Page 3 of Engaged to the Mountain Man

The cabin is getting smaller. Smaller and hotter. It was this way as a kid too. When the orange glow would get to be too much, my lungs wouldn’t hold any air.

“I’m different,” I wheeze. I don’t usually explain that cerebral palsy makes my arm twist in dystonic postures. But the questions from kids are the ones I try to answer. They need to be shown that people with disabilities are just people. People like them.

Still, I glance back at the kid’s mom and silently will her to shush her daughter. To stop putting me on display in front of all these people, like I’m a lion at the zoo. They’re tapping at the glass, demanding I perform.

The woman doesn’t even meet my gaze. Instead, she idly swipes her tablet screen, ignoring her daughter’s behavior the way she has for most of the morning.

“Why are you different? Is it cont—conta—catching?” She settles on the word after failing to pronounce contagious. “Mommy says some things aren’t catching. Like when she bleeds from her lady parts. Do you bleed?”

The discussion snags her mom’s attention, and she quiets her daughter as some of the other passengers snicker. Just like that, I’m relieved to no longer be the center of attention.

Three hours later, the fingers of my good hand drum an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel. I relax when I cross over into Courage County. I roll down the window, breathing in the pine scent. This tiny town is my new beginning. I’ve found friends here. I even spent the last few days in Vegas, celebrating a friend’s wedding.

I’m glad for Blade. I’m glad he’s claimed his forever with Gwen. He deserves every bit of happiness, but something about seeing them together only amplified this feeling. It’s a hollow ache deep in my chest. It got even louder on the plane back home. Louder again when I was at the airport, surrounded by the crowd.

My truck dashboard lights up with a call from an unknown number, interrupting my thoughts. Except it’s not an unknown number. I know exactly who’s calling me.

It’s her, a scammer who claims to be a princess in a foreign country I’ve never heard of. I don’t answer the calls, but I do listen to the messages she leaves.

She says she needs to speak to me urgently. I’m sure it’s a con game. She probably means to make me think I’ve won some money if I’ll pay her a small processing fee of a few hundred dollars.

But I can’t deny that I’ve saved each voice message and replay them endlessly on loop. It’s the stuff dreams are made of. Breathy and innocent. Every time I hear it, I imagine what she would sound like beneath me.

Against my better judgment, I press accept on the call. Maybe I’m tired of this game of cat and mouse. Maybe I want to hear her voice in real time. I want to know if it’s actually as arousing as I think it is.

“Hello,” I growl out the word and wait. I’m rewarded with the sound of a voice that’s far more musical than her messages.

“I reached you,” she exclaims.

“So, you did,” I grunt and squirm in the seat of my truck, trying desperately to ignore the semi that I’m starting to sport. She shouldn’t be able to do this to me with the sound of her voice, but it feels like a physical caress.

“I’m calling about an urgent matter.” Her voice is so prim, reminding me of a schoolteacher or sexy librarian. Shit, that thought goes straight to my cock, and I lose the battle with the semi. Now, it’s a raging hard-on.

“Feel free to shareallyour urges with me.” I can’t resist teasing her. Some part of me feels like I was made to tease her, to annoy her, to arouse her.

She ignores my innuendo or misses it entirely. “Will you be available to me this evening?”

I think of the ways I could make myself available to her and grunt because if I open my mouth and say what’s in my head, well, she’ll never call again. But maybe that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

“I request your presence at the airport,” she continues.

“I demand your presence in my bedroom,” I say before I can stop myself. Apparently, I have no filter. Ah, what the hell. Not like she’ll ever call me again after this.

She snorts and calls me a dirty name under her breath. It shouldn’t turn me on more, but it does. I imagine her eyes shooting daggers as she calls me filthy things. I’d take her lips under mine. I’d teach her a thing or two about what happens when she calls me names.

“What is this matter regarding?” I ask as I imagine her in my room. Bent over. Tied to my bed. Screaming for release as I drill deep. All of the filthy images flash through my mind.

“I’m afraid I can’t speak of the matter over the phone. It’s important that we meet in person.”

“Naturally,” I growl the word. She’s not going to show up. She’s making a fool of me. But I’ll play along if it means I can hear her voice for a few more minutes.

“Where would you like to meet?” I ask, thinking of all the urban legends I’ve heard. Isn’t this one of them?

Clueless moron gets seduced by a beautiful woman only for his bank account to be wiped clean and all of his assets taken.

“You may escort me from the airport,” she answers.

“Shall I bring the limo or the Rolls-Royce?” I do my best to sound bored and unaffected by the conversation.

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