Crash

by Drew Jordan

  It wasn’t until I stood, and I saw the stream in the snow below, and I yanked my pants back up, legs icy cold, that I felt the sting of humiliation. I wasn’t sure why. It was just overwhelming. All of it. I felt a failure for surviving but not knowing how to be a survivalist.

  Back in the cabin, I paced, dragging my bad ankle along behind me, welcoming the pain. As punishment. For living. For being so dependent. For having chosen the path of least resistance in my life. My response to a lonely, neglectful childhood? Pretend it hadn’t happened. Play the role of dutiful daughter in a perfect-to-the-outsider family. But not so dutiful that I was successful. My rebellion had been underachievement. Never stress myself, never push myself, stay far, far away from the corporate world of Dean and Mom.

  I pulled my cell phone back out and turned it on, unable to resist. I stared at pictures until my eyes filled with tears that I desperately wanted to shed. I turned it off. Put it in the drawer of the nightstand. There was a bottle of hand lotion in there. I pictured the stranger, naked, filling his hand with lotion and wrapping his fist around his cock. The image startled me. I wasn’t the most highly sexual person, and I never walked around picturing guys jerking off. But all my senses, emotions, were heightened here. I felt more… alive. More aware of my body, every inch, every function. And it was terrifying. I didn’t know what to do with all those feelings.

  When the stranger finally returned, I was standing in the middle of the room, convulsively closing my fists and opening them again.

  He stopped inside the door, reaching back to lock it behind him. His hands were covered in blood, as was his jacket. It looked like someone had taken a bucket of it and tossed it onto him. Or that he’d been elbow deep in a bear carcass. My stomach clenched. He stared at me without speaking as he removed his boots and his jacket, which he hung on the hook seemingly without concern for the state of it. He smelled sweet, tinny. Like the air around me on the plane. I fought the urge to panic. To run. Where the hell would I run to? On a bad ankle? And what was I running from? Reality?

  “You hungry?” he asked, casually. He strode over and put more wood on the stove. It was down to embers.

  I had noticed the cold, but it hadn’t occurred to me to feed the stove. Useless. I nodded. “Yes. I didn’t want to just dig around in your cupboards but I did eat some crackers.”

  “It’s fine. You can eat whatever you want.” He went over to the sink and did something that made water run.

  His back blocked the movement so I couldn’t tell what he’d done and I was too proud to ask. Or stupid.

  “I’ll cook you some protein. I’m sure you could use it. But let’s clean up first.” He put pots of water on the stove after he washed up his arms with a bar of soap. Then he stripped his outer flannel shirt off and tossed it over the back of the chair. I wondered how he did laundry. Nothing was the way I accustomed to doing it.

  “Would you have killed that bear if I hadn’t gone outside?” I asked, because it was bothering me. I was responsible for that animal dying. Because I hadn’t listened to Jason.

  He nailed me over his shoulder with his icy stare. “When a bear is sniffing around my property, I scare it off. If it comes back, I kill it. It’s not your fault.” Then he peeled his T-shirt off. He dipped his head under the running water and soaked his head. He lathered his hands with the bar of soap and washed his hair.

  I wanted to offer to help, but why would he need my help? I studied his muscular back, the nape of his neck, the way the corded muscles rippled as he washed his hair quickly and roughly, movements jerky. “What did you do with the bear?” I asked.

  He stood up, flipping his hair back, swiping at his eyes. Droplets ran down into his beard, down his back, over his shoulders. He made no move to grab a towel. If he had towels. “What did I do with it? I peeled its skin, like an orange, taking it off almost perfectly inside out, all intact. That takes time. Then I disposed of his organs so no other animals would come sniffing around it. I cut his flank off.” He pointed to his hips. “Here. And here. Is that what you want to know?”

  I nodded, chastened. “Let me cook dinner.” I didn’t want to be a burden any more than I already was.

  “Sure. But lay on the bed first. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He pulled a towel out of a drawer and instead of using it on himself, brought it to the nightstand, along with one of the pots of water heating up on the stove.

  I did what he said, climbing carefully on the bed, then lying down, heart racing. He took my shirt off, gentle hands at odds with his calluses, with his bear bone breaking skills, and his stern expression. He still hadn’t dried his hair and it was starting to curl at the nape of his neck. The strands were still unruly but he smelled clean. Droplets landed on my chest when he bent over me, and I lowered my arms again docilely, no longer uncomfortable with my nudity in front of him. His gaze stroked over my breasts, but he gave no other indication that I was naked. His control was amazing. I could tell he was attracted to me, and he was a man who had been alone for an indeterminate amount of time. But he kept his touch appropriate, easing my pants down, leaving my panties in place.

  Then he took the towel, dipped it in the water, rubbed the bar of soap over it, and started at my face, washing it the way you would a child. I closed my eyes briefly when he ran the softness over my lids, but otherwise, I watched him, sinking in to the intimacy of his touch. Human touch. It was immensely comforting to feel his hands skimming over me, the warm towel wiping away from dried tears, facial oil and dirt, the sour stench of sweat and fear. He glided over my neck, down my shoulder, dipping into the hollow of my clavicle bone. He lifted one arm over my head, and went down the whole length of it. I had a self-conscious moment about the downy hair now sprouting in my armpit, but he gripped me harder, not allowing me to clamp my arm down at my side.

  He went back for fresh water, and the once again warm cloth went straight to my right breast. He rubbed, and his hand cupped the soft flesh, his thumb brushed over the nipple, fabric between his skin and mine. It made my breath catch, the sensation arousing me whether he intended it to or not. He went under the breast, not reacting to my rising chest, my hardening nipples, my shallow breathing. Then he went to the other side and repeated the process. Goose bumps rose on my skin, and I sighed, enjoying the way my nerve endings responded to his touch, firing up endorphins and easing me into relaxation. It felt good to get clean, to have the warm water heating my flesh ever so briefly, and leaving moist scented skin in its wake, instantly chilling.

  When he moved down over my abdomen, I shivered when he dipped his finger into my belly button. It tickled and I squirmed a little. His hand landed heavy on my hip, stilling my movement. Then he spread my legs. He touched my inner thighs, and I couldn’t help it, I gave a little moan. It was a tantalizing tease. But he ignored the sound and finished, down each leg, behind my knees, between my toes. I wanted to giggle at that, but I bit my lip to prevent it escaping. He had removed the bandage on my ankle and he rewound it now, tightly compressed. He put a new bandage on my arm. Then he went to the stove and got a new pot of hot water.

  “What’s that for?” I didn’t have any parts left to wash, save one, and I was certain I couldn’t lie still and let him take a cloth to me there, like he was a nurse, and I was an ancient patient, her sexuality and desirability long gone.

  “Your hair. Come to the edge of the bed.” He gave those instructions then he didn’t wait for me. He pulled me by the armpits so that my head was just dangling over the side of the bed. The stranger got on his knees next to the bed and he carefully pulled all the dirty strands of my hair free of my neck and shoulders so they puddled over his fingers.

  I fought the angle, not wanting to let my head fall back freely, but it was too uncomfortable. Plus his fingers wound tighter into my hair when I fought, so I gave up and let myself drop backward. I stared up at him upside down. I had a view of his chest and the underside of his chin. I counted the water droplets sluggishly making their way down his
abdomen, to disappear in his jeans. I wanted to follow those rivulets with my tongue, to see what his skin would taste like. Blood?

  In this position I imagined him peeling me like he had the bear. Like an orange, he’d said. Just tear from scalp to toes, turn me inside out until everything in me was exposed and he would hang me out to dry. I’d never shown the true inside of me to anyone.

  He used his hand to cup some water and pour it over my hair repeatedly until it was damp in most places and the blood was rushing to behind my eyes. I closed them while he scrubbed the soap over my hair, without ever pulling the roots. It was pleasant, soothing, even when I grew lightheaded. After he rinsed, he dried it a little, squeezing the ends of my strands. Then he paused, doing nothing, still gripping those ends in the towel. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “What?” I asked.

  His expression was fierce, filled with lust. I felt a jolt of responding desire, immeasurably pleased that despite my inadequacies as a survivalist, he still wanted me. It would have been the final kick to my ego if he hadn’t, if my appearance didn’t at least tempt him, the man who lived alone in the woods.

  “I’m thinking that you could have been anyone on that plane. Old, a kid, a man. And yet, you’re you. A beautiful woman. I feel like you’re an offering from the gods. One I want to accept.”

  I tried to sit up so I could turn my head, so I could tell him that he could have me. That I needed him to take me. That I had to feel alive, that I had to reconcile myself with the body that I primarily chose to ignore, never putting it through anything uncomfortable. I eased my body through every day with lattes and gentle bike rides, with hot showers and scented lotions, and a tangle free hairbrush. I never pushed it, I never felt pain or challenge or even the subtleties of hair raising on skin, or awareness of how my joints did their job constantly, without complaint. I wanted to sit up and see his eyes head on and see his appreciation.

  But he curled his fingers around my hair, yanking my head back down, drawing at the roots for the first time, causing my eyes to fill with moisture.

  “I didn’t say you could sit up. Do you understand?”

  I lay still, head caught, not mine to control. This was what he’d been telling me before. If I wanted him to cross that line and take us into sex, I had to be willing to agree to this. His dominance. I thought about it, my nipples hard, my inner thighs aching, wet with desire. For him. I was already under his control, technically. I couldn’t do anything without his permission and I was vulnerable. The one who needed him for survival. It was in his power to drop me in the bush and let me die. But he wouldn’t do that. I knew it. I could feel it deep inside. That whoever he was, whatever he had done, he wasn’t a sociopath. He was asking permission to indulge his sexual preferences with me.

  “How does this work?” I whispered.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I already told you. You do what I say.”

  I was dizzy, spots dancing in front of my eyes, but it didn’t occur to me to complain. I didn’t mind. There was something erotic about the rush of my own blood, the steely grip of his large hands. The real world seemed far, far away. There was no escape from here, not anytime soon. I wanted his comfort, his touch. He wasn’t going to give me a hug. But I wanted that connection to another human being. And what he was offering was something I never would have considered back in Seattle but seemed compelling, intriguing, here, in his bed, in nothing except for my panties. His hand in my hair after he had gently washed it.

  “What if I don’t like something?” I asked.

  “Tell me. I’ll stop.”

  Then he bent over and brushed his lips over mine. They were soft, and confident, caressing. My face was buried in his chest from the position, and I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him. Of skin, sweat, soap. He was inherently masculine, my mountain man, and I felt the very intrinsic feminine response of my body to him. I wanted to be possessed by him, invaded, dominated. I’d already handed over my life to him and now I wanted to matter to him. I wanted to be important. I didn’t want him to regret that I had landed in his lap, an accident of fate. I wanted to be that gift from the gods.

  My senses swam and I saw spots behind my eyes, as I kissed him back, gasping when he teased my lips open with his tongue. It was an exploratory kiss, kinder than I’d been expecting. It didn’t last long. He pulled back. Then he raised my head using nothing but my hair and his arm strength. He tugged up, then pushed forward until I was in a sitting position on the bed, all the blood rushing out of my head. My mouth got hot and my vision blurred.

  I couldn’t see for a second.

  But I heard him. In my ear. A rough murmur. Max. My soon-to-be lover. A man with a past sadder than my own. Who was strong enough to be alone with his thoughts. Something I could never do.

  “We won’t start with the ropes,” he said. “But we’ll finish with them.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My vision cleared, the black spots dancing in front of my eyes receding as I sat up very still, in the position he had put me in.

  It was a moment of total clarity. I wasn’t strong enough to hike forty miles, or skin a bear, but I could take whatever he needed to dish out. In submission, I could find my strength. And I could satisfy him.

  I wasn’t sure anything would be sexier than satisfying Max.

  “Do we need to talk about things? Have a safe word or share what we like?” I asked, my words sounding breathless and anxious, yet eager. Set limits. Establish fantasies. That seemed important, even if I wasn’t totally sure what I liked. My sexual history was a flash of pleasant encounters, nothing more, nothing less. Soft rhythms, open thighs, warm skin. Like soaking in a bubble bath. Not the breathless thrill of a roller coaster.

  What I wanted was for him to take me to the top slowly then shove me over the peak. Then before I could catch my breath, do it all over again.

  Max lifted my hair off my shoulder and ran his hand across my skin. “This isn’t a club or some kind of formal arrangement. There is nothing official here. We’re alone and I just want you and I assume you want me.”

  “I do want you.” The way he stroked his fingers back and forth on my skin made goose bumps appear in a rapid trail behind his touch. I shivered. His presence was invasive and I liked that tension, that distraction. “But I’m afraid.”

  I didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t afraid of him. Not all the time, anyway.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Being hurt. Being inadequate. Being alone. The same things I had been afraid of since I was four years old.

  I swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re so soft,” he murmured, bending his head down, his lips brushing over my flesh. “So delicate. Don’t be afraid, Laney. I’m not going to break my new toy.”

  I turned, wanting to see him. A drop of water ran down my forehead to my brow and I ignored it. The outline of his nose was inches from my eyes as he lifted his head from my skin. His gaze locked with mine. Fear didn’t matter. Neither did the insistent underlying tension that I couldn’t totally trust him. I moistened my bottom lip and said, “Tell me what to do.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Lie down on your back and let me see you.”

  He’d already seen me. But I eased back without question, head on his pillow. My body was still weary, ankle aching. My muscles in my shoulders were tense and I took a deep breath, forcing myself to loosen up for him. My hands fell slack, my legs sank apart as he studied me, head to toe. Did he like what he saw? I couldn’t tell. His eyes were shuttered, expression enigmatic. But he reached out and traced the contours of my face, my cheek, brushing over my lips. I turned into his touch, the cat in the sun spot, questing, relaxing, rubbing.

  With one of his hands so gently stroking, my lips parted on a warm sigh, I wasn’t expecting the sudden hard pinch of my nipple from his other hand and I gasped, startled. The sharp pain seemed to pull my focus away from my throbbing ankle. The pain drew from deep inside
me, and both my breasts firmed, aching for attention. His hand fell away though to stroke across my waist, while his lips dropped down onto my neck.

  I breathed deeply and I could have sworn I smelled the blood still clinging to him. The crack of his gun replayed in my head and I shivered, wanting to touch him, wanting comfort. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Max caressed my skin, rushing his hands over me everywhere, his lips tracing a gentle path over my shoulder, the swell of my breast, my jaw, my earlobe. I hadn’t expected him to be tender. It wasn’t a hug, but it was better. It felt devotional. Like he was savoring the feel of my body, my skin.

  The room was quickly darkening as dusk turned to night and I sighed, tears at the back of my eyes. I needed this. I needed him.

  “You’re so warm,” he murmured, his beard scratching along my cheek. “Smooth. The only time I get to touch soft, warm things is when I’m tending the dogs. Or after I hunt. And they cool so quickly, it’s not the same.”

  I stiffened involuntarily. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. He meant when he touched the corpses of dead animals. He meant I felt like creatures he killed. I started to shift away from him, unnerved. I had almost forgotten he was strange, my stranger. But that reminded me with crystal clarity that he lived in almost total isolation. His social skills weren’t going to be impeccable. He didn’t mean anything by it other than a sort of sideways compliment.