Page 9 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

"I'm usually extremely careful. My whole life is careful." She leans forward slightly. "Maybe I'm tired of careful."

The warning bells in my head are deafening now. She's young, beautiful, clearly interested, and probably rebounding from her breakup. I'm convenient—a working-class thrill before she returns to her real life. I need to shut this down.

The firelight catches the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lower lip. I imagine what her lips would look like wrapped around my cock, watching her cheeks hollow as she takes all of me down her throat…

"You should get some rest," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Been a long day."

Disappointment flickers across her face before she masks it with a smile. "You're probably right." She stands, gathering her glass and the bottle.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak as she moves away. The sway of her hips as she walks toward the kitchen to put away the whiskey is almost my undoing.

"Goodnight, Slate," she says softly, pausing at the hallway entrance. The way she looks at me over her shoulder, half inshadow, half in light, will be burned into my memory for a long time to come.

"Goodnight, Jordyn."

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sound of the storm rather than the memory of her smile, her laugh, the curve of her shoulder in the firelight. Try and fail.

My cock is straining, aching for attention.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll remember all the reasons this is a bad idea. Tonight, just for these quiet hours in the dark, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like if the circumstances were different—if I were different, if she were different.

I unzip my jeans and fist my cock, pulling with the right amount of pressure to help me relieve myself quickly. I hold my breath and keep an eye on the hall while I jerk off, simultaneously fantasizing about her and hoping she won’t walk in.

I grunt low as I come hard, heat giving way to shame as I clean myself up.

It's a dangerous indulgence, but no more dangerous than the way my body responded when she sat close to me, no more dangerous than the thoughts that keep circling in my mind as sleep finally begins to claim me.

Dangerous, but seemingly inevitable, like the storm that brought us together in the first place.

five

Jordyn

Iwaketosunlightstreaming through the windows and blessed silence. No rain pounding on the roof, no wind howling through the trees. Just stillness and the chirping of birds.

Rolling onto my side, I check my phone. Still no service, but it's just past seven—earlier than I'd normally be up on vacation, but my body is humming with awareness that I'm not alone in this cabin.

Slate. The memory of last night by the firelight sends a flush of warmth through me. The way his blue eyes had reflected the flames, how his voice had deepened when he talked about the open road, the electricity when our fingers brushed over the whiskey glass.

I brush my teeth and splash water on my face before padding down the hallway.

The living room is empty, blankets neatly folded on the couch where Slate slept. For a panicked moment, I wonder if he's gone—if he somehow managed to leave at first light. But then I hear movement on the porch and relief floods through me.

I slide open the glass door and step outside. The morning air is crisp after the storm, the surrounding forest glistening with raindrops. Slate stands at the railing, hands braced against the wood, staring out at the view.

"Morning," I say, pulling my cardigan tighter around me.

He turns, and something in his expression softens when he sees me. "Power's still out," he says. "But the roads should be clear enough for someone to get up here by afternoon."

"That's... good," I say, though part of me isn't sure I mean it. "Coffee's going to be a challenge without electricity."

"Already handled it," he gestures to a small camp stove with a metal pot. "Found it in a supply closet. Hope you don't mind."

"Mind? You're my hero right now." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I see his jaw tighten slightly.

He pours the steaming coffee into two mugs and hands me one. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and just like last night, the brief contact sends a ripple of awareness through me.

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