Single Dad's Bride

by Melinda Minx

  “I will check them,” I say.

  I stalk over to where my clothes are drying near the fireplace, and take hold of the ankles on my jeans. They are damp. My underwear is dry, as is my shirt. The jacket is still damp, as well.

  “So?” Coal asks. “You gonna’ put those soggy clothes back on, and I’ll walk you a few miles through the snowstorm with a flashlight? Let me get my jacket. I’m gonna’ change my pants, too...put on some really nice, warm, dry, and toasty insulated ones—”

  “Shut up,” I snap.

  I set my coffee mug down on the edge of the fireplace. It’s still only half-finished. “You were wrong; this still tastes awful. Who drinks coffee like this?”

  “I told you that you’d like it when you had finished the cup,” he says. “You haven’t finished it yet.”

  “Go get your stupid pants,” I say. “We’re leaving.”

  “I’ve got cider,” Coal says. “But that’s bitter, too.”

  “Bitter drinks for a bitter man.”

  Coal laughs. “Who says I’m bitter?”

  “I do. You have some chip on your shoulder. You isolate yourself out there because you’re afraid, but you try to play it off as some mountain man, lumberjack bullshit. You’re ashamed of what you were—what you are—and you’re trying to hide from it.”

  Coal grabs my cup of coffee up from the fireplace and takes a sip of it. He smiles. “It doesn’t taste bitter to me. I’ll go get my pants.”

  He disappears into a room—what looks like the only room other than the living room—and shuts the door.

  The warmth from the fire has reached down into my bones now, and I feel toasty. The memory of the snowstorm is somehow distant, like a dream. Now I’m going to walk back out into it, with wet jeans.

  He just had to cross the line. If he had been more of a gentleman, I’d have been happy to sleep on the couch by the fire, while he slept far away in his own room. But no, he had to say aloud what my lizard brain was thinking, that he is hot, and that some part of me—a tiny part of me—wants him.

  It’s been eight months. That’s not even a year! It’s normal when you’re busy—and when all guys are such assholes—to have dry spells. If I wanted some meaningless hook-up with a total asshole, I could have just gone to a dive bar. I was waiting for something real. I’m tired of guys who just want to fuck around.

  At least I thought I was tired of them. Coal is forcing me to reconsider. That’s why I need to walk back out into the snowstorm and get away from him before I do something stupid.

  He steps back out of his room wearing thick clothes with a scarf draped over his shoulders. His hands are full of more clothes.

  “So,” he says. “I cut a few dozen extra notches in an old belt of mine, I think with some creativity I can get these warm pants onto you.” He frowns. “I really didn’t think we’d end tonight by me getting pants onto you.”

  He throws the pants and belt onto the couch beside me. “Call for me once you’ve got these on.”

  He’s gone before I can even say anything. I wonder if I did actually piss him off. Maybe I hit too close to home with my amateur psychoanalysis of him. Though seriously, no one shuts himself off in a cabin like this if he doesn’t have some kind of issues.

  I make sure Coal is gone before I remove the blanket. I pull the pants on. They almost go up to my nipples, and they are as loose as a burlap sack. I wrap the belt around my waist and tighten it. The pants stay up, but they are by no means comfortable. I roll up the bottom of the legs so they don’t drag on the floor. I put on my own shirt and bra, which are thankfully dry.

  “I’m ready,” I shout.

  Coal comes back out into the room carrying an extra jacket. “This will be too big for you, but it’s better to be too warm than too cold. Put it on.”

  I nod and obey. The sleeves swallow up my hands.

  “I can’t get my hands out.”

  “Good,” he says. “You won’t need gloves then.”

  “What if I need to...carry stuff?”

  “I’ll carry everything. You’re a terrible hiker, Andrea, you’ve proven that. I want you to stay just a few steps behind me at all times. If you can’t touch or carry anything, all the better. Less for you to screw up.”

  He grabs my wet jeans and stuffs them into a bag. “Ready? Last chance to back out. I can sleep on the sofa—”

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  I’m too stubborn to turn back now. As soon as I put the big, dumb, oversized pants on, I should have just called the whole thing off. But the last thing I want to do is to admit to Coal that he was right.

  I follow him to the door, and the moment he opens it, the wind sucks every last drop of warmth out of the cabin.

  I shiver instinctively, and my eyes widen.

  Coal turns back toward me. “Look, the hood can tighten.”

  He takes his hands and adjusts the hood for me, pulling it over my head and down my face. He grabs the strings and pulls, and the hood tries to engulf my face. I feel like a vacuum-packed Eskimo.

  He smiles. “You look hilarious.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Come on,” he shouts over the howling wind.

  I follow him onto the porch, and with the walls no longer shielding us, the big gusts of wind slam into me. The clothes actually keep the worst of the cold out, but when I step into the snow, it goes up to my ankles.

  “It’s deep,” I shout out to him.

  “It will probably only take us about an hour and a half,” Coal shouts. “As long as we keep a good pace.”

  An hour and a half. Holy crap. What does he consider a good pace? He’s almost two feet taller than me, and his legs can move a lot faster than me. Especially since he’s wearing clothes that fit properly.

  We trek through the deep snow, and Coal keeps us on the path. My feet start to feel cold after only a few minutes, and I look back toward the cabin with longing. The warm glow of the firelight through the cabin windows already looks small, and I feel like I’m walking away from warmth and safety. For no reason.

  Why? Just to show Coal that I don’t want him, even though I really do? Isn’t it just a sign of weakness? If I really don’t want him, then I can just sleep on the couch and part ways in the morning. This journey into the snowstorm is...what is it? What is it that I’m trying to run away from?

  4

  Coal

  “Coal!” Her voice shouts out over the howling gale.

  “Yeah? I say. “If we keep stopping like this, it’s going to take even lon—”

  “Let’s go back.”

  I resist the urge to grin at her, to gloat that I knew she was being stubborn. But I keep my face passive and neutral, and I nod to her. “Alright, yeah, we can go back.”

  I take the lead, and after a short time, we’re back at the cabin again.

  Andrea is cold and shivering all over again, and I disappear into my room to get some extra blankets for her—and to give her a chance to undress.

  I don’t know why I want her so much. I never need a woman, not really. Sex for me is usually something I just let happen. Most times that I go into town for a drink, sex tends to happen. I never have to chase it, and I never get hung up on any one woman. Far from it.

  But ever since I carried Andrea into my cabin, ever since I didn’t quite avoid seeing those perky tits, I’ve wanted to get a taste of her. Maybe it’s because she tries too hard to convince herself that she doesn’t want me? Or maybe it was just that I was forced to take care of her? Usually the only care I give a woman is making her come as loud and hard as I can, and then I’m done with her. I can’t remember the last time I actually cared.

  “Don’t get soft, Coal,” I whisper to myself.

  I’m not the kind of guy that should ever be responsible for another human being. Afghanistan made that crystal fucking clear.

  When I step back into the living room, Andrea is huddled up on the floor next to the fireplace, rubbing her hands together just a foot or so fro
m the flames.

  “I got my room cleaned up for you,” I say. “I’ve got some really warm blankets on the bed, and I’ll get the stove in there running high so you don’t freeze.”

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” Andrea says. “Right by this fire.”

  “The bed will be more comfortable,” I protest. “I don’t mind the couch.”

  “Neither do I,” Andrea says. “I like the fireplace. I’m sleeping here.”

  “Alright,” I say, nodding. “If you change your mind and get cold, don’t come crying to me to swap.”

  I grin at her, but she rolls her eyes.

  “Do you have a spare toothbrush?” she asks.

  “No teeth brushing in the log cabin,” I say. “Wannabe lumberjacks don’t believe in personal hygiene.”

  “Right,” she says. “Your teeth are just gleaming white from all your black coffee and cider.”

  “Let me show you to the bathroom.”

  I guide her into my bedroom, and I see her eye the bed with longing. I’m not going to offer it to her again, though. She made her choice.

  The bathroom is a tiny little closet-sized room with a sink, toilet, and shower.

  “Oh, running water. Fancy!” she says.

  “It’s a pain in the ass to keep the pipes from freezing in winter, but if you want to take a shower, let me know.”

  “Maybe in the morning,” she says. “I don’t want to get all wet again.”

  I lick my lips and eye her up and down. “You sure about that?”

  She tries to shove me, but she’s not strong enough to make me budge. I just laugh at her.

  I dig in the cabinet under the sink and find a few toothbrushes still in their packaging. “Here you go. Still packed up, since I don’t use them.”

  “Stop pretending like you don’t brush your teeth. That’s disgusting. I can see your toothbrush right there!” She points at it.

  “You caught me,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Maybe I even shower sometimes, too.”

  “I’d be able to smell it if you didn’t shower,” she says.

  I reach across her to grab my toothbrush, and my body presses up against her. I feel the heat of her radiating onto me, and she tenses up, as if she’s holding her breath.

  I step away from the sink with the toothbrush and the toothpaste in my hand.

  “Let me have that,” she says, grabbing for the toothpaste.

  I pull it away from her and turn my back to her. “Me first.”

  She grabs for the toothpaste, and I feel her big warm breasts pressing against my back as her hands grab for the tube. The sudden warmth of her stuns me, and I make no effort to resist. She snatches the toothpaste from my hands.

  “Alright,” I say. “You can have it.”

  Her body leaves me, but the scent of her lingers. It gets up into my head, and my cock stiffens. Fuck, I want her bad.

  But wanting someone? That’s a weakness. I should just let this be: her on the couch, me in the bed.

  If my dick is still hard tomorrow, I’ll go into town and find someone easy. Someone simple. Not Andrea. I get the feeling that if I did it with her, she wouldn’t just slide out of my memory like all the other women.

  “Alright,” I say, spitting the water out of my mouth. “I’m going to bed. Good night. Enjoy the fireplace.”

  I shut the door on her, but I can still smell her. “Toughen the fuck up, Coal.”

  I take my clothes off and collapse into bed. My dick is still hard as I fall asleep.

  And it’s still hard when I wake up.

  But it’s still dark out. I often wake up in the middle of the night. Before I had to fight Taliban insurgents in the hellhole caves of Afghanistan, I used to sleep like a baby. Now I usually wake up a few times every night, my body always ready to fight at a moment’s notice, even after two years out here in isolation.

  I turn and see her—Andrea—in my bed.

  That jolts me fully awake.

  I poke her, my finger hitting bare skin. My dick stiffens even more.

  “I got cold,” she says. “The fire died out.”

  “Fires tend to do that.”

  “You raised a big stink about not asking to swap if I changed my mind,” she says.

  Her back is facing me. She’s not turning toward me to speak.

  “Are you still cold?” I ask.

  “Go back to sleep, Coal.”

  “I’m going to warm you up,” I whisper. “If you don’t want me to, just say so.”

  Silence.

  I wrap my arms around her bare shoulders, her breasts press into my forearms. She says nothing.

  I hold my breath, and then she scoots her entire body into me. My rock-hard cock presses into her ass. I cup her breasts.

  Neither of us speaks, but I can feel her breathing heavy against me.

  Finally I whisper, “You took your clothes off before crawling under the blankets with me. Don’t tell me you didn’t—”

  She turns around to face me, it’s dark, but I can see the glassy whites of her eyes.

  We lock eyes, and it’s like the still silence before a storm. Adrenaline floods into my blood, and my cock twitches at the memory of her soft curves. My throat goes dry in anticipation of claiming her.

  I press forward, and my lips crush against hers. Her scent overtakes me, and then her taste fills my mouth. Our tongues meet, and I wrap my arms around her once again, pulling her warm body against mine. Her hands grab hold of me, running up and down my hard body.

  Her hands run along the hard planes of my body and across my scarred skin as we kiss. My cock twitches impatiently as I drink her in.

  We kiss long and deep, until finally she pulls away breathlessly. “Do they hurt?”

  “Do what hurt?”

  “The scars.”

  “They hurt when I got them,” I say. “But not now.”

  Her hand runs up to the scar from my knife wound on my back, and she traces her fingers gently up and down it.

  “Got stabbed,” I say.

  Her fingers run down to another scar.

  “Shot.”

  “Jesus,” she says. “Is that why you’re so done with the SEALs?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say.

  These scars are nothing. It’s wrong that I came out of that shithole in one piece. Gomez, Murphy, and Ramsey—those three should have come out with a few scars. My body should be rotting in a cave somewhere.

  I reach up and cup Andrea’s breast, squeezing gently as the warmth fills my hand. I press my face against the soft, supple skin of her neck, and I breathe in deeply. I let her feminine scent wash away the dust and memory of Afghanistan and the ghosts of those who didn’t make it out.

  She moans as I touch her. I move my lips up her neck, toward her ear. I gently run my tongue along her earlobe as I move my fingers closer and closer to her nipple.

  Her moans are all I need right now, but I want them to be louder. I want to hear her scream my name.

  I bite her ear and run my finger in gentle circles around the outermost edges of her nipple. I imagine just how hard it must be, but I want to tease her. I want to make her want it bad before I give it to her.

  “Coal,” she says in a pleading whine.

  “Andrea.”

  “Please,” she says.

  Yes. Beg for it.

  I run my finger just a millimeter closer, not giving her what she wants. I whisper into her ear. “What do you want?”

  “Please,” she says. “You know.”

  “Say it.”

  “Touch my nipple,” she says in a frustrated gasp.

  “It must be hard,” I say. “When I first found you, I tried not to look, but your nipples were so hard...my eyes just locked onto them. Are they just as hard now?”

  “Fucking touch them and find out!” she says, grabbing hold of my ass and squeezing.

  I laugh. I’m only teasing myself at this point; I want to feel them.

  I run my fingers up, feeling the
texture change as my fingers slide over top of her nipple. She moans louder as I caress her, and my finger goes up the steep mountain that is her hard, pointing nipple.

  “Fuck,” I say. “Harder than before.”

  I squeeze, and she gasps. She turns her back toward me, pressing her ass against my rock-hard cock. I feel a warm wetness slide onto her ass, my precum.

  Her body squirms, and she reaches back, her nails digging into me. The pain feels fucking good, so I squeeze her harder. I reach a hand under her and suddenly grab hold of her other breast. I press my fingers down onto both of her nipples, and I vary the pressure and intensity, listening to her moans to guide me.

  She squirms and writhes against me as I explore her body. I reach down along her hips and waist, squeezing and exploring the incredible curves of her ass.

  “You’re so hard,” she says.

  I wonder how wet she must be. There’s no way she’s not just soaking wet. My cock is already so close to her tight hole, but it would be a shame to skip straight to the final act. I want to drink her up first.

  I slide down her body, and she tries to grab me, holding me there with her. I’m stronger than her and escape her grasp. Soon she’ll see why I’ve left her side, and she’ll have nothing to complain about.

  I pull her leg up and slide between her legs, my face is close enough to her to smell her wetness now. I inhale deeply and lick my lips. Soon I’ll lick her. But not yet.

  I squeeze her thighs and run my hands slowly up. Very, very slowly.

  “You’re going to make me say it again,” she says. “I’ll just say it. Please, touch me.”

  “Touch you where?”

  “My pussy.”

  “I can smell how wet you are.”

  “Feel how wet I am,” she says. All shyness suddenly gone from her voice. She’s finally admitted to what she wants. It’s a good look for her. Something I could get used to.

  No, just this once. I just need to be sure I fuck her really good to get it out of my system. No attachments.

  My fingers finally find her soft mound. It’s soaking wet, and I can’t resist going straight for her center with my tongue. I press my lips against her wetness, and I run my tongue up and down her outer lips. Her legs press against me, locking my head in place. Heh, as if I’d ever willingly pull away at this point.