by Lee Savino
I kill time until she appears at the register with a little cart filled with way too few things. Pink toiletries and a few thermals, another pair of jeans.
Muttering a curse, I grab a winter jacket that looks like it might be her size—or at least not make her look like she’s wearing her mother’s bathrobe. “Cold up in the boonies. Remember? Cold as Satan’s heart.” I toss the jacket in front of the cashier and add a few plaid shirts. “What’s your shoe size?”
She tells the cashier, who heads off to grab what I instruct. Boots. No more soaked tennis shoes. As an afterthought, I add a few pairs of socks.
“I thought you’d want me in less clothes,” she murmurs when the cashier is distracted. My dick jumps again.
I shake my head. “This way the show lasts longer.” If I don’t think of her body under all these clothes, I won’t get a boner in the middle of the general store. I pay before Sierra has time to flinch over the total.
When I unlock the door to the motel, it’s my turn to flinch. She deserves more than this faded place with stains on the carpet and the stale smell of cigarettes. In the dim light, her skin seems to glow.
“Take your time.”
“I won’t be long.”
I put on the TV to mask the sound of the shower. If there was time to make my escape, this is it. But a cowardly ass way to do it.
I stare at the screen and try not to imagine Sierra getting naked just a few feet away, behind a flimsy door.
Sierra
Fuck, hot water feels good. The heat sluices to my bones. A nice, clean feeling plus the food and I’m ready to live again. I wish I could linger, but I’d bet ten-thousand dollars Lincoln’s gonna dump me as a charity case. He’ll either walk out now or wait to drive me to a homeless shelter. Which means I’ve got to convince him I’ve got what it takes for this job, ASAP.
I wash and shampoo in record time. Once out and wrapped in a towel, I mop steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection. Black hair slicked back. Green eyes, too large for my narrow face.
It’s now or never. But I have a secret weapon. After drawing it on, I open the door, pausing to pose in the doorway. I timed it right—Lincoln is still here, eyes blank on the TV screen.
He’s a big man. Young, strong, good looking. He’s got the world in the palm of his hand. But I’ve got the one thing he doesn’t have. The one thing he needs. Pussy.
I let the towel drop.
Lincoln drags his eyes from the television and visibly starts.
“I think you should sample the goods before you take me home.” I saunter over, letting him drink me in. I’m wearing an almost see-through thong and bra—my stripper outfit. They didn’t sell anything sexy at the general store. Probably a good thing. Their idea of sexy underwear might be pink plaid.
I move in front of the TV and Lincoln isn’t even tempted to take his eyes from me. Pretending the sports newscast is club music, I start to dance.
This is my show. I’m in charge, swaying in front of him, dipping and swiveling my hips. I’d watched the strippers do this, and the wannabe old ladies at the Hell Riders’ clubhouse. His green eyes track my movements. He’s holding his breath.
I may not be stripper material, but Lincoln’s probably not been with a woman for a long time. Such a shame. The sharp planes of his face are perfect, even under the wild beard. His muscles are solid under my hands. A man like this should be worshipped by a woman, often.
I climb onto his lap and straddle him, knees on the bed, my legs stretched over his large thighs. His large hands immediately slide to my back, supporting me, but he makes no move to go further. No problem. I got this.
This close, Lincoln is a masterpiece, waiting to be enjoyed. I roll my body against his and let my hands explore the dormant power of his corded arms, his solid chest, his broad shoulders. He’s rigid and strong everywhere I touch. I get lost in him.
Then I dip my head close to his face, angling my head to see how we’d fit if we kissed. My mouth hovers over his, my lips just out of reach. Our breath mingles.
A second later, he raises his chin, tipping his face up to meet mine. A slight move but it tells me all I need. I’ve got him under my spell. I rise up and turn, settling my ass on his lap and gyrating to a silent beat. I lie back like he’s my armchair, my little body draped over his powerful frame, and grind his cock against my soft ass. It grows even larger. A monster.
I whirl again and unbutton his jeans deftly. Jack was often drunk or high when we bumped uglies—I have plenty of practice stripping down a man’s jeans just enough to ride. Lincoln’s abs flex as I slip a hand in and explore. Sweet Jesus, he’s a nice handful. I try but can’t close my fingers around his thickness. My sex prickles as my body prepares to take him.
“Sierra—” he says. Before he can slow this down, I stop his mouth with mine. I practically attack him, throwing my whole body into the kiss. His thick cock twitches in one of my hands while my other clamps on his neck, holding his lips to mine. I press against him, pushing until he leans back with a groan. I free my hands long enough to unbutton his shirt and scooch up his thermal. I’m almost naked, it’s his turn. I want to see what I’m dealing with. He helps me, whipping the shirt off. His arms fall around me, caging me but just holding me without applying pressure. He’s panting, jaw flexing as if he’s holding back something he wants to say.
He’s giving me an out. I arch a brow and roll against him, lazy and inviting. My sex presses closer to his. I’m wet, slipping over the coarse hair around his heavy length. A few inches and he’ll be inside me.
He reaches down the bed for something—his wallet. I cock a brow as he fingers the billfold, searching for something.
“Condom,” he says. I nod, quickly removing my panties while watching solemnly as he sheathes himself. This is happening.
“Shh.” I hush his unspoken doubts. “Let me take care of you.” His hips thrust upwards, seeking me. It’s too late to stop now. I lift up, point him toward my wet entrance, and drive down.
A groan escapes. I was right. It’s been a long time for him. I wriggle a little, accepting his girth. It’s tight, a little uncomfortable, but not as bad as it would be if I weren’t so wet. I haven’t had a man inside of me since Jack… but this isn’t the time to think about Jack.
We rock slowly together, eyes wide open. It’s a conversation between strangers. Hello, how are you, is this what you like? How about if I touch you now? Here... or here? Tell me what you like. Our hips align, move against each other in easy rhythm. Our bodies become fast friends.
I close my eyes and give over to sensation. There’s a man under me again, but he’s nothing like Jack. Jack was a grown-up boy, goofy and heroin thin. Lincoln is all man, his body solid and powerful under mine. He cups my bottom, covering the whole of it with his large hands. You’re safe now, with me. I’ll protect you. No one gets through me to you. I’ve known him a little over two hours, and I already heard the silent promise. I want to believe...
Flesh slaps against flesh. The conversation grows in intensity, the sentences curt. Faster, harder. Now. Please.
My orgasm strikes, flashing up my spine. I stiffen and fall against him. He groans and bucks into me, once, twice, and grinds into me, rooting deep. We fall together, a jumble of limbs on the cheap, rickety bed.
I rise first, pushing back my wet hair. Lincoln admires the flush on my chest and in my cheeks. I’m not a skinny-ass charity case anymore. I’m a fucking sex goddess, and he knows it.
A furrow appears between Lincoln’s heavy brows as he regards me. I grin, wrinkling my nose a little as if to say, didn’t expect that, didja?
No. His owlish gaze tells me. A muscle jerks in his jaw—an unwilling smile, then he gives in, rolling back his head and laughing, white teeth flashing against his dark beard. As the happy, carefree sound fills the room, I head to the bathroom, strutting like a salesman who has just closed the deal.
2
Sierra
Lincoln’s truck hits a po
thole and I jerk awake. A good fuck, a shower, a hot meal on top of a long month being on the run—I didn’t have a chance of staying awake. I barely remember turning onto the road leading out of town.
Sleep, whispers the heat blowing from the vents. Safe, say Lincoln’s large hands on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” the man mutters, navigating the truck around muddy craters. The pavement is so bad, cracked and broken from icy winters, we might as well be off-road.
“It’s okay,” I sigh and close my eyes again. I haven’t been this comfortable in over a month. Maybe longer. It’s strange not to have fear gripping me. For weeks, fear has driven me forward, pushing me through the tough sleepless nights, the long bus rides clutching my backpack to me. I ate, drank, breathed it. It was my energy, muscles and bone, knitting me together. Now that we’re turning onto a long logging road, it loosens its grip a little, but I still need it.
I did it. I got the job. I’m the new ‘entertainer’ for a crew of lusty lumberjacks. Eight men, strong and strapping as Paul Bunyan. Every night, seven days a week. I’ll be getting it once a day, twice on Sundays.
Nausea clutches my stomach. I press my forehead to the cold car window, breathing in and out carefully.
“You all right?”
“Just carsick.”
He reaches an arm across my seat and tweaks the manual crank to crack my window a little. Sweet. “We’re almost home.”
I nod, and angle my head into the flow of fresh air.
Lincoln’s square jaw tenses for a mile before he says, “You don’t have to… with all of us. It’s your choice. I’m not going to let them hurt you.”
“It’s okay.” He’s trying to be nice, but there’s no way half the guys are going to stand by while I bestow sexual favors on the other half. Lincoln will have a war on his hands, and he won’t win. The victors will divide the spoils.
And I’m the spoils.
It’ll be better than being a sweetbutt in a grungy MC clubhouse. At least this way, I’m getting paid.
We’re quiet the rest of the way. The truck bounces over a few epic potholes before turning into a lot guarded by huge wire gates and a high wall around a muddy yard. Coiled barbed wire tops the wall—to keep people out or in?
Inside the walls, mud-spattered logging machines crouch like awkward insects. A few workers cluster around the back of one, turning as we roll past. A curious face framed by a bushy red beard pokes out from a truck cab, but I shrink back in the seat before he gets a good look at me.
Ahead is a long, low building with a few ATVs parked out front. Lincoln guides his vehicle to the end of the line, turns off the engine, palms the keys. I get a nasty jolt—Lincoln’s truck is my only way out or in. I can hide here from the Riders, but not from the eight men who hold my next few months in their calloused hands. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. What have I done?
“Stay there. I’ll get your door.” Lincoln grabs his own duffel and the few plastic bags left over from our shopping trip at the general store.
I start to open my door anyway, just to feel like I have some control, and nearly hit a stocky, dark-haired dude prowling alongside the truck.
He scowls at me—tanned skin, dark eyes and plump lips too sensuous for his scraggly goatee—and keeps walking, shooting a nasty glare back my way before disappearing into the building.
Holy hell, they make lumberjacks pretty. Must be all the fresh air. Shave the pathetic beard, mousse the silky dark hair, powerwash the mud off him and he’d be ready for a GQ photo shoot. Those cheekbones! Shame he hides them under the facial hair.
“That’s Mason,” Lincoln says at my elbow and I jolt, my breath rattling through me. I duck my head and shake my hair over blushing cheeks, hiding my reaction to Mason’s movie star good looks and gracefully muscled body.
“He doesn’t like people. Don’t mind him.” Lincoln holds out a hand, and I take it before hopping down, christening my new boots in mud.
Mason, Mason, Mason, I chant as we head to the door. One of the eight. Too late to make a good first impression on him. Not that I can compete with the one he made on me.
Inside the building is a small mess hall—a long table surrounded by eight chairs. Beyond the table, a hall leads to several closed doors. There’s no sign of Mason.
Two guys drift from the hall. I give them a perky little wave. One nudges the other, mouthing, “Fresh meat.” I step back, following Lincoln to the left, into a galley kitchen full of warmth and rattling pans. A massive guy with a shaved head and midnight skin mans the stove, stirring the contents of a pot big enough to fit me.
“Any luck?” he asks, and Lincoln steps aside to reveal me.
“Hi.” The word dies in my throat as the big guy looks me up and down and back to his bubbling stew without changing expression.
“Saint, this is Sierra,” Lincoln tells him. “She’ll be staying with us for awhile.”
“Didn’t realize we were a hotel.” The big guy, Saint, lifts the ladle and tastes the broth, pours it back in. With a hand five time the size of mine, he adds a pinch of spice. his face still wiped of expression.
“She’ll earn her keep. Just like you. Like all of us.” Lincoln glares at the huge guy as if daring him to argue. Ballsy move. I don’t think I’d bet against the big guy in a fistfight. He’s roughly the size of the commercial fridge in the corner.
Shrugging, Saint turns his back on us.
“Come on.” Lincoln guides me out of the kitchen. Strike two. My knuckles go white on my bag’s strap, and I force a smile on my face as we head back to face the rest of the guys. I can’t afford a third strike.
Men pour into the main room from each entrance. Big, bearded guys, forming a towering forest around me. I lean against the table and let my bag tumble from weary arms. I hope dinner is soon. These guys look at me like they’re hungry and I’m their meal.
Three of them tromp in from the outside. More big guys, big as the door, with muscles made from spending the day tearing trees up by the roots and snapping them in half over their knees. Or whatever lumberjacks do.
They tromp in and surround me, tall as trees, their cut off sleeves showing biceps resembling corded wood. Lincoln wasn’t lying when he said the crew were all guys like him. I’m lost in the woods.
“Who’s this?” one asks. A redhead. On the other side of me, an identical redhead—so identical to the first I’m sure one’s a reflection from some mirror—extends a finger to trace the edge of my hood. The scent of the outdoors washes over me, fresh and clean and bracing. I shrink in my clothes.
“Hey,” Lincoln snaps at the newcomers. “Wipe your boots.”
“Awww, Mom,” the redhead whines. He trudges back with his silent doppelganger, and I can breathe again.
Meanwhile, one of the guys from the hall, tall with dirty blond Kurt Cobain locks, comes closer. His tattooed arms add sleeves to his white wife beater.
“Hi,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Sierra.”
“Sierra,” he drawls, and bypasses the handshake, pulling me into a hug, bringing me eye level with a skull tattoo. There’s a snake coming out of one eye socket; it writhes as his bicep flexes. “I’m Jagger.”
“Jagger,” Lincoln says. “Sierra agreed to come stay with us for the season.”
“Mmmm,” Jagger clutches me closer. He must have a hammer in his pocket, because the handle is poking me in the leg. Either that, or he knows exactly why I’m here.
“That’s enough,” Lincoln clips. “She just got here, hasn’t even met everybody. Give her some space.”
“Of course,” Jagger says, but keeps an arm hooked around my neck. Not big on personal space, is Jagger. “Make your introductions. I’ll help. That’s Roy and Tommy.” He points to two guys and turns me before I get a good look at their faces. “And these are the twins.”
The two redheads by the door straighten and I blink, seeing double.
“Elon and Oren.” Jagger’s finger points at the space between them. “Irish
dad, Jewish mother. Are they’re circumcised? I guess you’ll find out.”
He tries to tug me around again, but I keep staring at the identical ginger twins. There has to be a way to tell them apart.
One has a small mole near his right eye, above his beard. “What are your names again?” I ask, and when the guy with the mole points to himself and tells me shyly, I memorize it. Oren. Doesn’t matter if he’s the mirror image of his brother. He’s one of the eight, and I’m going to make a good impression.
“You’re staying?” Elon asks. His stark blue eyes are framed by extra long lashes.
“Yep. Isn’t she cute? She’s so little,” says Jagger, who was standing behind the door when God passed out tact.
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of me to go around,” I say to the assembly.
“Huh,” someone grunts from the direction of the kitchen. Saint.
“She’ll do.” Jagger grins like he owns me. Keeping his arm around my shoulders, he picks up my backpack. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Me too,” both the twins chime together.
“Nope.” Saint points a spatula at one of them. “KP duty.”
“You’re cooking tonight?” Jagger asks the big man.
“Yep. Gumbo.”
“Awesome. Get some meat on her bones.” Jagger hugs me to his side again and I roll my eyes. I duck out of his hold, straightening just as Lincoln says to one of the twins, “She can dance tonight, but nothing more. Not until she sees the doctor.”
I gulp back my retort, grateful for the one night reprieve. Judging by the horny looks I’m getting from the twins and Jagger, I’m not going to have a night off for a while. There’s eight guys here and I’m the only woman around for miles.
Just then Mason stomps past, glaring like I’m mud under his boots.
Scratch that. Mason probably won’t touch me if I paid him.