Chapter 5

Chapter Five

I decided on the affable lumberjack. Congratulations, Marshall—see what’s behind door number two. Tickly, under-the-jaw stubble that feels incredible to burrow my nose into—that’s what.

His body is a wonderland I want a lifetime pass to; discovering each muscle on his back, the warmth of his shapely thighs brushing against mine as I shamelessly nudge my hips into his. By day, I can pretend I’m an anomaly who can live without sex, but in this fantasy, my deprived cock is making a speech that sex is compulsory, dicks deserve daily attention, and the one I’m rubbing against is a vital meeting of the minds. My cock just got my vote. It’s official: I’m never waking up.

“Whittle me,” I tell my lumberjack, lips tracing his pulsing jugular. “Whittle me with your dick like a piece of Basswood.”

One of his strong hands grips my hip. He doesn’t mind my love handles. He loves handles. So, I return the favor, doing some handling of my own. His skin is like hot suede as my palm slinks underneath his flannel and travels up his back.

“Marshall,” he rasps, as though my touch is his undoing and he’s warning me he’s about to go savage on me .

Ha! Like I need a warning. I am well overdue for some savagery. This is the best dream I’ve ever had. He can do whatever he wants.

Truly…

He can.

It is my dream, after all. Savagery it is. Thank you, me.

“Yeah, Lumberjack?” I ask, all sultry, testing his barely checked lust.

That would never sound sexy in real life. I tried talking dirty once and decided I sounded part psychopath, part poorly scripted porn. Right now, however, my needy dream voice is on point because he gasps.

Thrusting my hips forward, I grind them against the special log Lumberjack packed just for me, pushing this epic fantasy to the limits. He grunts in approval.

“Not yet,” I tease, sliding the outlines of our cocks alongside each other as I reach for his hand. Guiding it down my hip, I don’t stop until I feel those axe-wielding fingers graze my crease over my boxers.

Lumberjack gasps again, as though he didn’t think he’d be granted the gift of my body, sending a tremor through me. I love how unassuming and sweet he is.

Squeezing my hand over his, I groan at the sensation of him gripping my ass. Fuck. It’s been so long. Why aren’t my dreams like this all the time?

“Marshall,” he croaks.

Uhn . He’s ready. I know I sure as heck am.

“Now,” I rasp, moving my kisses up his jaw in search of his mouth. It’s dark in my room, but I don’t need to see. I can feel his measured breaths in front of my lips.

“Mar-Marshall…” he stammers pleadingly.

I know, Lumberjack. I know .

“Whittle me. Now. Need it,” I whine.

I crash my mouth over his, putting everything I have into this sleepy dream kiss. His lips are firm yet soft. God, he even tastes real. Except… they lack the gusto of an authentic invitation, almost like he’s frozen, letting me do all the work.

Damn it. Nothing can be perfect, can it? Not even a fantasy.

Concentrate, Marshall. Dream big, win big.

Rolling us, I revive my manifestation of the perfect man with my mouth, letting him feel my urgency. His hand retreats from my ass, making me want to cry. The fantasy is crumbling. I’m losing control of it.

No, Lumberjack! Come back!

Wow… There we go. That’s quite the grip on my hip, so realistic, but why is his mouth moving away from mine? His other hand squeezes my shoulder.

Is he pushing me away? What the fuck kind of dream is this?

“Marshall…stop. Wake up, you’re?—”

That awful statement that’s going to get Lumberjack replaced in my next fantasy is interrupted by a loud pounding noise. Lucidity comes crashing violently down on me. The weight of my body. The grogginess of waking up. Why is my room so cold?

Blinking my heavy eyelids, I squint at the invasion of daylight. At least it’s dim, muffled by this thick blanket over my head and…

Wait…

Why does it still feel like I’m on top of Lumberjack? He’s not real, but I’m definitely on top of a firm, warm body.

Raising my head, I blink again…

Why does Lumberjack… look like Ronny?

More thunderous pounding. Like a fist on wood. Is that the rumble of an engine outside?

“Hey! Anyone alive in there? Ronny! Marshall! It’s Sal!”

“Oh, God!” I croak, suddenly all too aware of my body’s placement.

There are parts against other parts . Holymotherfuckingshit ! I did not just dream hump Ronny Carmichael…did I?

From the traumatized way he’s looking at me, I have my answer. Oh God. I totally did .

The next thirty seconds are a frenzied blur of trying to escape the world’s smallest sleeping bag. Foreheads bash. Elbows connect with ribs. Knees hit nuts. It’s a fight for freedom with all the grace of a cat attempting to escape from a plastic bag.

Ronny grunts unhelpful things like ‘Wait,’ ‘Calm down,’ and ‘Ouch!’ He is as useless to me as ever. I will neither wait nor calm down. I just molested him with my touch-starved body and said Lord knows what, like my dick was a cheese grater and his was gouda. I need out of this sack of shame, stat!

I’m ejected onto the cold floor the second I find the zipper. This cabin can burn in hell. What has it done to me?

Where are my pants? Sal does not need to know what happened here.

Tripping over my phone, I swipe it up in my scramble toward the dormant fireplace. Of course, it has full bars now . I could have woken up and called someone instead of going to Lumberjack Town.

I will not think about that right now. I’m just going to get dressed and then go bury my head in the snow.

Ronny calmly buttons his pants and heads toward the door. I ignore his courteous glance at me to see if I’m ready to be exposed. My jeans are freezing, but they’re back on. Turning my back on him, I shove my feet into my boots.

“Shit, Ronny!” Sal exclaims, bringing a gust of cold air in with him. “You sure take devotion to a project to a new level. Thought I was going to find two popsicles out here!”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Ronny looks uncharacteristically abashed. “I should have called it quits sooner. Thanks for checking on us. Um, about the work truck, though…”

“Saw it when I came in with the plow driver. We’ll pull it out on the way. Nothing to worry about. Just glad you two are safe.”

Safe? Try frozen and humiliated, but yeah, I guess, also safe.

“And you , Marshall,” Sal warns, waving his phone as he approaches.

“And me what ? ”

Slapping his phone in my hand, he gives me a grave look. “Do me a favor and call your mother. That woman is persistent. She was about to call out the National Guard until I assured her I’d make it out here.”

Mom called him? I just log-jammed Ronny in my sleep while my mommy was looking for me. Kill me now.

The only saving grace about the ride back into town is that Sal and Ronny drove the work truck after the county plow driver pulled it out of the snow, leaving me with the luxury of riding with the plow driver. Neither my boss nor the man I cuddled with for half the night had to hear me repeatedly reassure Mom I was alive and well.

My luck runs out, however, when the plow driver drops me at Sal’s workshop. Ronny parked right next to my car. He gets out of his truck as I approach.

Quickly scrambling into my vehicle, I turn the engine over, letting it warm up. A figure blocks the sun from my frosty driver’s side window, however, so I guess we’re doing this. Is he going to give me shit about this morning? Will he file a sexual harassment complaint against me?

Opening my door, I’m surprised by his greeting. “Want me to scrape your windows for you?”

Seriously? Where are the jokes? Where’s the dig about what I did in the sleeping bag?

“No, I’m good. I’ve got the defrost on. I’ll just give it a minute.”

Nodding, his gaze canvasses my car as he rocks back on his heels. If he’s not mentioning ‘ the incident, ’ then why the hell is he standing here?

“Nice to be back, huh?” he asks with a smile.

That says it all. I assume he means it’s nice to be back where he doesn’t have to swaddle me, listen to me bitch about the cold, or tolerate me dicking the shit out of him in my sleep.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Maybe you can still catch your holidate . ”

I knew there’d be a dig. He just can’t help himself where I’m concerned.

“Um, no. It’s too late. I had a nasty message waiting for me on my phone on the drive back.”

Frowning, he ceases his rocking. “Oh? Then he’s not someone you’d want to fake meet your family, anyway.”

Was that… compassion? From Ronny? Granted, I know he kept me warm, but still…

“What about you?”

“No fake dates for me. I prefer the real deal, good or bad.”

Aaand there’s the Ronny I know. I was trying to be civil, and this is what I get—another veiled dig about my dating method choices.

“No, I meant, what do you do for the holidays?”

“Christmas at my mom and dad’s. All my brothers, nieces, and nephews. Total chaos.”

That sounds like Ronny’s MO—a room full of shenanigans and sarcasm. It’s a healthy reminder that last night’s brief displays of tenderness that drove me into fantasyland were only Snowholm Syndrome. He said he’s ‘ happy to be back .’ Why the hell does that bother me? It’s not like our cabin caper meant something.

Silence stretches between us, constricting my throat as the night’s events flash through my mind. I am not apologizing for my actions. If I apologize, I’m acknowledging what happened, which will surely lead to him giving me shit about it for the rest of my career at Sal’s.

Nodding an awkward goodbye, I slip into my car, willing away the odd sensation in my belly. Is it just me or has his smile changed? It’s not the smirky smile he always gives me. It looks…forlorn. I must be imagining things. When his broad back rounds the front of my car to get into his truck, a sense of longing deep in my chest compounds the further away he gets.

Get a grip. It’s Ronny. Not Lumberjack.

Stupid holidays, making people feel lonely. Even worse, I’m going to be the talk of Christmas as soon as Mom spills the beans about my ordeal. I’ll no doubt have to hear some tale about how Trent climbed Mount Everest or something with only a Swiss Army knife and a granola bar.

Backing out, I head home, determined to believe the last twenty-four hours didn’t happen. That proves difficult with Ronny’s truck in my rearview for half the ride. At least, I’m no longer cold. Not cold at all. Just the opposite… to the point of discomfort each time I glance at the rearview. I’m going to have a serious talk with my dick when I get home.