Page 16 of Double Mountain Men

“You’ve been good, Misty,” they croon. “You’ve more than earned a place at the cabin, and we can’t wait to do more with this gorgeous, curvy body of yours.”

I smile even as I hold still for their ministrations because the truth is that I’d do it all again with these two men ... for free.

9

BRETT

It’s been twenty-four hours of rough sex and repeated filthy fucks. We’ve worked Misty’s curves over front and back, using her three holes relentlessly as she cries out with pleasure. She should be in the hospital, getting her fluids replaced and taking electrolytes after what Chris and I have put her through.

Yet the young woman sits at the table, eating her lunch as if nothing untoward has happened. In fact, Misty looks as innocent as an angel with her blonde hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, her features free of make-up, and a sweet smile on her face as she enjoys Chris’s hearty grilled cheese.

“I adore grilled cheese, but this is next level,” she murmurs with appreciation after swallowing a hefty bite. “What did you put in it? It’s so gooey and delicious!”

Chris beams with pleasure. The motherfucker’s chest literally puffs out, like he’s a second grader being awarded a gold star.

“It’s all in the ingredients,” he announces proudly. “I start with artisanal white bread, and then butter both sides usingthe good stuff from Avon Farms. Their cows get plenty of sunshine and alfalfa from what I’ve heard, and are given the freedom to roam their pastures. Then, I use cheese from various sources, including Emmental from Jack Pelletier, cheddar from Pico Farms, a white cheddar from Brock Woods, and a little mozzarella just to give it that gooey, stringy finish.”

I can’t stop myself then because is this fucker alright? My buddy’s acting like a doofus and I’m embarrassed for him. Seriously, Chris is the opposite of an alpha male right now.

“What he’s saying is that he’s a fucking idiot,” I growl, rolling my eyes. “What the hell?”

But Chris doesn’t give a shit. He merely shrugs those broad shoulders and turns to Misty again.

“Tell me what you like to eat, sweetheart. Both Brett and I are good in the kitchen, so we’ll whip up delicious meals for you.”

I grunt again because we’re not exactly “good” in the kitchen. Both Cross and I retain private chefs because neither of us have time to cook. We’re CEOs in the real world, and besides, I have two sons. Brandon and Brent are now at college, thank fuck, but before they left, they were going through truckloads of groceries per week. Our chef literally had to work non-stop just to keep those fuckers fed, which meant slaving in front of a stove twelve hours a day. Yeah, I pay someone to do the cooking.

But of course, Misty doesn’t know any of this because we keep our real lives on the downlow. Hell, Chris and I have even assumed fake names for our month of sinful living, seeing that we don’t want the girls to google us and discover our real lives. Thus, Cross is “Chris” and I’m “Brett.” What a fucking shitshow.

But Cross is leaning into his fake persona because it’s entertaining and it’s not lying, exactly. We’re sticking to the broad outline of our lives; we’re just not providing identifying details for obvious reasons. He nods as Misty asks another question.

“We met in school,” he says, jerking his chin at me. “We’re alum of Western University and played lacrosse together back in the day. The workouts were brutal, and we bonded trying to survive that shit at six a.m. in the morning, five days a week.”

“Oh, lacrosse!” Misty nods, with her eyes wide. “To be honest, I’d never even heard of lacrosse before matriculating at Evergreen. It’s not really the type of sport you get to know when you live in a group home.”

“That, and it’s mostly played by men,” I growl. “I think they have D1 lacrosse for women now, but it was a long time coming. But yeah, I picked it up when I was in high school, and it made sense. I’ve always been a decent runner, and I was good with my hands too. They recruited me from baseball.”

“What the fucker is saying is that he wasn’t good enough at baseball to get recruited,” Chris smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “So he settled for lacrosse.”

I shrug.

“Hey, it got me into Western because my grades were total shit. I wouldn’t even have gone to college, if it weren’t lacrosse. I’d probably be working with my hands instead of the sweet gig I have now.”

Misty’s eyes sparkle.

“And what do you do career-wise, Brett? You’re obviously very successful with your fancy haircut and designer sweats.”

I grunt because my hair is chopped by a specialty barber in Minneapolis, and it costs three hundred fucking dollars per appointment. And yes, I’m wearing designer sweats, but the logo’s not apparent. Yet it seems Misty can recognize high quality fabric and color, and I appreciate that about her.

“Chris and I aren’t really mountain men,” I growl. “We just come out here to fish, hunt, and shoot the shit on vacations. Our real lives are in the city.”

Misty smiles sweetly.

“That’s what I guessed, actually. I didn’t truly think you guys were roughing it on the mountain. Not with the designer cheese and artisanal bread,” she giggles.

At that, Chris smacks the side of her rump with a large hand, making her jump and shriek with joy.

“Really,” he asks. “It’s the cheese that gave us away.”

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