by Lee Savino
I think about it. It’s nice to drown in darkness. “No.”
“All right. Relax.” The flogger brushes my jean-clad legs, tickling my inner thighs. My pussy fills with juice. I grit my teeth, digging my nails into the bed, planting my heels and trying not to push up into the soft blows. Saint uses the flogger to deliver the lightest butterfly brushing sensation. He swings the strands back and forth, painting desire on my pussy. My legs tremble.
“Knees apart,” Saint orders. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
Oh god. A plea wells up in my throat, escaping as a needy groan.
“You like when I boss you around, girl?”
My pussy screams Yes but my mind screams No. I open my mouth and lick my lips.
“You don’t have to answer.” Saint’s voice bubbles from the subterranean depths. “Just let go. I got you.” The flogger resumes its drumming beat between my legs. I grip the sheets in earnest, need rising in me. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. Without meaning too, I begin to moan. The sound reaches my ears and I cut it out.
“It’s all right, girl. Let it out.”
“I’m scared.” The words escape without check. My mind’s on leave, on vacation, out to lunch. Someone’s driving my body but it’s not me.
Saint pauses, cups my knee. “You feeling out of control?”
“Yes.” I have to search for speech.
“You ready to stop?”
My muscles clench. “No,” I whisper, and say again louder. “No, don’t stop.” Several moments pass before I add, “Please.”
“Good girl.” Saint trails the strands between my legs. My body strains for the slightest sensation. “I could make you cum, just like this,” he murmurs. “It wouldn’t take much. Just a little more force.”
My hips jerk, begging.
“Or I could put the flogger away. Do you think you deserve to cum?”
The question makes me start. Yes, I want to cry out. But I’m not in control. “I’ve been good.”
“Have you?” Saint pushes my knees wider. “It might take quite a few forceful strikes. I don’t know if you can bear it.”
I swallow hard, because I don’t know either.
“No,” he says. “I think I’ll go easy on you. Lie still.”
The bed creaks as he sits beside me. Cool fingers trail over my bare midriff and slip into my jeans. He finds me wet and soaking, quivering.
“Such a sweet little pussy.” He hooks one finger inside me, probing, exploring. I hold my breath. “So greedy.” My inner muscles clench. “It’s not going to take much, is it? Just a little… touch.” He strokes along my clit and I tense, pushing my body up to meet his questing hand. “On my word, you’re going to cum for me.”
A whimper. Yes. A tremor runs through me. He moves his finger and flicks just the spot. My head jerks back, a gasp bursting in my ears.
“Yes. There. Cum for me, girl.” The slightest movement, so small, so perfect, and I break, hips snapping, legs trembling. I lie, weak and happy, as he paints my lips with my own wetness. When he’s done, I lick my lips. “Good girl.”
Saint peels the blindfold off and I blink, re-entering the world reluctantly. He moves to return the flogger to the trunk.
“Wait,” I mumble, clearing my throat. “You’re not gonna fuck me?”
“No, girl.” He pushes the trunk back against the wall, gives it a little pat before turning to me. “You gotta earn it.”
My lower lip pushes out in a blatant pout. It says, Please?
Saint’s broad shoulders move with a huge sigh. “On your knees.” He jerks his chin. I sink back onto the pillow.
He takes himself in hand, tugging, palming the head, his hand jerks faster.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, and I sink my fingers into my wetness, frigging frantically.
“Stop,” he barks. And I do, gritting my teeth as I obey. My pussy throbs as Saint strokes himself off. Staring at his cock, sweat breaks out over my body I want him inside me, so bad. But if I haven’t earned that, I want his cum.
With a shudder and a sigh, Saint cums in his hand.
Offers it to me—a pool of white.
I don’t know what takes hold of me. It was like I was someone else. I seize his wrist and bring it close so I can lap at it with my tongue, a kitten with milk. I clean every inch of his palm.
“Stand up, girl.” He helps me rise, then shoves his sticky hand in my jeans, cupping my pussy and thumbing my clit until my orgasm snaps and floods my body with pleasure.
Weeks pass. I mark the days off my calendar in a rotation of men: Lincoln, Jagger, Elon and Oren, Mason, Saint. They are my days and nights and dreams.
Each man is an acquired taste. Even the twins have differences that give our lovemaking a distinct flavor. Elon comes into me carefully, his blue eyes wide as if the moment is too good to be true. Oren is more methodical, as if I’m a puzzle he can carefully prise apart and put back together better than before. They even have a different scent: Elon smells like pine and fresh air, Oren of sawdust, both delicious. When they come home covered in mud, I greet them gleefully, hugging them, pulling them close to suck in lungfuls of air. They protest I’m getting all dirty and I wink, suggesting we can shower together. I enjoy watching the scarlet creep up their freckled necks.
On my night off, I hang around in the dining hall and play checkers and strip poker with Jagger and the twins. Jagger usually invites me back to his room to drink and smoke a doobie. He reminds me of Jack—a carefree soul. The reminder hurt, which is why I always turned Jagger’s invitations down. That, and I was pregnant.
Saint took it upon himself to complete my education. He gave me stacks of books to read, mostly classic, but a fair number of romance novels too (I couldn’t read murder mysteries or thrillers anymore without nightmares). Lincoln showed me his logs and maps and old forestry textbooks. Even Roy and Tommy befriended me, inviting me to their room to listen to their music. I floated from room to room, listening and learning and living with these men.
And at night I fucked them. Slow fucking, fun fucking, double team, hate fucking and dominance submission scenes.
These were the times when I was present to myself, when I could give up the worry and weight of what was to come. In the late hours of the night, I gave myself to the men, and in return, they gave me a space to just be. I surrender my body, and they seduce my mind.
But I’m careful, so careful, not to risk my heart.
7
Sierra
I sit at the table alone, alert to the sounds coming from the kitchen. I’m alone in the lodge with Saint, on one of his random days off. The scent of bacon drifts my way, I grip my fork and fight tears of happiness. I love bacon.
“Awww, yes,” I moan when Saint sets a full plate down in front of me. As soon as it touches the table, I’m shoveling food in my open mouth. I start with eggs so I can sate my greedy body before savoring the bacon. I’m grateful when Saint leaves the room for a moment to give me and my plate some alone time.
When he comes back out to hover over me, I’ve managed to slow down. I’ve abandoned my fork and use my fingers to carefully prise apart the bacon, tasting each piece and giving it its own special treatment. I let the fat melt in my mouth, crunch the hard bits, lick my fingers to clean them from grease. There’s something so present, so tactile about eating with my hands. A full sensory experience.
Then I catch a glimpse of Saint’s face as he watches me and realize I’m an animal.
Clearing my throat, I push away from the table and wipe my hands on a napkin, effectively rejoining civilization.
Saint looks at me, then my plate, then me. “You need to eat more,” he rumbles.
“You always say that.” I break off a piece of cornbread and pop it into my mouth.
“And more water.” Saint plunks a glass down to the right side of my plate. “Less coffee.” He plucks my mug out of my hand.
“Hey!” I protest, but he shakes a long finger at me and strid
es off. I consider running after him and tackling him, but the effect would be like a mouse attacking a mountain. Saint could swat me like a mosquito, and we both know it.
So I sit and finish my breakfast, drinking the water in sips so I don’t drown the contents of my stomach. When the plate is clean, I push back, my hands on my stomach bump. If Saint looks, he’ll just think I have a food baby.
“Eat up, little one,” I whisper. “Grow big and strong.” I drift in a food coma, jolting awake with a smile when I feel tiny flutters inside. My baby is moving around.
It’s been a pretty good pregnancy so far. The nausea is gone, thank fuck, but I’m still tired at random moments. Some days I forget I’m pregnant, others I bite my lip to keep from whining and telling everyone.
A chair scrapes the floor and Saint settles in beside me. He sets three plates of food down and eats methodically. He doesn’t appear to rush, but the food disappears at a rapid pace.
When he’s half done with the third plate, he slows and rests his left hand on the back of my neck.
“You feeling okay?” he asks. His finger swirls the hair at the nape of my neck and my body stirs with interest.
“Oh yeah.” I fake calm. “We gonna scene tonight?” I try to keep my voice casual but lean forward, my body swaying toward him like a flower to the sun.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes, please.” I’m breathless, blood charging to my cheeks and pussy, making me hot and flushed.
Saint takes a minute to regard me. “We’ll have to stop the rough stuff soon.”
I sit up straighter. “What? Why? I just got to the point where I crave it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me. You make it feel good.”
“I don’t know how much you can take, with the baby and all.”
Record scratch. I open and close my mouth, suddenly dizzy. Saint stares at me. I can’t look away, even though I don’t want to meet his eyes
“You know?” I whisper.
Keeping his hand on the back of my neck, Saint takes a sip of his coffee. “I can tell when a woman’s breeding.”
I put my hands over my softly bloated belly as if to hide it. “I’ve been gaining weight…” I stall.
Saint sets down his coffee and turns. He hovers a large hand over my belly. He could cover the whole thing with one hand. “That’s not fat. That’s a baby bump.”
Now I can’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You need to tell them.”
“You gonna tell?” I can barely get the words out.
“Not my secret to tell. It’s yours.” With that, he gets up and clears the table, leaving me huddled in my seat, numb. The food I just ate is heavy as a rock.
When he returns, I haven’t moved. My eyes feel scratchy. “Saint, I didn’t know. I didn’t know when I took the job.”
He stares at me, back to the impassive blankness that tells me nothing of what he’s thinking. I want to cry and scream. I want to beg him to let me keep my secret for a little longer, at least until I know where I can go to save myself and my baby.
Maybe it’ll work out. Maybe Lincoln won’t be mad, and he’ll let me stay until the season’s over. Maybe the money and time will be enough to get me south, beyond the reach of the Hell Riders.
Yeah right.
“What are you going to do?” Saint asks, and my heart sinks. His tone is thoughtful, but distant. No trace of warmth.
I hug my middle. “I don’t know.”
I lay in my bed the rest of the day. Saint leaves me alone, thank fuck. Evening falls and the lodge fills with the noise of the woodsmen, boots stomping, voices shouting, showers cutting on and off.
I roll to my side and hug my pillow. You need to tell them. What will Lincoln say? Mason? There’s no way they’ll let me stay.
“Sierra?” Jagger calls from my door. He raps softly. “You feeling okay?”
“Fine,” I croak, glad my back is to the door
“Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ll be out… after.” I squeeze my eyes shut until he leaves. Then I press my fist against my mouth and try not to burst into tears.
I’m tempted to grab my clothes and stuff them in my old backpack. Slip out the back and start walking. Maybe I can hitchhike somewhere decent, live on the streets until it gets cold.
My body contracts around the pillow just imagining it. Who am I kidding? I bet everything on this gig. I rise and brush my hair with shaking hands. Maybe I can convince Lincoln to let me stay to the end of the season. I’ll clean, cook, help with kitchen duty—whatever. Jagger and the twins will probably still want me. Lincoln—no way. This will be a breach of trust for him. I told him I could do the job and I lied. Besides, like Saint, Lincoln won’t feel comfortable using a pregnant woman. It was hard enough to get them to accept me as an equal partner in the bedroom.
Mason—he might get off on the situation. Didn’t his last girl cheat on him and get pregnant? I might appeal to him on the basis that this is an opportunity for revenge. Of course, the best revenge would be kicking me out.
Not Mason, then. Fuck.
I toss down the brush, pick up my mascara, and put that down too. Don’t really want to draw attention to my red eyes. And even the most waterproof mascara won’t hold up to a good ugly cry. I don’t want raccoon eyes.
My stomach stutters as I open my door. If I’m lucky, I won’t throw up. Awesome. Won’t that convince them to let me say.
The chorus of men’s voices swells to greet me as I enter the mess hall. They fall to a low murmur as I approach.
“Sierra? Are you all right?” Lincoln frowns. He half rises, and I put out my hand to stop him.
“I have a confession to make.” My voice echoes in the big space with my oracle-like proclamation. Forehead creasing, Lincoln sits.
I swallow. “I have something to tell you.” I hesitate, my gaze snagging on Saint’s. The big guy leans against the wall in the back. He meets my eyes and nods slowly. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence. Most of the guys wait motionless, as if I haven’t said anything. Roy and Tommy exchange glances.
Elon raises his hand. I point to him like I’m a kindergarten teacher.
“Is it mine?” he asks, all innocent blue eyes.
I melt a little. “No,” I say gently. “I was pregnant when I got here.”
Nobody says anything. I splay my hands as if to offer reasons, excuses, but my hands are empty. I’ve got nothing.
“Well… this is unexpected,” Jagger drawls. He doesn’t look annoyed or upset. The twins’ eyes dart around, as if waiting to see what everyone else does. Mason stares at the floor.
Lincoln’s chair scrapes as he pushes away from the table. “No dancing tonight. Sierra’s off.”
“But it’s my—” Jagger starts.
“I said no,” Lincoln snaps. He clamps a hand on the back of my neck and propels me toward his room, holding me like a bear who’s caught a kitten by the scruff. The fear in my stomach threatens to boil over.
Inside his room, I shrink toward the bed.
“Sit,” Lincoln orders. He stays standing, filling the room with his height and muscle and black-bearded scowl. I realize my hands have automatically covered my stomach. I pull them back, noting miserably that Lincoln is glaring at my belly.
“How far along?” he grinds out.
“I’m almost halfway.”
“The father?”
Dead. “Out of the picture.”
Lincoln starts pacing the room. “Did he hurt you?”
“What?” I shake my head a little because I don’t think I properly heard the question.
Lincoln looms over me, hair tangled, eyes wild. “The man who did this to you. Did he hurt you?”
My mouth flaps open a moment before I say, “No. We were together. We were young and stupid and had sex without a condom, but he didn’t hurt me.” Something like a growl escapes from Linco
ln’s throat. “He’s not the reason I’m running,” I add quietly.
Lincoln resumes pacing and my eyes track him from one corner of the room to the other. “What about family? Do they know you’re here?”
“No. I mean, I don’t have any.” That’s not entirely true. Like I’d mentioned to Elon, I have two half-brothers in the lower forty-eight Lynny mentioned a few times, but I’ve never met them and they don’t know about me.
He rubs his hand over his jaw, mussing his beard. “No mom or dad? Nobody?”
“My mom’s dead,” I bite out. “I don’t know who my dad is. Lynny never told me.”
“Lynny?”
“My mom.” I rub my belly. Poor little bump won’t know Jack, either.
“All right.” Lincoln paces back and forth, the room growing smaller with every pass. “All right. What about friends, someone you trust—”
“Why are you asking this?” I rise from the bed to put my hands on my hips. “What is your problem?”
“My problem?” Lincoln stops. “You’re twenty-one. You’re all alone. You’re pregnant—”
“So what’s it to you?”
“I care about you,” he roars so loud the door rattles. He reaches for me, checks himself, and lowers his hands gently to my shoulders. “Your problems are mine too.”
I bite my lip.
“Sierra—”
“You’re wrong. It is my problem. Mine alone.”
“Oh yeah? What are you going to do?” His hand flies out toward the window. “Leave?”
“If you want,” I whisper. He jerks like I struck him.
“You think I want you to leave?” He rushes to me and I wince, but he just kneels and takes my hands, chafing them. “You think I wouldn’t help?”
I shrug, unable to answer. Tears well up and spill in twin rivulets down my face.
Lincoln curses gruffly, and pulls me forward. “Come here.” His body is warm and solid, the shirt soft. I bury my face against him and sob. He just holds me.
“Fuck, Sierra,” Lincoln mutters, a hand on my head to keep me close. “You’re not alone.”
I step back and sniffle. My face is a mess of snot and tears, but at least I don’t have raccoon eyes. It takes me a few tries to find my voice. “I’m not?” I hiccup.