Page 6 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
It’s at this moment that I notice something that has the bear’s attention.
“You left food out?” I ask.
“Bread for the birds,” she says. “And I might’ve forgot that I put the trash outside.”
Unbelievable.
“If we survive this—” I start to say but stop as the image of Taylor bent over my lap, with her ass in the air, and my handprint blooming pink in color on her smooth skin.
My cock, seemingly oblivious to the danger we are in, comes to life.
Not the time!
Having lost interest, or out of the bread for the birds, the bear begins to move away from the cabin. I reach behind me and wrap my arm around her waist, pushing her gently in the direction of the front door.
We shuffle together, one slow step at a time. I continue to make sure to keep myself between Taylor and the bear—eyes on its nose instead of its eyes.
“Key?” I ask quietly, as we reach the porch.
“Pocket.”
“Good. When I say, open it slow.”
“Got it,” she whispers.
A branch snaps in the woods, drawing the attention of the bear.
“Now.”
She fumbles the key, but to her credit she keeps her gaze low, not giving the bear a challenge. The lock finally turns and the door creaks open. I back us through, keeping my body square until the wood is solid between us and the bear outside.
Only then do I breathe.
Taylor leans against the wall, her hand pressed to her chest. Strands of her hair have come loose from its tie, cheeks flushed—not from the cold this time.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice unsteady. “I didn’t know what to—he just showed up.”
“Are you okay?”
She nods, then shakes her head, then lets out a nervous laugh. “That depends. Does screaming bloody murder count as okay?”
“Well, I’m just glad you didn’t decide to run.”
The implication of that outcome makes her eyes flick up, searching my face. I’m not trying scare her for my amusement. I need her to know that on this mountain, we are not at the top of the food chain.
I look away first, scanning the room instead: a new table by the window, her plant perched on the sill, the faint scent of soap over woodsmoke. She’s been busy, turning this old place into something alive.
I clear my throat. “You can’t leave food out. Bears remember where they find easy meals. Next time, he might not be so polite.”
“I won’t do it again,” she says quickly. “I promise.”
A weighted silence settles between us. I should go—back to my roof, back to my solitude—but I hesitate. She’s standing so close I can see a freckle just below her jaw, the way her pulse still flutters there.
I her heart still racing from her run in with the bear, or something else?
“Lock the door,” I tell her, stepping back. “Even in daylight if you hear something that feels wrong.”
“Screaming for you seemed to work,” she finishes, a shaky smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
