by Drew Jordan
He settled in alongside me, punching his pillow. “Sorry I woke you up,” he said, his voice whiskey smooth in the dark. He’d turned the kitchen light out and it was inky black in the cabin, the air still, the room surprisingly airtight.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’m having a little trouble sleeping.”
“Your ankle?”
“Yes.” That, and a whole lot more. “And I’m cold.”
“Come here.” His warm arm snaked around my middle and he pulled me toward him, rolling on his side.
We were spooning before I could even think about it and I sucked in my breath. He didn’t feel like he was wearing clothes. Just underwear. But I wasn’t going to look or touch to see. I was dressed, so maybe he did have a shirt on, he was just exceptionally warm. But he felt like skin, and I could feel the bulge of his cock nestled up against my ass cheeks. It wasn’t erect, which was good. Because for a minute I had the crazy thought that I wanted him to turn me over and give me a rough, hard fuck, so that I would feel alive, and distracted from the pain, the anxiety. I wanted to take him into me and forget what I’d seen on that plane.
His body was big, muscular, and I couldn’t relax. Not when his breath was landing on my shoulder and I was waiting for him to get an erection. Then use it. My heart was racing and I knew that if he did, if we crossed that line so immediately, out of my distress from the crash and his isolation, I would be embarrassed the next day. Not to mention that it would be like cheating on Michael, even if so far our romantic relationship had been long distance. I still knew him, we’d grown up together. We had an understanding. I wasn’t sure near-death experiences exempted me from the rules of relationship behavior.
None of which mattered, because the stranger sounded on the verge of sleep when he asked, “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I closed my eyes and tried to fall back asleep.
His thumb was stroking my waist, and he had found his way under the shirt he’d dressed me in, so he was touching my bare flesh. It was comforting, his touch, and when his lips rubbed across my hair, I liked it. I waited for him to do something else, make another move, kiss my ear, my cheek, stroke my breast, but he didn’t. In a minute or two I realized he was asleep.
I was both relieved and disappointed.
Behind my tightly squeezed eyelids I saw him. And I saw blood. And I saw his eyes right in front of me as he cut off my air passage.
Yet I didn’t shift away from him.
I curled in closer.
CHAPTER THREE
This time, when the plane went down, I braced myself, determined to stay awake. I heard yelling, the screech of metal, and the pilot turning back to me with a grin, blood dripping from the crown of his head down over his face, into his eyes, covering his lips. I added my screams to the wild assault of sound around me as the plane nosedived, impact inevitable.
I jerked awake and felt both fear and pain rock my body. Blinking rapidly, I breathed in and out. I was in the stranger’s house. I was alive. I was on the floor. I could see straight under his bed to the plastic bins he had stored there. My fingers were trembling and my ankle was throbbing as I tried to steady myself. Just a dream.
The bed creaked and his head appeared. “You okay?”
“I had a nightmare,” I whispered.
His legs swung over the side and he stepped down onto the floor next to me. “It sounded like a bolt of thunder when you fell. I thought a bear was crashing through the front door.”
Glancing up I saw he was holding his rifle. Where the hell had that come from? “Just me,” I murmured. “No bears.” I sat up and tried to stand, wincing. Now my hip hurt on top of my other issues.
He reached for my hand and accidently brushed over my arm injury. “You’re bleeding again. Let me change your bandage.”
I felt sleepy and disoriented, freaked out by both my dream and the reality of where I was, what had happened. “I’m okay. We can do it in the morning.”
He tugged me up and I used my good knee to climb onto the bed. We both settled back down, though this time he lay on his back, away from me. My side of the bed felt lonely, the room dark, the weight of the blanket not enough to stave off the chill. It was so dark. A dark I had never known. The total absence of city lights outside the windows. Where was the moon? It would have reassured me in some way. I wondered where my cell phone was. Still on the plane, in my bag, I imagined. That was adding to my sense of anxiety. I was so used to checking it, to having access to everyone instantly. It was a weird and uncomfortable feeling.
I was where no one knew that I was. If the stranger hadn’t found me I would have woken up only to freeze to death. The thought made me shudder.
But I was so exhausted it wasn’t long before my eyes were drifting closed and my breathing was slowing down to match his. I liked hearing us both take air in and out, a steady harmony between myself and another human being. Thank God I wasn’t alone. I wouldn’t have the first idea about how to survive if I were alone. Even if I did, I thought that I would go crazy without someone to talk to. I don’t know how he did it- endless days of solitude. I turned on my side, face away from him, but I did shift my body slightly in his direction, wanting his warmth. His confidence. It allowed me to relax enough to slide back into sleep.
Only to wake up again on the floor. And this time, the impact was so jarring I came to consciousness already crying from the pain. I’d landed with my injured leg beneath me.
He was up and off the bed immediately, crouching down next to me, his hand stroking the hair off my forehead. “It’s okay. I’ll get you more Advil.”
He started to scoop me up in his arms under my ass, but I shook my head. “Just leave me on the floor. I don’t want to roll off again.” I couldn’t even remember what I’d been dreaming about that time. I’d never fallen out of bed before, but now it was obvious that the plane crash was dominating my dreams, and I was free-falling figuratively and literally.
“You’ll freeze to death on the floor. There’s no way.”
Even when I protested again through my tears, he continued to lift me up. “Please. It hurts too much, I don’t want to fall again.” I’d never be able to sleep, terrified I was going to roll off the bed. My leg was throbbing and I felt stiff and sore everywhere.
“I have a solution. It will be fine.” He set me on the bed and I could see the whites of his eyes as he leaned over me. “Don’t argue with me. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
It was a tone that brooked no argument. I shut my mouth immediately. He disappeared and a small light shone over by the kitchen sink. I heard him rattle pills out of the bottle. He brought two over to me and helped me sit up so I could take them with water. I lay back down with a sigh. He didn’t get into bed right away. He went over by the door and came back with something. With the light on, I could see what it was- rope.
“What’s that for?” I asked, confused.
“I’m going to tie you to me. So if you start to roll, my weight will keep you on the bed.” He wasn’t looking at me, but at the length of rope in his hand, tying off a knot as he walked.
A shiver crept over me. The idea made sense but… he couldn’t be serious. I couldn’t spend the night tied to him. Like a captive. Or his submissive lover. Just the thought of that made my body flush with arousal. A wet trickle slowly soaked the front of my panties, startling me. What the hell was wrong with me? That shouldn’t turn me on. Yet it did. There was no denying it. Maybe because I was afraid and in pain and I needed him to take charge, to be in control. To distract me. He climbed onto the bed, stalking toward me on his knees, rope in hand, and I felt my nipples harden, heard my breath catch. My earlier desire to have him take me, to plunge his cock into me, returned fast and furious. Only this time, that unexpected urge was for him to tie me to him, then roll me onto my stomach and take me from behind.
His expression didn’t look like that’s what he had in mind. He just looked sleepy, effortlessly sexy, but not sexual. Not preda
tory. He tossed the circle he’d created over my head, making me feel like a cattle that had been roped. Then he put it over his head. “Lay down, like we were before.”
I did, heart racing. When I curled on my side, the rope was an uncomfortable lump, but I wasn’t about to complain. Nor did I really want to sleep on the cold floor. So this was my best option, even if it was unorthodox and made me feel a little like his prisoner.
He tightened the rope snugly, and this time when his body aligned with mine, I felt the unmistakable press of a hard cock into my flesh. So he was turned on by using the rope too, by binding me to him. That made me fiercely pleased. I wanted him to feel the things I was feeling, because they were inexplicable and unexpected and maybe even inappropriate. Yet for some reason, still fighting through the tail end of the worst day of my life, it mattered that he not find me completely pathetic. That he saw me as a woman, not a victim, or a liability, or a burden. That he found me as attractive as I found him, on a fundamental, base level.
When his arm wrapped around me, and his palm splayed out on my belly, I sighed. But I wasn’t sure what emotion it expressed. Maybe it was just bone weariness. Everything on my body hurt. My heart was heavy with worry. But the stranger served as a pleasant distraction from all of those. I could concentrate on the weight of his warm hand, and the hard press of his cock against me. His scent was that of sleep and outdoors. It was like the exterior air clung to his disheveled hair. I wanted to touch him as casually as he touched me so I placed my hand over top of his. I almost laced my fingers through his but I resisted the urge.
This time when I drifted into sleep my dreams were erotic. The stranger stroked and pinched my nipples first, in the exact position that we’d fallen asleep in. It was like my dream took up where reality left off. In my sleep he did what I had been shocked to contemplate awake. He worked my nipples to hard peaks, his breathing warm on my neck, before his hand slid down my belly and into the sweatpants. The pad of his thumb stroked over my panties, circling my clit until I was shifting restlessly and giving soft groans of approval.
When he finally sank into my moist heat, I was ready for his touch, welcoming it. I scissored my legs a little so his finger would sink deeper inside me and my hips started to rock.
Then he pinched my clit and I came.
I jerked awake, head rising off the pillow. My inner thighs ached with the last laps of an orgasm. It was almost painful in its intensity, nothing aiding the throbbing crests, easing my swollen clit. My skin was hot, my neck damp under my hair. Holy shit. I’d just come in my sleep from dreaming about him touching me. My hand had fallen off of his, but that touch was still where it had been before, on my belly. He was breathing evenly, asleep. I relaxed in relief that I hadn’t woken him up.
Not that he had been able to read my thoughts. But I still would have been embarrassed, the humming aftershocks of my orgasm making me feel warm for the first time all day. I drifted back into sleep, into my sensual dreams of stroking fingers, and nibbling lips at my ear.
I woke up again to the feel of him trying to gingerly ease the rope over my head without waking me.
And the unmistakable scent of my own body on his fingertips.
It was instinctive to try to sit up and in doing so I caught the rope around my neck. My heart was hammering in my chest and I tried to shake off the dream, tried to assess what my body was doing, still aware of my lingering arousal in a way I didn’t want to be.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured in my ear. “I need to go chop some wood.”
Turning, I could see his face, so close to mine. It was strange to be so physically close to someone I didn’t know at all. I knew nothing about him. Not even his name. Had he touched me while I was sleeping? Now as his fingers worked to slide the rope up over my mouth, nose, eyes, I couldn’t smell anything but skin. Just warm, male skin. There was no scent of me on him and I wondered if I had imagined that. Had it all been part of the confusion of my dream spilling over into my first few waking seconds? I didn’t know.
“It’s okay,” I said, swallowing hard, and lifting my head so he could finish skimming the rope off. “I was having a bad dream.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Is that what it was?”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Had he heard me? Had I been moaning in ecstasy? God, I hoped not. So I just nodded. Then in an effort to change the subject, “Did my phone get left on the plane?”
His eyes flickered with an emotion I couldn’t pin. “I brought it with us, but it won’t work here, you know. There are no cell towers. I grabbed your wallet too.”
That was a huge relief, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because having those things proved I had a life back in Seattle. That I was Laney Turner, with people who would be missing me. That at some point, I could get somewhere and be able to reach out to the world with my phone. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’ve done. You saved my life.”
Lying in bed next to someone was so intimate that it didn’t feel strange when he reached out and touched my lip, dragging his thumb across the flesh. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I found you.”
“Me too.” It seemed like he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to. But he didn’t. So I asked, “How long have you lived here?”
“Five years.”
“Where are you from?”
“Anchorage.” His hand shifted to cup my cheek. “And you’re from Seattle. It doesn’t mean anything. You don’t need to ask me inane questions to make small talk.”
That was just rude, and arrogant. Or maybe it was brilliant. I didn’t know, but my response was negative, bristly. “Where we’re from contributes to how we became who we are.”
“Do you want to get to know me, Laney?” he murmured.
“Yes.” I did. I was curious. I was grateful to him and attracted to him and all of my jumbled emotions were overwhelming me. The fear that niggled at the back of my consciousness begged to be soothed. I wanted to know that he was the decent man I wanted him to be. That there weren’t literal skeletons in his closet.
“But you think it will make you feel better, and it won’t. Just decide who I am- it’s what most people do anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. The rope was above my head on the pillow and his hand was still wrapped around it, his other hand sliding up my cheek and into my hair. I had the sudden sense, looking into his eyes, that he could snap my neck right now. He could just yank my hair back, slit my throat. Strangle me with the rope. Tear a piece of my face off with his teeth. The graphic thoughts startled me. I had never been one for macabre voyeurism. I didn’t watch excessive crime TV and I didn’t walk around sure everyone around me was determined to harm me. It was the plane crash. It was the eyes of death on the pilot. It was fucking with my head.
It was all the blood.
The isolation. The staring death in the face and surviving with nothing more than a sprained ankle and some cuts and bruises. Probably a minor concussion. Which might explain why I said the next thing I did.
“What if I decide you’re the man who wants to kiss me right now?”
His eyes flicked down to my lips and his grip in my hair tightened. “I would say that I am that man already. But you almost died. You just want comfort. You don’t want me. Not really.”
I splayed my hand out on his bare chest. He frustrated me. “Yes, I do want comfort. But that’s not it. I just think… it would feel good,” I finished lamely.
“Good isn’t good enough. There’s no point unless it’s going to be fucking amazing.” He sat up rapidly, yanking the rope away from me. “I live my life with discipline and control. You’re tempting, but I haven’t decided yet if you can handle me.”
Even as I knew there was probably some serious truth to his statement, I still balked. “I can handle you.”
He smiled, a slow seductive smirk that turned my insides to melted chocolate. I could still feel the dampness of my inner thighs.
“You ca
n handle your version of me. But in reality, I’m not so sure.”
“Let me try.” I explored his chest then touched his beard, wanting to feel if it was soft or scratchy.
He grabbed my hand. “Don’t touch me. Not unless I give you permission.”
Jerking my hand back like it had been scalded, I felt my cheeks heat up. I was sorry I had brought up kissing me. He made me feel foolish, desperate. “You don’t ask my permission when you touch me,” I said defensively. He’d made me feel stupid and I wanted to put up a fight, show him he was a hypocrite.
But he didn’t protest. He just said, “That’s why you can’t handle me. I make the rules. You obey them. That’s the way this will work if you want me to kiss you.”
I blinked at him. I didn’t know what to say because I wasn’t sure what I felt. After a pause where we studied each other, he let go of my hair and pulled back.
“That’s what I thought.” He got out of bed, dropping the rope on the nightstand.
In nothing but his boxer briefs, he walked across the room, and bent over to throw some wood on the stove. His ass was firm, tight. His legs were strong, with a sprinkling of light hair across them. His back had muscular definition everywhere it should or could. His biceps rippled. He was everything you would expect in a man who did manual labor all day, every day. Maybe he was right. Maybe I couldn’t handle him. I wasn’t exactly known as the seductress in my social circle. I was too sweet to be a vixen, a Taylor Swift blending into a world of florals and beanies. The nice girl. Who made safe albeit boring choices. I drifted through life, never taking risks.
Flying to Alaska had been the most adventurous thing I’d ever done. And look what that had gotten me.
“Can you take me to town today?” I asked, sitting up, and pushing my dark hair back off my face. If he didn’t want me, I wanted away from him. I wanted that anyway. I wanted to go home. Forget any of this had ever happened.