inch of his skin touching me. From how his thighs cradle me to his hand touching every inch of skin below my bra to the top of my pants and his hard cock pressing against my back.
After everything that’s happened, how the hell am I getting turned on?
The longer we ride on the four-wheeler and the further we get from that damn cabin, the safer I start to feel. The safer I feel, the more I relax, and the more I relax, the more pain I feel.
After a bit, I feel every little bump. Every time my foot gets jostled, it hurts, shooting pain up my leg, and my head is pounding.
‘Hold on, firecracker. Only a few more minutes,’ he rumbles in my ear. He slows down over the bumps, trying to make it more bearable.
By the time we get to his cabin, I’m considering racking up a hospital bill just for some morphine to knock me out, even if it means working the rest of my life to pay the bill.
His cabin is exactly what I would expect—situated in the middle of the woods on a cleared piece of land. There are different outbuildings and a small garden.
He parks the four-wheeler by the front door before stepping off and gently lifting me into his arms to carry me inside. I’m expecting more of a bachelor pad-style cabin, but what we step into is something more out of a fancy magazine.
Most of the furniture looks to be handmade and custom-made for the space. It all perfectly matches with beautiful details. There are animal skin rugs and blankets, but they fit into this space like they were purchased from an expensive design store instead of handmade by the owner himself.
There’s a large stone chimney, and I’m willing to bet the stones were picked right from his property. I don’t get to look at anything else because he takes me back to the bathroom and sets me on the beautifully cold counter.
‘I need to remove your clothes to check for other wounds,’ he says.
I hesitate. As safe as I feel with him and as turned on as I was a little while ago, my first thought is not to take all my clothes off in front of him.
‘And your clothes need to be cleaned,’ he adds like he’s trying to convince me to do as he asks.
‘And what do you suggest I wear in the meantime?’ I ask because walking around his house with no clothes is not an option.
He looks at me for a moment and then disappears from the bathroom without a word. Does he expect me to follow him? Maybe if I had crutches, but there’s no way I’m walking on this ankle.
He’s back a moment later with some of his clothes.
‘Those are going to be huge on me,’ I say as he sets them on the counter next to me.
‘Let’s start with your pants so I can get a good look at your ankle.’ He gently removes my shoes and socks before looking back up at me.
I nod and unbutton my jeans, bracing myself on the counter and lifting my butt so he can gently pull the jeans down my legs.
He looks nervous and tense, and I get a pang of pleasure at being able to throw him off his usual calm and sure demeanor.
My right ankle is noticeably bruised, cut, and heavily swollen. He gently runs his hands over me, checking my flexibility and making sure I can move my toes and ankle before letting out a string of curses under his breath.
‘I’m pretty sure it’s just sprained. You should have it looked at, but I’ll clean it up, we’ll get some ice on it, and then I’ll wrap it up. You’ll have to stay off this for at least a few days. Even then, it’s going to be painful to walk.’
He opens the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a bunch of first aid items, cleaning every little cut and scratch. When he’s done with my legs, he helps me remove my shirt. Thankfully, he allows me to leave my bra and underwear on.
He treats and wraps the burn on my arm and my other scratches before turning his attention to my face. ‘This is going to need stitches,’ he says, looking at my temple.
‘Please tell me you have some kind of numbing medication,” I almost beg him. “Despite how brave you might think I am, I’m a chicken when it comes to needles.”
His eyes are still on the cut, but he smirks a little.
‘Glad to know that I can at least amuse you,’ I say when he doesn’t answer me.
‘I have something that will do, but it won’t ease the pain completely,’ he says, disappearing from the bathroom again.
He’s back seconds later with a blanket and wraps it around me before leaving the room to get whatever numbing medication he has on hand. I hear cabinets open and close in the kitchen before he comes back into the bathroom.
‘Drink a little bit of this. A little bit will go a long way since you haven’t eaten.’ He hands me a bottle of whiskey.
‘This is your pain medication?’ I take the bottle and stare at it.
‘No, this is, but the whiskey will ease whatever this doesn’t cover.’ He holds up a little bottle that looks like an antiseptic cream from the first aid kit.
He washes his hands again and gently applies the cream. Even the slightest touch of his finger hurts. I try to be brave, but I take a big swig of the whiskey the first chance I get.
It burns on the way down and instantly warms my body. I’m not a big whiskey drinker. I prefer fruity cocktails, but I’ve never been as thankful for whiskey as I am now.
‘So, what is it that you do that you don’t have health insurance?’ he asks as he starts getting everything ready to stitch up the cut on my temple.
‘I run the grocery store and cafe in town,’ I tell him and take another smaller sip of the whiskey.
‘Surely you qualify for some self-employment insurance,’ he says as he gets to work on the cut.
‘I don’t own the places. The general manager is a decent guy, but he works around the government. Each is a separate business, and he pays for my room and board in the apartment above the café. Technically, I have two jobs, but neither one quite qualifies for healthcare and benefits, although my income is more than decent.’ I recite what I’ve told my mom multiple times. She thinks I should look for something else, but I love my apartment and my life here.
‘That doesn’t sound like a good guy to me.’
‘Well, if you only look at it that way, yeah. But as far as bosses go, he’s one of the best I’ve worked for. He trusts me to run the place and stays out of it as long as I send him the monthly reports and things add up. I’m not in a position to rock the boat just yet.’ I take another swig of whiskey,
I don’t feel any pain, just some pressure and a little bit of tugging. As long as I don’t think about what he’s doing, it doesn’t make my stomach roll.
‘Where did you get all this training to be able to take care of me and stitch me up?’ I ask, wanting to know more about him.
‘The military,’ he says almost absentmindedly before he steps back and indicates he’s done.
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to elaborate on your military time, are you?’ I ask as he starts cleaning things off and putting everything away.
‘Nope.’ One simple gruff word.
He looks like a mountain man. Rough around the edges, beard, his hair on the long side, and needing a cut. His clothes are worn, and tattoos and scars cover his arms. The scar on his face makes him look intimidating, but he was so gentle, taking care of my ankle and stitching me up.
Once everything is put away, he picks up the shirt he brought in earlier. ‘If you take the rest of your clothes off, I’ll get them washed so they can dry. The shirt should be big enough for you. Keep the blanket. It’ll keep you warm,’ he says before turning and leaving the room.
I don’t know if he’s coming back, so I quickly slip my bra and underwear off before putting his shirt on. The shirt is like a dress on me, although it leaves my legs bare.
With the sun already set, the temperature outside will drop quickly this time of year. I wrap the blanket around me and figure out how I’m going to get out to the living room. There seems to be enough furniture I could balance myself on and hop around on one foot.
‘Are you dressed?’ his deep voice fills the bathroom, but he’s standing in the doorway where he can’t see me.
‘Yes.’
He enters the room without another word, picks me up, and carries me out to the living room.
‘You know I’m going to have to figure out how to get around at some point. You’re going to get sick of caring for me everywhere,’ I tell him as he sets me down on the couch.
I’m not a thin girl by any means. I work in a cafe, and I like my cupcakes and donuts. I think the last time I had a thigh gap was in elementary school, and I have to hit the plus size section to find clothes. My job keeps me somewhat in shape because of all the walking between the two stores. I tell myself the weight is mostly muscle, but it’s still weight, and I know he can tell every time he picks me up.
‘You weigh nothing. I’ll carry you until your foot heals,’ he grunts and turns to the kitchen.
I sit there shocked. It’s like he was reading my mind. ‘Are you a mind reader?’
He pauses, looking through the refrigerator to look back at me. ‘It was written all over your face. Out here, it’s a good thing you’re not all sticks and bones,’ he says before pulling some stuff out of the refrigerator.
The living room, dining room, and kitchen are open-plan. It’s cozy with the fire crackling in the fireplace. I’m not sure when he started it, but I’m thankful he did.
He joins me again after a few minutes. ‘I’m warming up some leftovers. You’ll eat and drink this,’ he says, handing me a cup of water.
I take it from him and keep my mouth shut because now is not a good time to remind him he should be asking instead of telling. I drink the water and realize I’m thirstier than I thought when I hand him back an empty glass. He nods approvingly before heading to the kitchen to refill it, and this time I sip it.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask, wanting to fill the silence.
‘A while.’
OK, let me try another subject to get him talking. ‘Did you build this cabin yourself?’
‘Yes.’
Such a conversationalist. I keep quiet and look around until the timer goes off and he brings me my food. It looks like a roast with potatoes, carrots, and gravy. He sits on the couch beside me with his plate. I hesitantly take a small bite, only to discover this is one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time.
‘Your prior military, with pretty good medic experience. A mountain man who builds cabins. And you can cook. What other surprises am I going to find out about you?’ I ask jokingly.
‘I have plenty of surprises for you once you’re feeling better, firecracker,’ he says, only he’s not joking.
