by Drew Jordan
But I wasn’t ready. I’d structured my life so that I was surrounded by a glass display case, not taking any risks. Even coming to Alaska hadn’t been about taking a risk really. I’d been seeking an answer. Running away. The easy route. Find a childhood friend. Marry him. Have him tell me what to do.
How long did I have with the stranger? A week? Two, tops? Before the snow fell hard and he could drive me into town on his snow machine. It wasn’t much time to push myself. To see what I could do, learn. What I could endure physically. I wanted to earn the title of survivor, and by doing more than baking him cookies.
“I want to handle it.”
“You will.” He casually started stroking across my clitoris. “But if you want a fire in the stove, you have to chop the wood, and before you chop it, you have to find a log. One step at a time, Laney.”
I closed my eyes because I couldn’t see him anyway and I wanted to concentrate on his touch. He thought I was impatient. I wanted instant gratification. He was right. I didn’t see why it was a flaw to want something when you wanted it. Why he thought it was more glorified to have to bust your ass first to get it. That seemed like an unnecessary hardship. But at the same time, I was understanding the appeal of pushing yourself, of seeing what you were capable of as a person. So I didn’t protest, or argue, or beg.
I submitted, determined to find my strength.
“Do you want to come?” he asked.
I nodded.
He slid two fingers inside me in response, stroking steadily.
But then I thought about what he had said. I thought about the thrill of denial. Of waiting until I couldn’t wait any more. “Actually, no, I don’t,” I told him. “Not yet.”
Even as I spoke, I moved my hips, taking him deeper into me, to further arouse and torture myself.
“When?”
“When you tell me.”
“Perfect.” He slowed his rhythm then increased it. Slowed it again.
Then he loosened the rope, eased me onto my back, and bent his head down to me. His tongue worked over my clit, and I cried out. I wasn’t going to be able to control myself and I clenched my thighs tightly, pushing at his shoulders. “Stop, please. I’m going to come.”
“No, you’re not. I didn’t tell you that you could. Trust yourself,” he murmured, raising his head to look up at me. “Control your body. I know you can do it.”
I breathed in and out, hard, fighting the convulsions that seemed to have already started. I squeezed my vaginal muscles, I locked eyes with him, and I bit my lip, tearing into the tender flesh with my teeth to give myself a diversion, a new focus. After a few perilous seconds, I knew I’d been successful. Even while my body was tight, my inner thighs throbbing with the need for release, I felt a flush of triumph. I could actually feel the heat blooming in my cheeks, in my neck, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
It gave me exactly what I’d been craving- the feeling of being well and truly alive. Like I had standing in the yard, the cold air stinging my face, the night sky opening up over my head.
He smiled up at me, and while it had a hint of a smirk, I sensed more pride and deep, male satisfaction than anything else. “Good girl,” he murmured. “I knew you could do it.”
I could. I could do anything.
He pulled me into his embrace, lifting my leg over his. The sweet slick moisture from my inner thighs dampened his hip, and his erection. I could feel him there, aligned with me, but not in position to enter me. It was a titillating, heart racing tease, and as he kissed my forehead, I felt a wave of possessiveness. He was mine. For now, for this moment, in this cabin, he was mine.
“Goodnight, Laney.”
I studied his face, running my hand down his cheek, over his beard, across his jawline. “Good night, Sir Stranger.”
He laughed softly. When he rolled over and turned the light off, I was left half on him and half off, legs drawn wide, body tingling and taut with desire.
Long after he fell into sleep, I lay there, listening to him breathe, enjoying the feel of my skin over his even if it was just my calf. He was at least letting me touch him. He had pulled all the blankets firmly up over us and made sure I was still secure in his rope.
I felt content. I shouldn’t, given the dead bodies on that plane, and the fact that my family and friends must be worried sick.
But I hadn’t felt this close to someone since Trent. Before it had all gone wrong. Before the restraining order.
I didn’t dream at all that night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Change of plans,” he told me first thing in the morning, when I was still groggy and taking a sip of the coffee he’d handed me.
“What do you mean?”
“The snow melted.”
I glanced out the window, dismayed. Then I wasn’t sure if I was dismayed because he couldn’t take me to town, or because he could. I bit my tongue and waited for him to finish, my thoughts scaring me.
“But we’re due a big storm in three days, so I need to bring in some fish today for the dogs.”
“Oh. Okay.” So it had nothing to do with a trip to town. Not everything was about me. I sipped the coffee. No cream. I wanted to ask for sugar, but I didn’t want to be demanding. The thought made me smile. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
It was a stupid question. I would be more of a hindrance than a help.
“Do you know how to clean a fish?” He wasn’t sitting down at the table with me. He was already moving around getting dressed.
I watched him pulling on his pants. His body really was beautiful, all ridges and planes and smooth, hard skin. He turned and caught me staring. His eyebrows went up as he reached for his flannel shirt.
“No,” I said. “I don’t. But I can learn.”
“I’m hoping to put up a hundred silver salmon by tomorrow. This is the last run for the year.”
My eyes widened. That was a lot of fish. “The dogs eat that much fish? They must have really silky coats.”
He gave me a look of confusion. “It’s a long winter.”
“Fish oil is good for hair and skin,” I added, in case he didn’t understand.
But he didn’t respond to that. “You can pull the fish from the boat so I can cut them. If I don’t have to keep bending over it will go faster for me.”
“Okay, I can do that.” I didn’t want to, but it was the least I could do considering he was feeding and clothing me. Or unclothing me. I sat there drinking my coffee and watched his skin disappear under layers of cotton. He didn’t seem remotely affected by what had gone down between us the night before. I was acutely aware of my body, of the constantly present arousal he had created, that simmered low, like an electrical current under my skin. It hummed and when he was near, it rose in intensity, a high-pitched whine demanding attention.
His indifference and nonchalance was maddening. I wanted him to want the way I did.
“Get dressed then,” was his only response. “I’d appreciate the help.”
I did and after eating some dry cereal with the remains of my coffee we headed out into the sunshine. It was warmer, the snow definitely gone, the landscape soggy, the summer foliage looking like someone had dumped a bucket of muddy water on it. I squinted, wishing I had my sunglasses. The red pair. They were really cute. I liked to wear them with floral dresses and striped ballet flats. Mixing patterns with abandon was a signature style of mine. It seemed so irrelevant now, here, but I was swimming in the stranger’s pants and shirt. I’d rinsed out my bra and was wearing it again. There were just things that couldn’t be done without a bra and manual labor was one of them. But I’d never worn a bra without panties and it felt odd, decadent, the goal clearly to make me constantly aware of my vagina. Of sex. It was succeeding.
I didn’t feel like me entirely. I felt disheveled and earthy. Sloppy. Yet I felt highly sexual. Sexy.
As we moved down the porch, the dogs jumped and whined and he turned and held his hand out for me. “Be caref
ul. The ground is soft. I don’t want you turning your ankle.”
How pathetic that such a simple gesture was received by me like it was gold. I had a tendency to do that. I knew I did. I saw men as saviors. It was why I chose to stay single for long stretches of time. I had to be careful who I gave devotion to and I didn’t always trust my judgment. My track record wasn’t the best. But here I could trust the stranger and create an environment that was pleasurable and satisfying while I was there, or I could distrust him and create an atmosphere between us that was suspicious and volatile. I would much rather have this- his care and concern and me believing in the sincerity of it.
“Thanks,” I said and gave him a flirty smile, squeezing his hand.
His head tilted. He dropped my hand.
I was disappointed. I had wanted him to kiss me. He noticed my face fall.
“Later, Laney. I promise I’ll give you what I want. But life in Alaska requires discipline. We only have ten days of fall in total before winter hits. I need to fish and hunt or winter will mean starvation along with snow.” He tweaked my nose. “So don’t pout. It’s not attractive.”
“I wasn’t pouting.” Much. Annoyed, I followed him. Asking for a little smile here and there from him wasn’t being petulant. “It’s not like I asked you to spend the whole day in bed with me. I understand you live a subsistence lifestyle. I’m not stupid.”
“Feisty. I like it,” he murmured.
But that was all he said and I could either go back to the cabin and pout and confirm for him that I was useless or I could suck it up and continue on to the river with him. I chose to follow. I also chose to believe that he was flirting. He didn’t really think I was feisty, and I doubted if he would like it if I was full of sass. He liked to be in control and he didn’t like unnecessary words. So I wouldn’t give him any.
The river was loud. I heard it before we saw it. It was wide and clear and beautiful. I hadn’t really given much thought to the beauty of Alaska, I had merely been concerned with packing warm clothes, not studying up on the area. I regretted that now, of course. There was no Google on my phone. There were only my own eyes and the stranger, and his lessons seemed to be done for the day. He had fallen into a brooding silence. He helped me into a small motorboat. Then we went down the river for about ten minutes. I wondered how far we had gone. Could we go forty miles to town in a motorboat? It seemed possible. But I didn’t ask. Instead, I just wished I had a hair tie, because I was trying to take in the scenery but constantly getting hit in the eyes by my own hair. A hairbrush would be nice too.
He slowed the engine as we came up on a small wheel and basket type of thing and reached out for a rope to pull the boat in line with the side. I could see a whole pile of fish flipping around in a box on the end. The wheel turned, the basket scooped fish. It was pretty cool actually, though that was definitely a lot of fish. The dogs would be happy.
“Take this like this. Grab and flip.” He demonstrated hooking a fish and tossing it into the boat.
I jumped a little as the fish slid towards me. He gave me a second hook. I took it tentatively. It was lethal looking. I hadn’t dressed warmly enough for the windy boat ride and I attributed my shiver to that. In the sun with the boat idle, I guessed the temperature was in the fifties. Testing the weight of the hook I scooted down the bench while he started tossing fish rapidly. I leaned over and arched my arm, feeling the hook sink into the flesh of the fish. It was unnerving. I lifted and it dangled in the air as I studied it. The fish was staring at me.
“What is this again?”
“A silver salmon.” He worked rapidly, the fish a blur as he transferred them quickly from box to boat. “The chum run is next week then that’s it until spring.”
I tried to shake the fish off the hook but it stuck. “How do I get it off?”
“Like this. Flick your wrist.” He demonstrated.
This time, the fish plopped onto the floor. “Bye, fishie.”
He made a sound of amusement. He had already moved about twenty fish, so I decided I needed to stop reflecting and start working. I snagged another fish, this time kind of enjoying the silver arch of the hook in the air. I could see why Freddy Krueger was into it. There was power behind it, and it tore through flesh with ease. I shivered again, at the oddity of my own thoughts.
“Do you think they feel pain?” I asked.
“Of course they feel pain,” he said. “What living creature doesn’t? We all have nerve endings. Imagine how dull life would be if we didn’t. If we never felt the softness of cotton or the tingle of a sponge scrubbing our skin.” He glanced over at me. “Or the sweet pain of an orgasm.”
My mouth flooded with saliva. “I wouldn’t know,” I said, and my voice was petulant again. I hated that.
“You’ve never had an orgasm?”
“You know what I mean.” I wasn’t going to say it. It was too close to begging for my comfort.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked, and his voice was low, hypnotic. “Is that what you want?”
“You know it is.”
“You don’t get your reward unless you do your work.”
I hooked another fish, swinging hard, making it bounce with the violence of my arch. He liked taunting me. It was starting to make me angry.
Then I realized I hadn’t given a single thought to the fish. My frustration made me uncaring. I shook the fish off quickly, disgusted with myself. I wanted to go home desperately, acutely. I wanted to lie in my soft bed alone, my greatest concern going to the store for more iced tea, the kind that comes in powder form and you mix it with water until it’s goopy and cloudy, but tastes like chemical heaven. Cool and refreshing. I wanted to be on solid ground, understanding who and what I was, not rocking back and forth in this boat, the wind chafing my cheeks.
The stranger finding me lacking.
I found a rhythm, bend, hook, stand, flick. One fish after the other, the pile in the boat growing higher, fish sliding down off the growing mound, covering my feet. They wiggled and stared and bled and I tried not to cry, tried not to feel sorry for them. For the men on the plane. For me.
When the last fish was on the boat, I sat back down on the bench, cheeks warm from exertion, arms aching, fingers a little numb. I couldn’t look at him. I was afraid I would break down. He moved in beside me, and I fought the urge to shift away. He touched my cheek and I shivered. His fingers were wet and the scent of salmon wafted up from the pile of fish next to us. It wasn’t a sexy or romantic setting in any way, yet I still felt instantly aroused by his touch.
He kissed my ear lobe, drawing goose bumps from me everywhere. “I want to fuck you so hard and so deep that I knock all the air out of you. But I don’t have any condoms and you haven’t been taking your pill correctly, have you?”
I shook my head. My shoulders sank in disappointment. He was right. I had been off schedule for three days now and it was probable I was ovulating or would be soon. I couldn’t get pregnant, obviously. Which meant he couldn’t come inside me, or even really enter me the way we both wanted him too. I appreciated his restraint, his respect for me. He had been celibate for who knew how long and I knew he wanted me. Yet he was maintaining control for more than one reason and that made me both frustrated and grateful.
“What should we do about it?” he asked, and I knew it wasn’t a question. It was a test of some kind.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I could…” For some reason I couldn’t say it out loud. I couldn’t say that we could give each other oral sex and find satisfaction that way. For all the naughty he drew out of me, I also found myself reverting back into shyness. I felt sixteen with him, a novice. In need of guidance, instruction. A sexual awakening.
“You could what?”
I shrugged again, turning a little. His light blue eyes pierced me. He looked feverish, excited. I pulled back, away, unnerved. “Whatever.”
“You could whatever? That doesn’t sound all that exciting.” He sat up and reached ba
ck, yanking the cord on the motor. It started up, drowning out further conversation.
We rode in silence, and I looked out at the trees. When we docked back at his place, he cut the motor. “How about I whatever you?” he asked.
I just shrugged, hugging my arms over my chest. I felt tired and overwhelmed. The urge to go home, not to my apartment but to my real home, was so strong it was like I could feel myself in my parents’ house. Smell the astringent cleaner the housekeeper used. Hear the music of my little sister’s constant video games. Feel Dean’s arm around me.
The stranger leaned over and kissed me. It was a light, teasing, loving kiss. I sighed, melting into his embrace. How did he always seem to know what I needed? What I wanted? I wanted his tenderness right now.
“You’re so sweet,” he murmured. “You’re like a little box of sugar candy I’ve been given. Come inside and let me taste you.”
I arched toward him, a flower toward the sun. I felt the warmth of his approval, affection, and I thrived on it.
It was the trauma. The loneliness. I was used to being surrounded by people but here, he was it. I felt small, stupid for having undertaken this trip without knowledge of what the hell I was doing, and I needed him not to chastise me. I needed him like this, semi-smiling, looking happy to have me there.
I would have gone inside and let him do anything he wanted at that point. I would have got off from pleasing him alone.
But before we could go in, the fish had to be unloaded from the boat onto a sled. The dogs could be heard whining and howling. They must have been able to smell the haul.
“Keep unloading,” he told me. “I’ll bring a couple of dogs down to pull it.”
“Okay.” I moved fish methodically, better at it this time, my arm sore though. I liked that pain, the satisfaction that came from knowing I’d used my muscles. I was helping to feed the dogs, myself, him. I tried to put a name on him again, but I couldn’t. He seemed too rough for classic male names. Yet a hippie name didn’t seem like it would suit him either. He wasn’t trendy. Or Greek. Definitely nothing Russian or exotic. I didn’t know.