by Karina Halle
I almost laugh. He’s so over-the-top bothered by this I almost decide to push his buttons further. But that would probably mean going out to a movie with Neil and that’s the last thing I want. I’d rather lick an electrical socket.
“I’m going nowhere,” I tell them. “And nothing good is playing anyway.”
Mav seems to calm down and smiles at me. “That’s because all the stuff you like has been out for centuries.”
“Sometimes they play the classics,” Neil says but we both ignore him.
“I thought you had the day off,” I say to Mav.
He nods and moves past me, heading to the back room where we keep all the gear. “I do,” he says as he opens the door. “But a ranger over in Castlegar said there’s a woman who went for a ski and she lost her dog up on the mountains in Valhalla Provincial Park.”
“Do we normally rescue dogs?” I ask.
“No,” Neil pipes up.
“I do,” Mav tells me and disappears into the room. When he comes back out, he’s got a sleeping bag and a pack.
“Are you going for a long time?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Valhalla is a beast to traverse and I’m not allowed to take the helicopter for just a dog. There are cabins up there though, it’ll be fine.” He raises the pack. “And this is the special dog-rescue pack.”
“Can I go with you?” I don’t want him going off by himself. I mean, I know he could probably survive for weeks out in the mountains because he’s a fucking mountain man if nothing else, but even so, I want him near.
He studies me for a moment, head tilted. “If you want,” he finally says. His eyes go to Neil. “Take care of things while we’re gone, will you? You’re in charge.”
Neil nods and doesn’t say anything, probably happy that he gets to be in charge now. Mav hands me the sleeping bag and then goes back into the room to bring out another one, plus another pack, and a tent, “in case something goes wrong,” he says.
Then we’re off.
Castlegar is about an hour drive from North Ridge, and Valhalla is another hour north of that, and the two of us don’t talk much beyond the basics relating to the rescue. I know Mav has a dog of his own, and it makes my ovaries explode just knowing that he’s this big rough and rugged man who is willing to go up a mountain and risk his life to find someone else’s lost dog.
The dog in question goes by the name of Charles, and he’s a yellow lab who is usually really good in the snow (apparently he’s equipped with snow booties and a doggie jacket), but for whatever reason, the owner turned her back and lost track of him.
Now we’re standing with the owner in the parking lot at the park and she’s crying her eyes out, assuming she’ll never see Charles again.
“Not to fear,” Maverick says, bringing out a plastic container from his pack. “I have the no-fail rescue tool.”
The woman pauses her crying long enough for her to look over as Mav opens the top. Inside there’s stinky blue cheese, liverwurst, chorizo sausage, raw ground beef, and hot dogs. “He’ll smell this from miles away,” Mav says, assuring her.
As we start skiing in, I ask Mav, “If that’s what you packed for the dog, what did you pack for us?”
He grins at me over his shoulder. “Had I known you were coming with me tonight, I would have prepared a feast. As it is, you’ll have to put up with Maverick’s Famous Wild Stew.”
“What makes it famous enough for you to talk in third person?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
It takes two hours of skiing in complete backcountry, making a gradual ascent, before we get to the area where the woman lost her dog.
We both call out for Charles for a while, and Maverick tries to track the paw prints, which eventually disappear. With the stinky treats container out, wafting the smells into the wind, we do a lot of waiting. Then we keep going until night starts to fall.
In the past, being on the mountain at night would have given me the “okay, time to turn back” feeling. Maybe because in Aspen, we just weren’t called for that many night excursions, maybe because darkness falls faster the further north you go. But now, I’ve accepted it as part of the game, part of the job. And with Maverick by my side, I feel no fear at all.
We ski for another hour, calling for Charles as we go, heading for one of the cabins Maverick was talking about.
It’s basically a shanty, four wood walls, ceiling and floor to protect you from the elements. There are no windows, just a door. It looks like someone tried to cook something in the corner with a burner, the wood floor looks a little charred, but other than that, it’s totally empty.
But it’s dry and relatively clean so there’s that. And there’s an outhouse just outside, because as comfortable as I am around Mav, I’m not the peeing in your face kind of comfortable. Not yet, anyway.
“All right,” he says, dropping the packs and gear in the middle. “How about you set up our beds and I’ll get the famous stew going.”
I totally pick up on the fact that he said beds, plural. Not that I thought we’d be sharing a sleeping bag or anything like that, but, you know, it wouldn’t have been a terrible idea.
So while he starts unpacking the small camping stove, I roll out each sleeping mat and then lie the sleeping bags on top. Then I pull out the rest of the stuff, consisting of a few extra jackets and pants, gloves, toques, scarves, plus drinking water, purification tablets, Cliff bars and beef jerky, bags of powdered tea, milk and sugar, a stick of butter in a Ziploc bag, and a small bottle of whisky.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“Sherpa tea for dinner, whisky for afterward.”
“What’s Sherpa tea?”
He lights the stove and plunks a small saucepot on top. “Actually, give that to me now and some water; I’ll make us some before we eat.”
I hand him it all and watch as he puts the water on. When it starts to boil, he adds the powdered tea, milk. and sugar, stirring. I love watching him, his face lit by the lamp by his side, casting half of him in shadow. He looks like he’s in his element, like he was born to live in mountain-top shanties, cooking in the near dark.
When he’s done, he pours the mixture into two tin mugs and then finishes them off with a dollop of salted butter. “There,” he says. “That’s Sherpa tea.”
The mug is hot, so I wait a while to have a sip but when I do, my taste buds are blown away. I was fairly cold before, not achingly so but that cold that lingers just beyond your clothes, waiting to come in. This heats me up in a minute, plus the salty butter makes it extra satisfying.
I settle down on top of my sleeping bag, sitting down cross-legged, sipping the tea until it’s gone. Maverick heads out to clean the pot and comes back in, bringing out a package. He turns his back to me, as if he’s trying to keep it from my view. I look around him and peer at the label closer as he rips it open and pours it into the pot.
“Is that…freeze-dried stew?” I ask him. “From Cabela’s?”
He hesitates. Then, “Yup.”
“But I thought this was Maverick’s Famous Wild Stew.”
“It is.”
Okay, this is cute. “Are you trying to impress me?”
He smiles and, even with his face in profile, it seems to light up all the dark in the room. “Is it working?”
“Depends on what the stew tastes like.” I raise the empty cup of tea. “If it’s as good as this, then I’ll forgive you for trying to pass off prepackaged food as your own creation.”
“Hey, I add a secret ingredient.”
“Please don’t tell me that it’s love.”
“You’ll see.”
It doesn’t take long for me to see either. He spoons out the stew into the collapsible bowls, hands me a plastic spoon, and then brings out an eyedropper filled with orangey brown liquid.
“What is that?” I ask as he squirts them in my dish.
“Worcestershire and Cholula hot sauce. It’s what makes it Maverick’s Famous Wild Stew.”
&nb
sp; I laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says with a wink and sits down cross-legged right across from me, so the tips of our toes are occasionally pressing against each other.
While I do enjoy the stew, it’s this close proximity to Mav that my mind is really focused on. There’s a light, easy air between us at the moment, but even something as simple as his big toe brushing against mine and I have shivers crawling down my back, this slow-burning lust building inside my core. If I let it get out of control, it could burn down the entire cabin.
And he knows this. I can tell. The way he keeps looking at me and the way he keeps looking away. His gaze is raw, intense, coming from someplace deep. When our eyes meet, I feel something like prey, but prey that wants to be caught. That’s dying to be caught.
When we’re done, he brings out the whisky and both of us are drinking a little more than we should, taking long swigs out of the bottle and passing them to each other. Each time our fingers touch, and I so clearly remember the way his rough, calloused palms felt around my waist the other night. God, I want that again.
“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I ask, the cabin feeling extra warm, my head and heart drowsy.
He has the last sip of the bottle and turns it upside down and we watch as a single drop falls out onto the floor. Empty. “Well, providing we’re in good shape, we’ll get up at dawn and continue the search for Chucky.”
“Charles,” I correct, lifting up my sleeping bag and slipping inside. It’s too cold to get fully undressed (not that he would appreciate it—I had my tits hanging out for him the other night and he did nothing), so I’m in thermal leggings and a long-sleeved shirt.
“Right, Charles. Rather formal name for a dog, don’t you think?”
“This is coming from a guy who named his dog Chewie.”
“Hey, I told you the name has double meaning. She chews through everything and sounds like a Wookie.”
“So when can I come over and meet Chewie?” I ask innocently, as I pull up the edge of the sleeping bag to my chin.
“Anytime you want,” he says, getting into his own bag right beside me, nothing but a few inches between us.
I lie on my side and stare at him. “I’ll take you up on it, you know.”
He smiles back at me. “I have no doubt.” He leans over and flicks off the lantern light, plunging the room into black. The silence of the night feels heavier in the darkness. There’s only a faint wind that comes and goes, rustling the loose snow outside.
But I can’t sleep. I’m warm and somehow comfortable despite where we are, but I can’t sleep. Electricity crackles in the air, heavy, like there’s an oncoming storm, but the only storm is the one brewing between Mav and me. Hearing him breathing beside me, smelling the fresh yet masculine scent of his soap, the heat of his skin—I’m practically squirming.
I can’t handle it.
“Mav,” I whisper into the darkness, not wanting to wake him if he’s already asleep.
I hear him swallow. “Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“The other night,” I say, “in the truck…what were you going to tell me? When I asked you what you wanted to do to me.”
He clears his throat. “Riley…”
“Tell me what you were going to say.”
I have no idea if he’s game, if he’ll play along. Like usual, I’m toeing the line here and going out on a limb.
I hear him lick his lips, the sound magnified in the dark. I want to lick his lips too. I want to lick every single inch of him.
“I can’t touch you,” he finally says.
“Do you at least want to?”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t know, I had my tits in your face the other night…”
“Riley.” He exhales, the sound filling the room. “Do you have any idea how hard this is, to keep my hands off you? How hard I am right now?”
Oh, jeez. Everything inside me ignites, my skin feeling tight, hot and tingly, knowing that he’s hard for me, right beside me, so close.
“You keep bringing up the rules,” I whisper.
“Because I’ve worked hard. And you have too. And if I don’t have that to keep me in line…fuck, I don’t know. I want you like you wouldn’t fucking believe, but if we…if we give in, then I don’t know where it’s going to stop.”
Our breaths sound heavier now, filling the space between us. “So then what?”
Pause. “I don’t know. I just know…the moment I touch you, that’s all I’ll ever want.”
“So don’t touch me,” I tell him. “Just tell me what you want to do to me.”
A low growl comes out of him. “Jesus, you are a little minx, aren’t you?”
I wait. I hear his sleeping bag being unzipped, him shuffling around. He doesn’t come over though, he doesn’t touch me. I think he’s just opened his sleeping bag wider. He’s breathing heavier. There’s a soft sliding sound of skin on skin.
Oh my God. Is he…fuck. Is he jerking off?
I’m about to open my mouth and ask him because if he is, I have the right to know, but he speaks.
“You want to know what I would do, right now, if I could? If we said fuck it to the rules?” he asks, and already his tone is different. His voice is gravely and rough and it makes goosebumps run wild over me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I’d get out of this sleeping bag and stand right above you. Naked. Cock in my hands.”
Oh my God. Oh my God, he’s actually going there. And I’m picturing his cock, so big he needs both hands to hold it.
“Can you see me?” he asks, voice thick. “Completely naked and standing above you. My cock is hard as fucking cement, hot against my palm. I stroke it, up and down, feeling it grow in my grip. I see you staring up at me, mouth open, wanting so badly to suck it.”
Holy shit.
I don’t know what the hell I was expecting, but it was sure as hell not this.
“I want you to suck it, suck my cock all fucking night long. You’ll be so good at it too, with those cherry-red lips of yours. So plump and soft and wet, they’ll feel like cushions as I slide in your mouth, raze the back of your throat. You’re not used to cocks this big, but you’re a fucking pro. You’ll handle anything I throw your way.”
My eyes are so wide in the dark. I half expect Maverick to be standing right above me like he says, naked. Instead it’s just empty space and I can sense him beside me. The sound of skin sliding on skin grows louder and now I know for sure he’s whacking off. God, I wish I could watch him. It would be such a beautiful sight.
“You’re almost begging for it, but you don’t want to be greedy. So I tell you to slowly get naked, even though the cabin is cold. But you do.” He pauses. “So do it.”
With my heart in my throat, I unzip the sleeping bag and start stripping. There’s something so thrilling and intoxicating about doing this in the dark, following his every command, knowing he’s right beside me, inches away, getting off to this.
“Are you naked?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“Are you touching yourself?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even have to ask, my fingers have already slid down along my clit, slowly skirting back and forth, building up the pressure.
“Good. Are you wet?”
My words are briefly caught in my throat. “Yes.”
“Are you drenched?”
“Tell me what else you’re going to do. Then I’ll let you know.”
He clears his throat and I think he’s going to say something but he lapses into a low, guttural moan that makes all my hair stand on end. “I watch you as you play with yourself,” he eventually says. “But I know I’m what you really want. You spread your legs for me, begging for me to come inside you. Not yet, little minx, not yet.”
He trails off for a moment and then says, “I get down on my knees, between your legs. My cock is so stiff in my hand, so fucking thick and hard
and hot for you. My body is hungry, starving, but I take my time. I drag the tip of my cock over your clit, down below, until it’s wet. Back and forth. I move it back and forth. Can you feel me doing that?”
I nod even though he can’t see me. My words burn in my throat. I’m touching myself, pretending my fingers are the crown of his cock, imaging what it would feel like, so tight and hot and round. Thick.
“You’re such a good little minx,” he growls. “So fucking good. I think I’ll fuck you slow tonight. There’s no rush. I want every single second to keep going. I keep rubbing my cock against your sweet little cunt, dipping it in, feeling how damn tight you are.”
Oh my God. I’m pushing my fingers in now, pretending it’s him. It’s a poor substitute, but I’m so turned on right now it doesn’t matter. I’m so wet, I’m drenched.
“I can hear you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Hear how wet you are. That slick sound. I want to put my head between your legs, lick it all up. Do you want that?”
Fucking hell, I will take absolutely anything at this point. Even just his hand.
“Can you feel it, my tongue running over your clit, sucking you in my mouth, slowly, gently, until you grow thicker with want, your hands are in my hair, tugging on it, your thighs are squeezing my face. My stubble is rough against your skin. You don’t care, you like it rough and hard. You’re so fucking ready for me, you want it all, want it now. I run my fingers down, slowly, getting them wet until they’re at your ass.”
“Mav,” I whisper, my fingers working harder now. “I seriously…”
But I trail off, caught in the wave of everything that’s going on, how hot and wild my body is running, needing more.
“I’ll fuck you in a million ways, my little minx. But this time, I’ll do it with my mouth. I’ll plunge my stiff, thick tongue deep inside your tight little cunt, in and out, in and out, just tasting you from the inside. Then I’ll push my large, wet fingers in your ass. You’ll be surprised at first, but then you’ll give in. You want it so fucking bad. It’s so wrong it’s right. Just like this. Just like we’re not supposed to be together, like I’m not supposed to devour your cunt with my lips while fucking your ass with my fingers.”