by Cassie Cole
Still, when they were being given the tour, I stole a piece of cake and carried it to the barracks hall. I found the girl’s bunk room, slipped inside, and left the cake on the dresser with a note:
Welcome to Redding.
Once you earn these guys’ respect, they’ll do anything for you.
Until then, keep your chin up and your chainsaw sharp.
I slipped back out and closed the door.
Despite his protests about not wanting the job, Trace was a damn good leader. Maybe he was good at it because he never wanted it. He made careful decisions, and was a thoughtful listener whenever a jumper had a complaint or grievance. He rotated jump teams so that no single group was ever sent into the most dangerous area twice in a row. And he always explained his fire containment strategy before each jump and listened to feedback, rather than just giving out orders and expecting them to be obeyed.
But the one thing he disliked most about being commander? Having to stay behind and orchestrate the firefighting from the ground.
“I want to be jumping out of a plane, not sitting behind a desk,” Trace was fond of complaining. “I hate being a paper-pusher.”
After months of struggling with this, Trace came up with a new program. He started rotating smokejumpers into a “management program” to teach them about the tactical and strategic requirements of organizing an operation. Monitoring wildfire advances and adjusting handlines accordingly. Strategizing about which places were the best to make a stand.
Once he had that program up and running, it allowed him to start jumping again. Not every time, but one out of every three. Enough to slake his thirst for real work.
The commander’s quarters were separate from the normal barracks, on the other side of the base connected to his office. In addition to a huge king-sized bed, he had a lounge area to himself and a kitchenette complete with oven and stove, in case he wanted to take his meals alone. Those never got used though—he always chose to eat with the rest of the jumpers. A man of the people, not a boss in a fancy suit.
Trace was in the shower, and the door was ajar. I slipped out of my clothes and then into the steamy shower.
“Oh,” he grunted. “For a second, I didn’t realize it was you.”
I ran my hands over his slippery chest. “What, you thought it was your other girlfriend?”
“Now that you mention it…”
I made an offended noise. “I came in here to give you an anniversary present. But I think I’ve changed my mind…”
Trace grabbed my ass with both hands and pulled me toward him. “I was only joking. I’d like my present now, please.”
I let my fingertips slide along the ridge of his quickly-hardening cock. “Oh, so now you want to celebrate your anniversary? An hour ago you were begging us not to throw you a party.”
He made a deep sound in his throat. “I like this a lot more than cake.” His hands tightened on my ass, digging up into my crack.
“That’s exactly what I intended to give you tonight. If you’re in the mood.”
He kissed me with tongue, a kiss as wet and slippery as our bodies in the shower. “I’m always in the mood for that. What about Foxy and Derek?”
“Tonight’s all about you. Whatever you want.”
He grinned wickedly. “What if I want to watch them have their way with you first?”
I smiled back at him. “That can be arranged.”
A single text message was all it took for Foxy and Derek to race into the commander’s quarters. Trace was seated in the chair in the corner, while I lay nude on the bed.
Wordlessly, Foxy and Derek undressed and joined me on the bed.
We did that a lot. One observer and two participants. All three of them seemed to enjoy voyeurism to some degree, which was convenient for our four-person-relationship. When they took turns with me, I never ran out of men to kiss me, cover me, fill me.
Trace stroked himself in the corner while the other two made me their dirty little plaything. Fucking my mouth like it was a tight pussy. Fingering my ass while holding a vibrator against my clit, forcing me to come again and again, begging for their cocks. Finally double-teaming me the way I wanted, Foxy’s dick in my asshole and Derek’s in my pussy, until we were a single entity that moaned and writhed and clenched the bedsheets in intense ecstasy.
But they weren’t done with me once they’d filled me with their seed. They pushed me flat on my belly on the bed and spread my legs wide. I tried to look behind me, but Foxy grabbed a handful of my hair and pushed my face into the pillow. Their grip was tight and their arms were strong, too strong to stop them if I wanted to. I lay spread-eagle on the bed, vulnerable to what would come next.
Already aroused from watching us, Trace did not hesitate. His cock slid deep into my pussy from behind, all the way to the hilt. With Foxy and Derek holding my legs spread, all I could do was take it.
“You’re a good little sex toy,” Trace groaned. “Aren’t you?”
“I am,” I moaned into the pillow. “I’m your dirty toy. Use me.”
Trace fucked my pussy, then my ass, and by the end I was screaming with such pleasure that Foxy had to hold my head down into the pillow to muffle my desperate cries.
The best thing about Trace being commander was the huge bed we all got to share. Room for the four of us to cuddle, unlike the bunks in the barracks. None of us spoke. We were too exhausted and spent. But we didn’t need to speak, either. All of us were content simply to be in each others’ presence.
Sure, Trace and I weren’t supposed to be in a relationship. He was my direct superior. But his stint as interim commander lasted longer than we expected. Every day of it was torture, seeing each other throughout the day and not being able to be together.
We lasted a month before Trace sneaked into my bunk in the middle of the night. We were so starved for one another, so desperate to be together, that making love that night was like releasing all the pressure that had built up in our bodies. Trace fucked me so ragged that I could barely walk the next day.
After that, Trace told me he was going to resign his position so we could be together. He wanted to prove that he desired me more than his new position. I convinced him not to resign. It was better to keep things a secret, I argued, for as long as we could. The best of both worlds: Trace as commander of Redding Base, and us sharing our love whenever the other jumpers weren’t looking.
So far, two years later, it had worked without any problems.
“I’m hungry,” Foxy suddenly announced in bed. “Is anyone else hungry?”
“Famished,” I said.
Foxy kissed me on the forehead and leaped out of bed. He dressed quickly, disappeared, and returned with the remainder of the cake.
“All that’s left is the half with the icing parachutes,” he said. “Better than nothing.”
I sat up in bed. “Are you kidding? The parachutes are the most delicious part.”
“Gonna have to agree with Haley on this one,” Derek said.
Foxy brought the cake into bed and handed out forks so we could dig in.
“Slow down,” Trace told me as I chowed down. “There won’t be any left for me tomorrow.”
“I thought you didn’t want cake!”
Trace’s enormous shoulders rolled in a shrug. “I changed my mind. Cake makes a great post-sex snack.”
“You said it, boss,” Foxy declared.
Trace waved his fork at Derek. “Be careful. You’re spilling crumbs.”
“We’ll shake the sheets out afterwards,” Derek said around a mouthful.
“It’s fine,” I told Trace. “Don’t be a sourpuss.”
Trace glared back at me playfully. “This is the commander’s bed. And last time I checked, I’m the commander.”
“You may be the commander,” Foxy allowed, “but I’m pretty sure this is all of our bed, now.”
Derek nodded vigorously.
“You’re spilling even more crumbs!” Trace complained. “Now you�
�re just doing it to make me angry. If you don’t stop right now, I’m transferring you to West Yellowstone Base.”
“Are you threatening to abuse your power over cake crumbs?” Derek asked.
Foxy nodded. “You know that our previous interim commander was fired and prosecuted for that, right?”
“That’s not what I mean!” Trace argued. Foxy and Derek struggled to contain their grins as they needled the bigger man.
All joking aside, Trace kept a strong partition up between our personal lives and work relationships. He was strict but fair when giving out our yearly performance evaluations.
But there was one area where he did abuse his power: keeping us all together. Smokejumper personnel was routinely shuffled and rotated with the other bases around the country. Every year, ten smokejumpers were moved out of Redding and we received ten new ones. Trace got to choose who was rotated out, and so far it had never been us. None of us had discussed this with him, but we all understood.
We wanted to stay together. And as long as Trace was in charge, we would.
I smiled as my men teased each other and argued over who was really in charge. The argument devolved into Foxy smearing icing on Trace’s face, and then Trace hurled a chunk of cake back at him like a pitcher throwing a fastball. I squealed and rolled off the bed to take cover behind the desk, but Trace found me and smeared my face with a piece of cake.
We laughed and play-fought and trashed the commander’s quarters with cake, happy and carefree.
The four of us had something special.
Bonus Scene
If you’re not ready for the story of Haley and her smoldering hot lovers to be over, I’ve got great news. You can click the link below to read a special fast-forward scene between the four of them! It’s extra sappy, extra sweet, and hot enough to start a sexy wildfire of your own.
https://bit.ly/2MmargV
If you enjoyed Smolder you’re going to love this other Reverse Harem Romance from Cassie Cole: Sealed With a Kiss. You can click here to buy it, or keep reading for a special sneak peek!
Dakota
I was in a bar in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, chasing down an archaeology lead. One I knew probably wouldn’t pan out.
It was the last place I expected to get hit on.
The bar was set in the style of an old western saloon, with lots of faded wood and rusty metal fixtures. It was all a facade; I had an eye for this kind of thing, and I could tell it was manufactured to look older than it was. But it was the only bar in this one-road town, so beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“How long’ve you owned this place, Bob?” I asked the bartender while he poured me another gin. The wrinkles on his face marked him somewhere north of 80, but he moved around on 30-year-old legs.
“Oh, at least three decades now.” He filled my glass with gin and then paused to stare off. “No. Just shy of 30 years. Opened the place in ‘90.”
“You get a lot of business out here, Bob?”
He answered with a laugh. “Not much traffic comes through Santo Coronado. Get a few regulars early in the evening, but none this late. Except you, of course.”
I raised the glass. “This is my last drink, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
He smiled genuinely. “You take all the time you want while I close up.”
I sipped my drink. It wasn’t very smooth, but again, beggars and choosers.
Bob started drying off pint glasses and setting them upside-down on a shelf. “What’d you say you were doing in Santo Coronado again?”
“Chasing down a lead.”
“What kind of lead?”
“The kind,” I said with a grimace, “that I know won’t pan out. But I still have to check. Nature of the job.”
“Ahh.” Bob left it at that, for which I was grateful. Sometimes I enjoyed talking about what I did—depending on the person, and the circumstance—but tonight wasn’t the time or the place. It was a small town. I didn’t want any of the locals knowing why I was here.
Better to keep it vague.
I was almost done with my gin when the front door opened.
“Sorry sir, but we’re closing up,” Bob said.
I looked over my shoulder to see who was coming into the bar this late, and gave a start. He was absolutely stunning. Tall, dark, and handsome, with a square jaw and sharp eyes. Like an Italian James Bond. Except instead of a suit, he wore khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt that framed his muscular chest like it was tailored.
I realized I was staring, so I turned back to my drink. But moments later, the newcomer was at the bar next to me placing a green bill in front of the taps. A $100 bill.
“How about you stay open another fifteen minutes so I can have a drink?”
Bob eyed the bill, then scooped it up. “Yes sir, I think I can do that for a thirsty soul. What’s your flavor?”
He glanced down at my glass. “Looks like gin tonight. You know what? Make it two.”
“I didn’t ask for one,” I said, with a hint of attitude in my voice.
The handsome stranger shrugged. “If you won’t drink it, I will.”
Bob filled two more glasses and set them in front of him, then returned to cleaning his pint glasses on the other end of the bar. The stranger hunched over his drink next to me, not saying a word.
“You must really need that drink,” I said after a few minutes of silence.
“Been a long day,” he said in a deep voice. “Flight was rough, and the runway here is bumpy.”
“I didn’t realize there was even an airport here,” I said, surprised. “I had to fly into ABQ and rent a car.”
The stranger took a sip of gin. “Not a lot of flights come here.”
“Apparently.” I finished my gin, then eyed the extra glass he’d ordered.
“Last chance,” he warned while waving his glass, which was already almost empty. “If you don’t, I will.”
I took the glass and sipped it. “Thanks…?”
“Roman,” he said, extending a hand.
I shook it. “I’m Dakota.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “There’s a name. Your parents conceive you in Fargo, or something?”
“Or something,” was all I said. “So tell me, Roman. What brings you to the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, on a Tuesday night?”
“It’s a boring reason,” he said.
“Try me.”
He leaned in close like he was going to tell me a secret. I caught a whiff of smoky cologne. “I’m an insurance claims salesman.”
“Alright,” I said with a laugh. “That is boring.”
He gave me a lopsided smirk. “I visit places after bad storms, find homes or businesses with damage, and help them make their insurance claims. A hail storm rolled through here two days ago and damaged a lot of the ranches in the surrounding area.”
“And you’re… what? A middle-man?”
He spread his large hands. “Insurance companies do their best to fuck people over. We help hard-working Americans get the full claims they deserve.”
“For a price,” I pointed out.
“No price. My company just does the repairs that are required.”
I narrowed my eyes skeptically. “Now you sound more like an ambulance chaser. I’m struggling to see the value you provide.”
“The value is squeezing as much out of the insurance company as possible. We can leverage our expertise and business contacts better than your average Joe.”
“Insurance?” Bob suddenly made his way back over to our side of the bar. “I’ve got some roof damage on my house from the storm. Don’t know how to go about negotiating with my insurance company, though.”
Roman beamed. “We’ll take care of all that for you.” He procured a business card from his pocket.
Bob grinned widely. “Lucky you walked into my bar.”
“Lucky indeed.” As Bob walked away, Roman turned his smile on me.
“Fine,” I said. “Maybe you’re a step above ambul
ance chasers.”
He nodded as if it was a discussion he’d had a thousand times before and hunched over his drink. I took the opportunity to size him up while looking sideways at him. Roman’s arms bulged out of the sleeves of his polo shirt, the skin tan and taut with corded muscle. He had a strong hooked nose, but it framed his sharp face nicely. His dark hair had some hints of strawberry-blond in it, which I would have assumed were hair highlights—except that he seemed too rugged and down-to-earth to care about that kind of thing.
“And what brings you to this one-bar town?” he asked with a smile. It was the kind of smile that changed his entire face from darkly handsome to the right kind of charming. I bet he steals a lot of hearts with that smile.
“I’m here to listen to a story from a guy,” I said.
Roman waited for me to say more. When I didn’t, he said, “Must be some story.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
He nodded and inspected his gin glass.
I could’ve left it at that. I was well-accustomed to keeping my job close to my chest. But tonight the gin was loosening my lips, and I felt like talking to someone. I didn’t have a lot of people I could talk to about this. Not since mom died.
I took another swig of gin to drown out that thought.
“I’m an archaeologist,” I said. “Historical sociologist, technically. But archaeology is basically what I do.”
“Really?” He looked fully engaged in the conversation, with dark, caring eyes that I found myself wanting to talk to for hours, so I went on.
“I’m looking for an ancient relic from Asia. The lost crown of Genghis Khan, called the Khan Diadem. I’ve been searching for it for… Well, for a long time.”
His dark eyes glistened in the bar light. “I didn’t think Genghis Khan was the type to wear a crown.”
“Oh, he wasn’t,” I said with a chuckle. “It was a gift from the Kingdom of Georgia in 1223. The King had a replica of his own crown forged and given to the Khan in the hopes of buying leniency.”