Page 22 of Tusk's Fury

Why did she have to leave?

Images rise in my mind of the last night we spent together—how she rode my cock so well. We joked around, and she teased me with her brilliant mind and beautiful body. Brittany knew me better than anyone ever had. She knew what I liked to eat, how I liked my coffee, and what I liked best in bed. And she always made sure I got it. I remember how much I loved giving her orgasms, seeing her pretty face when she came. Everything about being with her was perfect.

The more I think of her, the harder my cock gets. I can’t resist taking myself in hand. I stroke myself to the thought of her pretty mouth, the way her spine curves when she puts her ass in the air for me. How much I loved sinking into the warm, wet tightness of her pussy. The way it felt when she was on top of me, riding my cock as she smiled down at me. The way it felt when her plump lips stretched around my girth as her tongue worked its magic.

I explode against the side of the shower, leaving behind a hot, dripping mess. As I rinse my seed from the tiles, my mouth waters at the memory of how she tasted when she rode my face. Brittany was something special. I knew that from the very beginning. I just never anticipated it ending so abruptly.

By the time I dried off and fell into bed, it was midnight. And of course, my dreams were all about Brittany. I toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, but nothing seems to take away the gnawing need to have her back in my life and in my bed. I’d give a lot for just one more day with her—protecting her, enjoying her company. All the things I once took for granted, I would deeply cherish if only I had another chance.

Unfortunately, chances are good that she just didn’t feel the same way about me that I felt about her. Wherever my sweet girl is and whoever she’s with, I hope they’re treating her like the queen she is and that she’s found with them the happiness she could never find with me.

As long as she’s happy, I’ll bear any pain.

Chapter 9

Brittany

I’m not sure what I expected from childbirth, but what happened wasn’t it. It was more painful than I expected, and my body looks like I’ve been put through the wringer. Even now, almost three months later. For the first month or so my body was still full of aches, and any kind of movement reminded me that I had recently given birth. Nowadays, I’m getting that spring back in my step finally. I’m in awe that I managed to make another person and that she’s absolutely adorable.

The midwife assured me that my body will snap back to its original form, more or less. At first, I didn’t believe her, but now I’ve turned into a believer. I’m fully healed down below, which I didn’t think would ever happen. I’m jogging, cutting wood, and doing all the things I need to in order to survive in the wilderness. Although I’m not thrilled about it, I guess I can live with the physical changes, because my daughter was worth it. She’s the most precious thing in the world to me.

I remember the pastor talking about the miracle of birth in his sermons. As a teen, I didn’t really understand what the big deal was. I happily tuned him out in favor of whispering to my friends. It seems like ages ago, but in reality, it’s only been around six years, give or take a few months, since I ran away from all things Mormon. I rejected my parents, the marriage they wanted for me, and every single thing I thought I loved. There is still a dull ache in my chest when I think of all that I’ve lost. Of course, no amount of heartache is enough to make me go running back to my toxic family, much less the horribly controlling man my father presented as a marriage match. I can’t imagine being sealed for life to someone twice my age, particularly Silas Harper.

When my baby coos, it draws me away from my internal thoughts. I named her Victoria, after my maternal grandmother, who ran away from the church, like me. It was a mark of shame for my mother’s family, one that made it difficult for her to find a husband back in the day. The shame of having a mother who ran off was the defining feature of my mother’s childhood, which caused her to become hyper-religious and unbearably strict with her own children. That, in turn, was one of the things that pushed me away from the church. Thinking back on it, I might have run, even if it weren’t for the pressure to marry Silas Harper.

Looking down at little Victoria, I realize she looks like a mini version of me. There isn’t much of Tusk to be found in her lovely face. She has my light colored hair and eyes and pale skin tone.

Victoria sleeps an awful lot. The midwife says that’s normal for a baby and extends into the first three or four months, then they start becoming more active. I don’t mind if she sleeps a lot, whatever it takes to keep her happy and healthy is all that matters. Holding her is my new favorite thing.

Cuddling her against my chest, I can hardly believe how quiet she is. She’s absolutely perfect. With her ten little fingers and ten little toes and the way her arms sometimes flail about like she’s trying to catch herself from a fall, she’s so cute. She’s already started reaching for things and has yanked my hair a time or two. At first her fingers are always curled into tight little fists. I would sometimes put my finger in her hand to test her grasp reflex, amazed at how strong it was for such a tiny baby. Now she makes a grab for whatever passes through her line of vision. Her yawns and little baby kicks are even adorable. My Victoria is everything I always thought a baby should be—only better.

Although all she does right now is sleep, eat, poop and look for things to grab, I can’t stop cuddling her and looking at her adorable little ears or touching her baby-soft hair. Whoever thought a woman like me could make such a perfect child?

When she begins to fuss, I know what she wants. Since she’s clean and it’s been a couple of hours since she’s eaten, she wants to be fed. Before I can get my shirt open, someone knocks at the door. I get up and answer it, careful to wrap Victoria up snugly so she’s not exposed to the cold Alaskan winter air when I open the door.

I never let down my guard, even for a second. When it comes to who is on the other side of the door, there are only three real possibilities. It could be the midwife coming to check on us, it could be Clara and Tex, who are due to arrive today, or someone from my old life come to haul me back to the life I ran from six years ago. I jump onto my tiptoes to look through the peephole, hoping it’s not someone from my past.

I smile and answer the door, ushering in Clara and Tex. Of course, they have twins now. They’re wrapped tight in their daddy’s arms, a girl and a boy with wide, curious brown eyes like their father. Clara rushes them in and shuts the door. They’re all bundled up in parkas, which they clearly bought especially for the trip.

“Welcome to Alaska,” I tell them. “Come in and sit by the fire.”

Clara gushes, “Your cabin is amazing. You even have a fireplace.”

I chuckle and pad my way back over to the recliner. “I think most of the cabins in Alaska probably have fireplaces, at least in this area. Someone told me Alaska has one hundred twenty million acres of forests. Kids grow up learning to cut wood. I saw a kid using a chainsaw one day. They were wearing safety gear and had adult supervision, but it still took me by surprise.”

Tex speaks up, “And here I was thinkin’ that Alaska was a tundra, and wood was scarce.”

“Yes, there’s the Arctic tundra on the North Slope, Bering Strait, and Aleutian Islands. My midwife is a Native American from the interior who married an Aleut from the north. She said she noticed all the women cooked with large, ornamental wooden spoons. They gifted her with one, and she asked where they got the wood from only to find out it was made from a walrus penis bone.”

Tex and Clara were quiet for a moment before they burst out laughing.

I raise one hand and tell them, “My hand to God, that’s a true story.”

Suddenly, they aren’t laughing anymore. Instead, they are staring at me with puzzled expressions. I suppose the club girl they knew wouldn’t have used that expression. When Victoria begins to fuss, I lay one of her small blankets over my shoulder and discreetly open my shirt so she can nurse.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll make you a fresh pot of coffee.”

Clara jumps to her feet. “Let me take care of that for you.”

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