Page 4 of The Mountain Man's Virgin
He pulled me in close and we kissed. I could feel the tears falling down my cheeks. They should’ve been tears of happiness. And maybe they were. After all, prince charming had just proposed to me. But, I couldn’t explain the growing feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter 4 – Mick
I love flying. It’s the only time that I truly feel free. The whine of the helicopter firing up literally makes me hard - every time. There’s something about the sound of the engine when I pull pitch, the blades rushing through the air that brings me happiness.
I never get tired of flying, or of safety checks, or logging flight plans, stuff that would seem mundane to most people. As my chopper pilot friends and I like to call it, ‘kicking the tires and lighting the fires.’ I know that I will always love my helos, and never get tired of being inside of them.
If only I could say the same thing about women.
Some people have booze; some people drugs - everyone’s got a vice. I was never a big drinker, and I only smoke the occasional cigar here and there, if it will help close a business deal. My vice? Well, I’ve got two of ‘em. The first is probably pretty easy to see – adrenaline. It fuels me and makes me feel alive. The other: women. I used to eat them up, I say that literally and figuratively, and I could never get enough, but once I had a woman, I never wanted to see her again. Ever.
Did I feel bad? Kinda. I know now that I should have felt like a terrible human being, but truthfully, I never used to care.
It’s too easy for me, women throw themselves at my feet. I’ve been dubbed Seattle’s hottest bachelor, and I think that women like the fact that I’m 6’4” and ripped. It’s a perk for them, for sure, but the real reason they want me is that I’m rich - filthy, stinking, rich. It made me sad to realize that if I ever decided to settle down with a woman, I would never really know if she liked me for, you know, me.
What the magazines don’t know about America’s hottest bachelor, is that I am through and through a sex addict. Not the Hollywood, cheating on their wives looking for an excuse kind of sex addict - a bonafide clinically diagnosed pussy addict.
Living out here in the trees, the mountains, the fresh air, this is my rehab. Like the bears that are my neighbors, I’m hibernating here to avoid society and temptation. You know how people on diets will eat ice cream if it’s in the house? That’s how I am if there’s a woman around me. And if there’s two, I’ll enjoy both of them, probably at the same time. But, like a binge eater at the bottom of an empty ice cream container, the pleasure I get from fucking these women is only temporary.
I had worried that the desire to fuck would intensify with solitude, but I had been out here for three months and it turns out that for me it is the opposite. I could literally feel the carnal desire slowly fading away. It scared me a little, but I knew that it was better for me if I could learn to control my cock. Every time I went back to society, I was a nervous wreck. Would I relapse? Would I be able to maintain my crackling campfire of desire, or would it flare into a bushfire?
I radioed my head office and told them to prepare for my arrival and register my flight plan. I locked up the cabin and whistled for Chopper. I heard him yawn and crawl out from under my bed. I smiled at him, “Come on, you lazy lab,” I said. I clapped my hands and Chopper stretched and shook before trotting down the path after me to the helicopter.
My head office was in Seattle. I had chosen my cabin’s location so that I could get to the office with plenty of fuel to spare. I touched down on the roof of my 30-story skyscraper and powered down the engine. Chopper and I hopped out and headed straight for my office.
My assistant, Jeff, looked up from his screen. “Earlier than usual, sir.”
I glanced down at my watch, 10:23, the tailwinds had been in my favor.
Jeff got up from his desk and walked me into my office. “I put the files on your desk, and your messages are here, organized in order of urgency,” he said, handing me a stack of papers.
It had taken me a while to learn that I couldn’t have a woman as an assistant. I would just fuck her. It happened more than I’d like to admit. To keep it simple, I fucked every single one of them before I found Jeff. He was organized, patient, great at his job, and best of all, I had no desire to bend him over my glass desk and shove up his skirt, exposing too-sexy-for-work lace panties. FOR FUCK’S SAKE. I can’t even be back in the world for ten minutes without thinking of sex, without turning my male assistant into a sexy skirt wearing woman.
“Have the executives from Torver arrived yet?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. They’re all set up in the boardroom with coffee and croissants.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Jeff. Let them know that I’ll be in to meet with them at eleven.”
“Will do, sir. Your suit is hanging on the back of the door,” Jeff said as he left.
I grabbed the suit and headed to my office ensuite. The bathroom was tiled in Carrera marble, the starkest most beautiful white tiles I could source. There was a custom glassed-in shower that sprayed water from every direction except up – which only made sense, as that seemed like a recipe for an enema. My favorite add-on was the eucalyptus steam system, but I didn’t have time for that today.I stepped into the warm white starkness and had a quick rinse, washing the woodsmoke, mountain air, and aviation fuel smells off my body.
I buttoned up my crisp shirt and smoothed it over my abs. I no longer went to the gym but living in the woods had made me stronger and leaner than I had ever been in my life. I looked at my plaid flannel shirt, wool hat, and Carhartt pants, hanging on the back of the door; my woodsman persona hung there, now replaced by an Armani suit. I looked like a different person, except for one thing…
Every time I come back to the office I contemplate shaving off my beard, but I have come to find comfort in it. Simply touching it reminds me that I am more than a just a CEO. It sounds crazy, but the beard helps to keep me grounded, to remind me of why I went off the grid. Was I afraid that shaving it off would cause an instant relapse? That’s ridiculous, but a little superstition never hurt anyone, did it?
I grabbed the files from my desk and strode to the conference room. The Torver Group was a multinational company I was interviewing to handle the takeover of a few mid-size companies. They had recently stunned the business world with their takeover of the Wordsworth Corporation and I wanted them on my side.
Johnathan, the CEO, stood up to meet me. We had met a few times over the years, and he seemed like a ‘stand-up’ kind of guy. I always feel a certain kinship with a fellow-rags-to -riches businessman - someone who came from nothing, like me.
I took my place at the head of the table and glanced down at the other members of his board.
Shit. Fuck. Dammit.
Unlike my team, which was solely comprised of men, he had three women on his. I know that I look sexist because I refuse to hire very capable businesswomen, but I just can’t have that kind of temptation around me every day. It would be like an alcoholic working as a bartender, having to stare at all those beautiful curvy bottles day in and day out.
But Johnathan’s team, wow. There was a sexy blonde seated beside him, an all-American brunette beside her, and a gorgeous black woman at the end. I recognized the blonde as Samantha Doyle, the CEO of Wordsworth and was surprised that he’d kept her on as part of his team.
