I don’t know why I’m so gruff with her. Something about her awakens a primal feeling in my chest like the first embers rising from a newly kindled fire. Her legs are amazing, and up close I can see a full chest, hard stomach, and just a hint of bulk in her shoulders. She thinks she’s a tomboy and doesn’t realize that her fumbling attempts to dissuade men by hiding her lovely body just make her more enticing.
Her pretty face is a storm of emotions. There’s enough of a girl in her that she wants to cringe because she angered an authority figure, an older man.
She starts to shiver.
Like I said, warm in the day but it’ll be near freezing tonight. Night comes fast out here. The sun is already well below the tree line. The shadows are long, and the light, my God, the light loves this girl. She’s a nymph, a princess slopped with mud. Like Cinderella.
She hugs herself.
“How far is it to your camp?”
She glances back and forth. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m not a hundred percent sure where I am, really.”
The words tumble out of her like a confession.
“I’m Lucas. Come on inside, before you freeze. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
“Can I have my camera back?”
I hand it over, and she takes a look at her muddy hands and changes her mind, hanging them by her sides before wringing her fingers like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
The cabin isn’t large, but it gets the job done. There’s a small living room that doubles as my studio. I keep the blank canvases lined up against each other there, like patients in a waiting room. This place was meant for solitude, so there’s one piece of furniture, a big plush sofa I bought secondhand and dragged down here by myself, facing the hearth the entire cabin is built around. There are two bedrooms in back. When I first laid out the plans for this place, I foolishly hoped I’d need a bedroom for my child. Or children.
As she steps inside, she droops her shoulders and looks down. She didn’t mind walking near a NO TRESSPASSING sign or photographing me without permission, but she’s ashamed to track mud into my home.
The way she tenses makes her ass a work of art in itself, a thing of beauty. She has a perfect, tight bubble butt begging to be grabbed, squeezed, and played with. I feel a hint of shame, wondering what noises she’d make if I bent her over the kitchen counter, buried my face in that ass, and tasted her pussy. I’d do anything to feel her legs quivering in my hands. The thought of her moans building as she loses control makes me so hard I can’t stand it and I almost have to shove her inside to get my eyes off her perfect ass.
“Go on then,” I grunt.
She steps inside and conscientiously stoops to unlace and then slip out of her boots. The simple pleasure of watching a woman in my home doing something innocuous, ignorant of how precious she is, is something I’d forgotten. I feel shame for how much I want to ravish her. I can already picture her tight body under mine, her long legs locked around me. I can’t decide if she has tan lines. If her nipples are darker than her skin, bright pink, or blend in. The thought of her perfect round ass having a pale wedge from tanning in demure bikini bottoms makes my cock throb.
She looks at me with complete innocence. “I’m sorry to impose on you like this.”
“There’s a shower. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
She nods and finds the bathroom—it’s not exactly a search. The cabin feels smaller now than ever when it’s filled with her presence. When she takes a towel and disappears behind the cedar door, it’s as though cold water splashes over my shoulders. My cock begs me for release, sings an image into my head of what her curvaceous body must look like.
Instead of my dick, I take charcoal in my hand as the kindling licks flame into the logs piled in the hearth. I start to sketch. As much as I dream of full breasts, there is nothing in the world that feels as good as a woman’s ass under my hands. I begin with her eyes and full lips, working outward to capture that first moment I saw her. My charcoal weaves in details that weren’t there, like leaves and vines in her hair. They don’t feel like additions. They feel like truth.
“Hey.” Her voice cuts through the air.
I glance up to see her poking her head and one shoulder out of the bathroom, gripping the doorframe with one delicate hand. There’s just enough of her showing to get a hint of how full her breasts must be.
“Thanks for the shower.”
A sweet smile flashes across her face, and then she turns around. The towel shifts slightly to give me a brief view of her ass. Oops.
And yes, she has tan lines.
Chapter 3
Alexa
As soon as the bathroom door shuts again, I lay my back across it and release a tense breath. We’ll get you cleaned up, he said. As though he was going to march into the shower and soap up my body himself. I could have sworn there was a tone in his voice that hinted at more, but he stopped just short of the living room. I expected him to follow me. I wanted him to.
He’s just being polite, you horndog.
Disappointment settles in my stomach as I strip the clothes from my body. There’s no way he feels anything toward me but indifference, maybe a slight impatience to send me on my way. I should really wash up and get out of his hair before it’s too dark, but I’ve never been in a man’s bathroom before. So I do what any self-respecting girl would do the moment she’s alone.
I snoop.
My slightly pale face stares back at me as I look into the mirror of his medicine cabinet. It’s one of those mirrors that’s covered with fog and chipped all along the edges. I swing open the door even as a voice tells me what I’m doing is wrong. My fingers graze over a short black comb. A razor. There’s a stick of deodorant sitting on one of the shelves. I grab it and uncap the top, sniffing the bright-red gel. A shudder runs through me as the scent enters my nose, all aquatic and male. The same smell that wrapped around me when he touched me at the small of my back. I snap of the lid back on the deodorant and then I face the glass shower. There’s a slightly damp towel hanging on the rack. A towel that wrapped around his naked, damp body this morning. I imagine it clinging to his waist, his chest beaded with moisture, his face rosy with the heat, just like I imagine it would be after sex.
Stop fantasizing about him. He’s not interested, and he wants you out of his house.
But how can I stop when I’m in his home, naked and surrounded by the smell of him? My skin tingles as I walk through the cool air, which feels shared somehow. As if he’s in here with me. I know he’s sitting on the blue couch in his living room, probably counting the seconds until he can boot my ass out the door. I can’t help but feel his voice run through me in a pleasant shiver, over and over again: We’ll get you cleaned up.
Get a grip, Alexa.
The shower hisses loudly as I turn the knobs, filling up the tiny bathroom with steam. I let it wrap around, imagining him stripping off that flannel shirt to join me inside. What a sight that’d be. I saw little of Sexy Man in the Woods, but I could imagine what the rest of him looked like by studying the fit of his jeans and the mouthwatering bulge between his legs that promised a big, fat cock.
I stop in the midst of soaping my body, horrified at my thoughts. When you’re a virgin at twenty-three, the first and last thought of your every waking moment is sex. Instead of wondering what it would feel like, my mind fills in the blanks as though it has already decided. What would he feel like? Would he even fit inside me? Would Lucas be sweet and gentle, or would he be as rough as his voice suggests? It runs through me again: We’ll get you cleaned up.
My hand drifts lower, to where my body aches for attention. I slip down to my thighs, imagining the fingers are Lucas’. My gasp hits the ceiling when I touch my clit, already slicked with desire. I can almost feel his strong arm wrapped around my waist, pinning me against his hard chest as his beard scratches my cheek. He gropes my thigh and whispers with a harsh hiss that I’m his now, and he’s not letting me go now
that I wandered on his property.
An even deeper moan rips from my chest as I push my fingers inside. They pulse in and out, feeding that rich need to be filled that somehow never gets satiated. The blood pounds in my head, and I think how wrong it is to be touching myself like this. My eyes fly open and I stop, fingers still buried deep.
God. What would Lucas think if he knew I was in here, fantasizing about his body like some kind of sick pervert? He’s a person. A man who already has someone. Well, I didn’t see any photos of another woman. Hope warms my chest.
Bang, bang, bang.
My cheeks flush as he pounds the door. Oh shit. Did he hear me moan? Maybe he thinks I’m in trouble.
“Open the hell up,” he says from behind the door. “Now.”
Whoa.
I shut the water off and stand there, trembling as I wring my hair out. “What is it?”
“Get your ass out here right now.”
Heart pounding, I reach around for the damp, used towel instead of the fresh soft ones sitting to my right over the laundry hamper. He probably just wants me out of here, that’s all. I took way too much time in his shower. I figure I have a reprimand waiting for me the moment I step out of the bathroom. That’s what I’m expecting, but when I open the door he’s right behind it. Holding my camera.
A violent blush rises to my cheeks as he stabs at the screen, which blazes with a photo of Lucas chopping wood. It’s the most sexualized image of a man I’ve ever seen. Everything about it is perfect: the way his shirt reveals just enough chest, his brooding, sexy expression, the muscle rippling through his arms to tell you this man is jacked.
“What the hell is this?” he prompts, forcing me to look at the real thing.
I get lost in those intense eyes. “They’re just photos.”
A guilty feeling starts to worm its way into my stomach as he flips through the succession of shots.
His dark gaze cuts at me. “Explain.”
It’s hard to think in his presence, even more difficult when he takes that gruff tone with me that bodes no nonsense. I stare from my Nikon to his face, which is taut with suspicion. “I—you snooped through my camera?”
“Don’t turn this around on me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? A ripple of pleasure runs through me, even though he looks so forbidding.
“I found you trespassing on my property. There’s a reason why that sign is up there: to keep people the hell out.”
I tighten the towel around my neck. “I’m sorry.”
The apology doesn’t appease him. “Are you a journalist? Spit it out. The longer you wait to tell me, the worse you make things for yourself.”
“I’m an art student,” I stammer, blood rushing to my cheeks again. “Swear to God. Check my bag if you don’t believe me. My student ID is in there. I was just taking photos because there’s a contest in one of my classes. Whoever wins gets a spot at an art gallery downtown. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
His smile is laced with darkness. “So you decided to find me, take pictures of me, and totally invade my damn privacy.”
“What? No, I had no idea someone lived this far in the woods. Honest, I just wanted to get away from the friends I camped with. I guess I got lost and found your place, but I have no idea who you are.” Should I know him? “Can I get dressed now?”
Lucas looks taken aback at being asked such a question and seems to remember that I’m standing in nothing but a towel, the water making plinking sounds as the drops hit the floor.
His gaze sweeps over my breasts, which are pushed up by my crossed arms. He looks at me for one long, hard moment. “Stay here.”
I might fall to my knees if he uses that voice against me one more time.
He glances behind his back as he retrieves my bag, as though he can’t trust me to be alone for one second. Zipping it open, he finds the student ID and flips it in his long fingers. “Alexa Monroe,” he reads. “I think you’re a liar.”
“I’m not lying!”
He walks toward me, slowly. “Put your damn clothes on.”
I don’t think Lucas wants my body covered, not when he holds my ID with enough tension to snap a piece of wood in two. “Is your wife coming home soon?”
“No wife.” Pain shines through his eyes. “No girlfriend, either. It’s just me here, which I’m sure will be great fodder for your article. Get dressed so I can walk you back.”
I’m no psychologist, but a man building four walls to hide himself in seclusion like this is a man in pain. The towel slides down my arms slightly and Lucas watches as I tug it back up. Then he walks toward the couch, sitting down with a heavy sigh.
I retreat into the bathroom and fold the towel over the rack, wishing I knew who he was. He obviously thinks I know him from somewhere. Racking my brains, I try to think of who he might be.
Channing Tatum? Does he live out in the woods and surround himself with NO TRESPASSING signs?
Once I’m dressed I step out into the hall and gaze at my surroundings. Beautiful oil paintings line the walls, all initialed by the same artist: LW. There are more in the living room: huge, charcoal figure drawings; watercolors, portraits, and still lifes. There’s an easel near his couch. Lucas moves toward it protectively and covers the canvas.
My mouth gapes open as I find a small ink-wash painting of a tree tucked in the corner. The wide brush strokes are styled in sumi-e. I lean in close, studying it for any flaws. There are none. A quick little scribble in the lower right-hand corner tells me it’s the same artist who did the ones in the hall. LW. Could the L stand for Lucas?
“Wait, you made all these?” I turn around, whirling on him. “Who are you?”
Lucas shoves his hands deep in his pockets, smirking. “You really don’t know who I am, huh?”
“No, but I wish I did so I didn’t feel like such an idiot right now. You have these beautiful watercolor and oil paintings. The values, colors, and composition are just amazing. And so many different styles.” I can’t quite disguise the longing from my voice. “How do you do it?”
“Years and years of practice.”
“But you’re so young—at least—you look young. I swear to God, I’m not a reporter or a journalist or whatever you think I am. I’m just a photographer with stupid dreams.” When he frowns, I keep babbling. “I want to be the next Ansel Adams.”
He smiles. It tugs at me. “Ansel Adams didn’t jump-start his career by taking photos of half-naked men.” He stands and takes a giant step forward, invading my space.
Maybe he meant to push me back, but I don’t want to move while his closeness burns my skin. I want to reach out and touch his face. There’s something fiery in his eyes. Maybe it’s what keeps him holed up in this cabin. Perhaps he’s been alone too long. His gaze lingers on my lips, throat, and boobs.
I clear my throat. “What about Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings? Were they vaginas or flowers?”
“For six decades she denied there was anything sexual about her work. You don’t get acclaim from the art world by drawing tits over and over.”
My heartbeat throbs in my throat. “Says the man with figure drawings all over his walls.”
“There’s nothing new about nudity. Those are old and mostly for practice,” he says flatly, gesturing toward the stack of blank canvases. “I haven’t been able to make art in a long time.”
“What about that?”
He sucks in breath as I point at the easel next to the couch, the one he was so keen to hide from me. “It’s just a little sketch.” He glances out at the sky, which is rapidly turning dark. “Look, I should take you back to your camp. I know these woods like the back of my hand, but we’d be stupid to walk in pitch black.”
He doesn’t fool me. I don’t think he’s any more willing to get rid of me than I’m willing to return to Bryan and that sellout, Jess. He looks at me through the eyes of a half-starved man.
Lucas doesn’t know it yet, but I’m hungry, too.
H
ow long have I waited?
I move around him and head toward the easel. I’m stopped by his hand grasping my wrist. “Don’t,” he says with the same authority when he told me, Put your damn clothes on.
“I want to see.”
Reluctantly he lets me go and I walk behind it. I shift the paper hiding the drawing and gasp.
It’s me.
A charcoal drawing of me, naked, with vines and leaves twisted in my hair. My eyes devour the details, wondering how the hell he imagined everything so perfectly.
“Wow.”
Lucas clears his throat, looking neither embarrassed nor relieved. “It was just a fifteen-minute drawing.”
Fifteen minutes. I couldn’t accomplish this in hours. “Why me?”
He shrugs, and then an entirely different look falls on his face. “Why not you? I don’t get a lot of visitors, Alexa. It’s not like I can put out an ad for models to come to an abandoned cabin.”
I stand in front of him, pulse racing for what I’m about to do. I unzip the hoodie and let it fall to the ground. Then I grab the hem of my shirt and slowly pull it over my body.
“Alexa, what are you doing?”
I ignore his tight voice and unbutton my shorts, letting them slide to the floor. “I’ll be your model.” He seems unable to speak as I reach around my back to unclasp my bra. “I want you to draw me. You need practice, right? It’s the least I can do after ruining your night.”
And I want you.
“There’s just one thing you should know.”
He grunts in the affirmative as my boobs bounce free. My beige, lacy bra hits the floor with a soft whisper. Then I hook my fingers in the edge of my matching panties, loving the way his gaze keeps stroking me. Up and down. Soft and hard.
“You should know that I’m a virgin.”
Chapter 4
Lucas
My eyes follow her bra to the floor. Like most guys, my instinct when a girl exposes herself in front of me is to look away, but her lacy underthings draw my gaze like a flash of red before a bull.
Riding Wood Page 2