WOOD Read online

  I'm not too proud to drink his beer.

  The cabin is cute. It's not too imaginative, but it's functional. One long rectangle with the kitchen on one end and what appears to be a bedroom on the other, separated by another room that cuts into the open floor plan, which I'm guessing is a bathroom.

  Kitchen and living room are pretty much all one room and the free-standing wood burning stove sits between the two, backed by a section of brick wall and floor underneath it to protect the cabin's log walls and wood flooring from the heat.

  The space over the probably-bathroom is an open loft. Not much space up there, but probably useful for storage or something.

  Two windows are located on the back wall, looking back at the barn and the wood pile behind the cabin, but what's really cool is the way the wall along the front of the cabin is almost all windows, looking out on the long porch and the mountains in the distance.

  It's a nice set up.

  Not that I particularly feel like complimenting Mr. Sexy Asshole-thinks-he's-funny Guy.

  "No, seriously," I point at one of the pieces of wood in the box, it's a cross section of a branch or maybe a small tree trunk about 8 inches in diameter and about 6 inches thick, "That piece is perfect, just the right thickness."

  Shit. I wait for him to pick up on the easy opening I just gave him but he stays quiet. When I turn to look at him, he just gives me a smirk.

  "You really just hiked your sexy ass up to my door step to ask for some wood, huh?" The smirk on his lips makes me want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or slap him.

  Since his eyes haven't left my aforementioned ass, I decide I'd rather slap him. Instead, I bend down to grab the chunk of tree out of the box, maybe putting more effort into the bending part than is strictly necessary.

  "I got a flat tire," I remind him, "I just need to add a few more inches so I can get off...your mountain."

  Dammit, the jokes are just too easy-- and maybe I like the faint growl that comes from him just before he laughs.

  "Yeah well," he looks out the big front window, past the porch swing hanging from the beams outside, to the torrential rain that's assaulting the mountains, "Doesn't matter how many inches you get tonight," the corner of his mouth turns up in a grin, "you ain't getting off this mountain anytime soon."

  The implication behind his words-- aside from all the cheesy innuendo-- is that I'm incapable of driving in the rain. The chauvinism burns my blood and douses a whole lot of nope on this guy, no matter how hot he is or how easy it is to flirt with him.

  "Well it's been fun, but seriously, I have a tire to change in the pouring rain and then I get to drive across the mountains in the dark so enjoy your wood by yourself."

  I drain my second beer too fast, feeling the alcohol hit my blood stream as I set the bottle on the butcherblock counter running along the kitchen end of the cabin.

  "Hey, hey, hey," suddenly Mr. Sexy Funny guy sounds very serious-- and a little concerned-- as he reaches out and grabs my upper arm before I can storm past him successfully, "I mean it, that road is impassible when it's wet, even with 4 wheel drive and a competent driver. It's no joke."

  I blame the beer. I know in 10 minutes the buzz will be gone and I'll be fine but right in this instant I'm just tipsy enough to give in to his grip on my arm without pulling away from him and just tipsy enough to forget that he's kind of a jerk, and just tipsy enough to maybe sort of-- umm, shit. Did I just make a noise that sounded a little like a whimper? Did I just swoon into his grasp? Maybe just a little bit?

  No. Definitely did not do either of those things. That wasn't a whimper like "oh my gosh you're so hot do me now," that was an "ow, let go, you're hurting me" whimper.

  Sure it was. That's why I'm standing in front of him with barely any room for light between us, staring up at him with what I'm hoping is a defiant glare while his rough paw is wrapped completely around my upper arm.

  I'm so keenly aware of his touch. How huge his hand is to be able to circle my bicep-- I'm not exactly scrawny. And hot. His skin is so hot. Every part of me that he is touching feels like it's on fire right now. His contact is seeping through my skin into my blood stream and sending little electrical shocks through my nervous system that seem to short out my brain and cause my pussy to clench with need.

  He stands in front of me, frozen in place, looking down at me with a hard frown that says he's very serious about keeping me here.

  Gulp.

  There's something else there too, something searching in his eyes and the way the down-turned corners of his mouth soften almost imperceptibly as he stares at me.

  A long, tense moment passes between us when I think he's going to kiss me.

  I spend most of that moment waiting for him to do it.

  Then the frown hardens back into the full on scowl he greeted me with outside as he releases my arm and steps away, "What's your name?"

  As predicted, the slight buzz from the downed beer is a distant memory but I remain unsteady from the way my body just lit up in flames over a stupid caveman grabbing my arm.

  I clear my throat slightly and pull myself together, "Gail."

  For some reason, telling him my name feels intimate. Like I'm trusting him with some very private information about me. But I guess it's only fair to introduce myself.

  "Well Gail," he tells me, his scowl still firmly back in place, "You might as well have another beer," he pries the cap off and sets it on the counter, indicating that I'm expected to come and get it, as he busies himself with a pot simmering on a 2 burner stove that I hadn't even noticed till now.

  "Don't worry, we have plenty of beer to go through before we have to resort to whiskey," he grumbles as he lifts the heavy lid of a cast iron pot.

  Whatever is inside the pot fills the small cabin with the delicious aroma of herbs and red meat being slow cooked in rich broth and suddenly I remember how long it's been since I had a decent meal.

  My stomach growls loudly and there's no way to deny it since I'm standing right near his elbow beside him where he set the beer down for me.

  "Guess I won't have any problem convincing you to swallow my meat," he says with that stupid grin tugging at the corners of his lips under the thick beard again.

  I think I like grumpy asshole guy better.

  Blaze

  I like fucking with her, and I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't like fucking her, but Gail-- the storm that blew in with the storm-- doesn't seem to find me amusing.

  Maybe that's why I can't stop taking advantage of every opportunity to get under her skin. Or maybe it's my way of distracting myself from thinking about getting into her skin.

  Whatever I thought I saw in her eyes when I first found her staring at me seems to have washed away with the rain. Now that we've both had a chance to get cleaned up and she's sitting at my table wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt I loaned her, she seems a lot more skittish than I'd have thought she was capable of.

  She's eating stew like she's half starved and when I pry into her personal affairs deep enough to figure out how she ended up on my land looking for help for a flat tire, I realize she probably is.

  "So you live in the car?" I'm leaning up against the kitchen counter, holding my bowl in one hand and spooning stew into my mouth with the other while I stare down at her sitting at the little table.

  "Mostly," she tells me between bites.

  "Why?"

  Gail stops eating long enough to look up at me with a judgmental glare, "You live up here in this shack all by yourself?"

  I nod once, "Yup," I answer simply.

  "Why?" She shoots at me, like it answers why she'd be living in her car.

  "Not much for company," I bite out, narrowing my eyes at her so she gets the hint.

  Astonishment floods her face, color rises to the tops of her cheeks and it suits her well even though I'm pretty sure she's more pissed than embarrassed if I've learned anything about this woman yet.

  "Well if you think I'm supposed
to pay you for the meal and for a warm place to stay while it's raining--"

  I drop my bowl in the sink and it lands with the noise of the spoon clanging against the ceramic as I close the distance to her in one good step and snatch her empty bowl off the table while her spoon is still in her hand.

  With a grumbled string of curse words that I'd like to throw at her right now, I refill her bowl and set it back in front of her before grabbing a couple pieces of wood and throwing them in the stove.

  "Look, I ain't sayin I'd turn you down if you offered," I finally growl at her, "but I don't expect you to suck my dick to say thank you if that's what you're gettin' at." I put more distance between us in the small main room, which ain't easy, just to prove my point, "I ain't the kind of man who takes from a woman like that."

  Fuck it. I don't even bother throwing on my jacket before I head out to grab more wood off the pile. I'm kinda pissed. Damn insulted, actually. The chick shows up trespassing on my land in the middle of damn nowhere because she made a dumb decision to take off over some half forgotten mountain road and put a hole in her tire without being prepared.

  Then she's got the audacity to accuse me of expecting something from her because I gave her some hot food and a warm, dry place to wait out this storm?

  I don't need to bribe a woman to get on my cock, dammit. I don't need to pay for it, not with money or food and shelter, and I sure as fuck don't want what isn't freely given.

  I grab firewood off the pile and load it into the crook of my bare arm. I shoulda put on the damn coat, this shit itches and now I'm likely to be covered in pine pitch but something about that woman in there is making me lose my damn mind. She's knocked my whole routine out of whack and now I can't stand being cooped up in my own house because the place is full of the smell of her.

  Standing up straight, I let the armful of firewood drop to the floorboards of the porch and I stretch my arms over my head, breathing in the cool, wet scent of the storm-soaked air.

  I just need to calm down. I'm not used to having other people in my space is all. It's got nothing to do with the fact that's Gail's all woman. Sitting in there with one of my old t-shirts tied up around her waist so it's stretched across her braless tits in a way that makes it damn impossible not to notice their perfect tear drop shape and the dark outline of her areolas, or the way they jiggle and sway with every little movement of her body.

  Or the way she's got my pajamas rolled down about 30 times at the waist and up at the cuffs so they come anywhere near to fitting her. And the whole outfit shows off the smooth skin of her stomach and I can't help but notice the indention of her waist and the way her hips flare out, making me imagine how I could grip those hips and pull her ass back against me so I could thrust my cock into her sweet little cunt.

  I roll my neck from side to side. Nope. The mood I'm in has nothing to do with the tension that's been tightening between me and Gail since she got here and everything to do with the fact that I'm a loner and I prefer it that way.

  With a deep breath, I bend over and stack the wood more carefully in my arm and then head back inside to find Gail back in her wet clothes, packing up her stuff.

  "What the hell are you doing?" So much for my calm. I drop the firewood in the holder beside the stove and turn to where Gail looks to be getting ready to leave, "There's a storm out there, have you noticed?"

  Like the mountains decided to help me make my point, the sky outside lights up with a flash of lightning and the windows shake with the simultaneous thunder. The rain is pounding on the cabin's tin roof and it sounds like we're in the middle of the apocalypse. Not that I ain't used to it-- storms like this aren't uncommon up here.

  "Yes, I noticed," Gail snarks back at me, "but it's pretty obvious that I'm in the way here so I figured I'd just hike back and stay with my car and I'll get off your mountain in the morning."

  "This storm is going to last for days, and when it's rainin' like this that old ridge route is half river, half waterfall. You try to drive out before it dries up and you'll get off this mountain all right, right into the gulch."

  Gail had pretty much pulled everything out of her pack when she went searching for toiletries and a clean set of clothes to change into after her shower. Obviously, clean clothes weren't an option which is why she was in mine. It's taking her longer to put everything back into the pack than I'm sure she'd like and her hands shaking like that probably isn't making it easier.

  Something in my heart clenches at the sight of how upset she is. I want to fix it but for the life of me I can't figure out what the hell caused it so naturally, that just pisses me the fuck off.

  "So what if I'm not used to having a guest in my house?" I yell at her, grabbing her pack and starting to yank stuff back out that she's just packed away, "I ain't a total bastard! I'm not gonna let you starve or die of exposure or get eaten by a cougar or some shit like that. I've got a solid roof and plenty of food and fire, you're welcome to it till we can get you off the pass."

  Gail

  I keep telling myself that I'm not at all distracted by the fact that he never bothered to put a shirt on after his shower. That he's walking around in nothing but a pair of plaid flannel pajamas pants that hang dangerously low on his hips so that it's impossible not to gawk at the v-shaped strips of muscle that draw down and lead directly to what I don't have to imagine is a cock that is every bit in proportion to the rest of him.

  I can see it bounce under the fabric with each one of his purposeful steps when he moves and it's hard not to imagine what it looks like when it's full and hard and raised to its full glory.

  Which is a very distracting thought that makes my thighs slick with desire while I've been sitting eating dinner in his pajamas.

  And after all his stupid little jokes, he acts like I'm the one stepping over the line by thinking he might expect me to give him something in return for his hospitality?

  What an ass.

  Which is pretty much what I was thinking when I got a look at it as he stomped past me and went outside in his bare feet.

  I feel like an idiot for not being able to change my own damn tire and having to hike my sorry ass up here looking for help. Pretty much fitting the part of the damsel in distress-- which I hate.

  And then this storm! I watch the mountains around the cabin light up with lightning as thunder simultaneously rolls through the valley that the cabin is nestled into. I've sat out more than one storm in the back of the Pathfinder, but this guy's cabin is a lot nicer.

  Shit, I don't even know this guy's name yet. I've been here for hours already. I've taken a shower in his bathroom, I'm wearing his pajamas, been drinking his beer, eating his food, and absorbing the warmth of his fire under the shelter of his roof and I don't even know his name.

  Not that it matters. I'm taking his hint and getting out of his space. He can go back to being a brooding mountain man in the middle of nowhere and I can hike my happy ass 12 miles back to the car in the dark and the rain.

  While he's outside, finding excuses to avoid being in the same room with me, I grab my clothes and yank them back on. Even though they're wet from getting caught in the rain earlier and they really need to be washed, and they don't smell like him.

  Inhaling the scent of his soap and the cedar from the closet he pulled the t-shirt from before hanging the borrowed pajamas on the hook behind the bathroom door, I go back out to the main room and start repacking my backpack.

  The rain is pounding down on the cabin's metal roof and thunder rolls around the tiny home again, reminding me that I'm about to leave a warm, dry, safe cabin to probably end up sleeping in a leaky tent trying to keep my sleeping bag dry all night before I have any chance of getting back to my car.

  When he comes back in carrying an armload of firewood I renew my efforts to get my bag packed. I can't look at him. I can't look at the bulging muscles of his arm carrying a stack of wood that I'd need a wagon to haul. I can't meet his harsh gaze as he notices that I've changed my clothes
and then sees that I'm preparing to leave, because making eye contact with him makes something inside me feel wound up tight like it's about to snap.

  This might be his idea of being nice, this growly, bossy thing he's doing at he pulls my carefully packed gear out of my pack and then grabs the pack itself when I don't stop to listen to what he's saying.

  I'm listening, all right. I understand what he's saying about the road in the storm but I'll be damned if I'm going to let him tell me what to do when he can't seem to decide if he even likes me being here or not.

  "I'll be fine, thank you," I snap at him as I reach out and grab my pack back from him, "you really think this my first mountain pass?"

  I shove him out of my way with my shoulder, not noticing at all how firm his chest is or how warm his body is through my damp t-shirt, and grab my sleeping bag from the pile of gear that he just yanked out of my pack.

  "I've been living on the road for years and before that I did plenty of camping and 4-wheelin', I know how change my damn tire and I'll be just fine sleeping in my car till the road dries out enough to make it into town."

  He reaches for my pack but I snatch it back before he gets a hold of it.

  "Don't worry about me," I tell him as I hoist the pack onto my shoulders, "I won't take any more from you," I pick up the chunk of wood I set aside earlier and hold it up, "except this."

  "Dammit, Gail." Even the way he says my name irritates me, like he knows me, like he's known me forever and has a right to use my name. It sounds...intimate...when he says it and it does something to me, something I don't like.

  "And what the fuck is your name anyway?" I stop suddenly, just short of reaching for the door handle, "What kind of guy tries to talk a woman into staying in his house and can't even introduce himself first?"

  "Blaze!"

  He looks mad. Sort of mad and a little scared. His face is red under the deep, ruddy brown beard, his eyebrows are lowered but his eyes are softer than his voice.

  "What are you? Yosemite Sam? Blaze yourself, I just thought I'd ask your damn name but you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."