.

I turned my back to her, my body so tight with tension I thought I’d snap. The storm outside mirrored the one within me, wild and untamed and dangerous. She watched, eyes gleaming like she was waiting for me to break. Like she wanted to be the one to push me over the edge.

And then she spoke. “Landry?”

My name. Her voice. Fuck. The sound of it was like a physical touch, trailing down my spine, settling in my groin. No one had ever said my name like that. Full of want. Need.

I didn’t turn. Couldn’t. “Yeah?” The word scraped my throat, rough with need.

A beat of silence. Then, soft as sin, “You want me.”

Not a question. A statement. Simple. Direct. True.

I whipped around, chest tight, my body vibrating with restraint. This time her face was serious. No teasing smile. Just honesty. And maybe, if I looked close enough, a hint of unease. Uncertainty.

I took a step forward. Then another. Until I was standing right at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. She didn’t shrink back. Didn’t show an ounce of fear. Just looked up at me with those dark, knowing eyes. “You think this is a game, Carter?”

She tilted her head, considering me. “I think you want me, and I think you’re too stubborn to do anything about it.”

Fucking hell.

The truth, laid bare between us. The thing we’d been dancing around for months. The tension that had been building since the first time I saw her. The want that had been growing with every encounter, every exchange, every moment in her presence.

I bent, bracing my hands on either side of her hips, caging her in. The heat between us was suffocating, thick and charged. Like the air before lightning strikes. Dangerous. Electrifying. Inevitable.

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