Page 89 of Chasing the Wild
“Christ. Look at you. Stretched around my knuckles. Leaking cum,” Colt murmurs hotly.
His cock is already halfway hard.
I’m halfway to begging him to pump me full of his seed again.
I have to shake myself of the daze threatening to tempt me back into memories of him using my body in the way we both get off on.
Can I be addicted so fast, so soon?
It’s a dangerous thought, because I know even allowing myself a single thread of that kind of thinking is going to weave a noose of bad-fucking-news.
This thing between us could be over any day now, and my stupid heart squeezes at the notion of not being bundled in Colt’s arms at every opportunity.
I’m not a complete idiot. I agreed to this, knowing the risk of allowing things to happen while we were snow-bound up here on top of this mountain together. As much as it pains me to admit, I strolled into this arrangement with my eyes wide open to thereality that Colt will never choose me over his son, and I care about him too deeply to ever expect him to.
As much as I want to be selfish, that’s just not how I’m wired, and like some sort of good girl martyr, I’m not going to come between him and Kayce. I know what it’s like to have an absent parent, and even though Kayce is a fully-grown, partially functioning adult, he and Colt deserve to be able to have a relationship in the long term.
Holy hell, but if I don’t have it in the worst possible way for this rugged man.
The butterflies currently kicking up in my belly are a lovely little reminder that my feelings have taken on a very treacherous shade. Where I’m not just at risk of being swept up in this man, the danger is I’ve already drifted far out to sea, no longer in sight of the horizon, with nothing but a will to keep treading water and hold my head above the surface.
All I want is to stop and allow myself to sink, to fall, to be surrounded by his warmth and scent and capable arms.
I’ll gladly drown in a single drop of him.
Checking the time on my phone, I know it’ll easily be another hour before Colt is likely to get back. It’s not yet that point in the afternoon when the daylight vanishes like water down a drain, and the weather lately has held resolutely blue-skied and brimming with sunshine.
Something Ishouldbe grateful for, rather than ice and wind and atrocious conditions for the cattle to have to endure out on the ranch. But my heart pouts at this feast of spring-like weather all the same.
Colt will most likely take every minute of daylight he’s given to get these jobs done out on the furthest reaches of the property, so I might as well make myself useful until the time when we can heat up dinner together and lose hour upon hour exploring each other in front of the fire.
There are a few jobs I’ve been meaning to get to around the back of the barn. We’ve got a stockpile of extra wood and kindling located back there and I keep intending to do a big restock of firewood close to the house. Ever the gentleman, Colt had told me not to worry about it and leave it to him, but I’m a big girl and I can handle lugging some wood around.
Heading out the main doors I take a hard right and follow the side of the barn that is furthest from the main high-use areas. In all honesty, I never see Colt coming around here either; it’s a place where an odd assortment of ranch debris lives. A graveyard of wood and wire and the kinds of occasionally useful things on a working ranch that need to be put somewhere in anticipation of a rainy day.
The snow around this side hasn’t melted fully. It’s shaded nearly all day back here in a strip between the barn and the tall stand of pines, with the left-over remnants of the last storm banked up in places. Back when I first arrived, this was one of the locations Colt showed me to get supplies from if needed, so I’m careful to pick my way toward where I know the wood is stockpiled at the far end, not wanting to twist my ankle on something hidden beneath the layers of ice and snow.
As I reach the stack of cut logs, I spy the wheelbarrow that I’ll be able to pile up and run a load to the house with. If I start with the kindling and then tackle the larger-sized pieces, that should be a reasonable amount. No one wants to discover wood supplies have dwindled when it’s pitch black and the weather has turned to shit.
One less job for Colt to have to worry about. That man has got more than enough on his hands around this place at the best of times. The sun is still hovering low in the sky, it’s the perfect opportunity to get this done.
Swiping the residual snow and ice off the wheelbarrow, I set it beside me and turn to the wall of wood. It’s heaped taller thanme, and the smallest pieces have been carefully layered at the top. Of course, the cowboy up here on his own most of the time has stacked everything perfectly—only he’s done so to match his own reach.
Which is much too high for me.
This is going to require some fucking ingenuity, because call it laziness or sheer stubbornness, but I’m not trudging all the way back to the barn to find myself a stepladder.
There’s a round of wood hanging on the edge of the pile that I’m sure I can knock down, if I stretch. It’ll do perfectly to balance on as a temporary height boost until I get through the topmost layer of kindling and firewood. Once I’ve removed that, the next one down is still over my head, but at least I’ll be able to reach that from where I’m standing on the ground.
Looking like an absolute fool—and terribly mindful that I don’t want to risk bringing down an avalanche of wood on my head—I strain upward to catch the edge of the log. I’ll only need to bump it. The thing is hanging out over the front of the stack, and won’t need much of a nudge for gravity to do all the hard work for me.
My fingers graze the bark, and it shifts a little but could be stuck thanks to all the ice back here. It’s fucking cold and shaded around this side of the barn, but I’m determined to get this shit done. My toes already feel a little numb in my boots as I reach again and let out a curse as my fingers bump the piece of wood but it only dislodges a fraction.
“Come on, asshole,” I grumble, and this time spring upward a little, swiping at the edge, which has the desired effect. The log loosens and tumbles to the ground. I’m not intending to catch it, so I let it fall with a crash, feeling mighty satisfied that I’ve now got myself a thick, heavy-set round of wood to use as a step stool.
Only as it hits the layer of compacted snow with a thud, my stomach lurches. Instead of the noise I’m expecting tohear, there’s a slick sound and a clatter. Heavy-cast metal leaps upward from where it had been partially hidden beneath the blanket of white. Sharp layered teeth made of steel snap together.
A fucking bear trap.
