Page 14 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“It’s full of bad advice that women like you are all too eager to follow.”

“Women like me?” she scoffs. “Seems like you don’t mind a steady stream of women like me passing through here so long as it gets you laid from time to time.”

“I’ve never touched any of those women.”

“That’s verifiably false,” Abby says with a knowing smirk.

As exhausted as I am, my cock twitches to life under the heaps of blankets around us. Arguing with Abby drives me crazy in ways I would never expect.

“Do we need to have a talk about the birds and the bees, Abby? That’s the second time today you’ve implied that we had sex. I’m starting to question your definition of the word.”

Abby’s cheeks burn bright pink. I like knowing I can get under her skin. Without thinking, I reach up and brush my thumb over the warm, smooth skin of her cheek. It catches her off guard, but she allows it. I try not to overstay my welcome there.

“You know, if you weren’t such an old man with your eight o’clock bedtime, I wouldn’t need to entertain myself by sitting here and reading that book,” she says.

I roll over, pull a book out of my nightstand, and hand it to her. It’s an outdated Western pulp fiction book with bad cover art and a cigarette ad on the back page. Abby stares down at it as if I just handed her a bucket of worms. She flips it over and reads the back.

“Is-is this a book about a cow thief?” she laughs.

“Sure is,” I say as I flip over and turn out my light.

Before she can protest again, I’m out cold.

I almost sleep straight through the night, but at some wee hour of the morning, the rustling beside me pulls me vaguely back into consciousness. Her hair tickling my arm, her head resting in the crook of my shoulder, her fingers lightly grazing my chest.

“The cows ran away,” she mumbles sleepily near my ear.

When Abby realizes that she rolled over and tangled herself up in me, her head raises slightly from my shoulder.

“Is this okay?” she whispers.

It is, but I’m too groggy to answer. Instead, I cup her wrist in my hand and rub my thumb in soft, lazy strokes against her skin until I doze off again.

Hours pass before I wake up again. The sunlight is barely visible through the thick cloud cover, but it’s definitely morning. The fire went out some time ago, judging by how cold it is inside the cabin. Abby stirs beside me. She rolled away from my side while I was sleeping. Now she’s wrapped in a heavy cocoon of blankets, which are drawn up to her ears.

I sit up and drag a hand over my face. When my feet hit the floor, it’s like ice against my soles. I make quick work of starting a new fire then climb back into bed. Abby shivers as the air shifts and threatens her warm cocoon.

“Come back over here,” I say. I blurt it out before I have time to change my mind. It’s cold. I miss the warmth of a body beside me. I miss the feeling of a woman in my bed. This one’s already here, so there’s no harm in making the most of it.

These are the things I tell myself as Abby nudges into my side and drapes her arm over me. She’s stiff at first, hesitant to relax into me, but eventually, she gives in and melts into my side as she dozes off to sleep again. I stay awake and enjoy the warmth of the fire on one side and the warmth of Abby on the other.

Chapter 9

Abby

When I wake up, my face is pressed into Hunter’s shoulder. My lips are squished against the side of his neck. My hand is riding a little too low on his stomach. I instinctively pull away. I am a cuddler by nature. Hunter wouldn’t be the first unfortunate soul to have to pry themselves out of my clutches after a hard night’s sleep. Anyone who has known me well enough or long enough has met a similar fate at one point or another. It makes for a lot of awkward mornings when you find out you groped or drooled on your best friend or sister by accident in your sleep.

Hence, the chastity pillow.

Then Hunter’s words echo somewhere deep in my sleepy brain. ‘Come back over here.’ A chill runs through me and I roll back towards my side of the bed before I do something even more embarrassing.

Without a word, Hunter slides out of bed and tugs a t-shirt over his head. He heads for the kitchen and starts brewing a pot of coffee while I make a beeline to the bathroom to change out of the oversized t-shirt I’ve been wearing all night. My jeans still aren’t dry, so I throw on the same pair of shorts that I wore yesterday and tie one of my t-shirts into a knot at my waist.

On my way to the kitchen, I grab the Western novel off the foot of the bed.

“This is a terrible book,” I say, plopping it down on the counter next to Hunter. He laughs as he pours two cups of coffee and hands one to me.

“I don’t think you’re qualified to judge that,” he counters before drawing a long sip of coffee.

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