Chapter 35Goldie

Chapter 35

Goldie

"W hat the hell took you so damn long?" Luke asks when Clay and I enter the cabin, with plenty of apples but no pears. Luke looks over all the baskets. "Why no pears?"

"Because, if you must know, we were busy having the friendship and then the sex," Clay says. "And Lawd have mercy, I regret nothing."

I cringe inwardly, wishing Clay wouldn't poke the bear, because it seems Grumpy Luke is back in full force.

But, wait. What? No. He's grinning. Not at what Clay said, but at the apples.

"These are the most beautiful ones I've seen yet," Luke says, and polishes one off in two bites. "Damn, and the tastiest too. While you two were off fucking around…literally…Ash finally figured out what was going awry with the roof and we've got it fixed. For now, at least. Goldilocks, if you'll make lunch again, I'll make pies for after supper with these apples."

"Deal," I say. "Anyone mind if I take a quick bath first?"

"Ride you hard and put you up wet, did he?" Luke nods at Clay and I swear, he almost sounds lighthearted. Almost.

"Something like that," I admit. I smell like sex and that's not a bad thing, but I feel sweaty and I hate that.

"As long as you can have lunch ready by noon, bathe your heart out," Luke says, tossing me a bottle of the raspberries and cream washing-up liquid.

I tell him thank you and head for the tub, where I try not to luxuriate in the bubbles too long. After I get out, when I go to dry off, I'm stunned into silence. There's an eleventh towel, embroidered with my name on it in pink. Rose-Gold , it says in the same neat script as the guy's towels. I put on my clean clothes and go out into the living area to find out whose handiwork this is, because…one of these big, burly mountain men knows how to embroider? I'm not trying to stereotype at all, but how? With those big hands? How?

And it hits me that the living area is empty.

I can get the cameras. My heart does a happy dance. Or maybe Clay fucked me into some kind of cardiac arrhythmia, but we'll hope for the happy dance.

I'm racing for them when there's a stomp stomp stomp behind me, followed by, "Hey, Rose-Gold Locke."

I turn to see Rusty.

"Hey, hey, hey," I say, as one does when trying to sound super casual and like they absolutely weren't up to anything they shouldn't be up to.

"Hey," he says. "Oh! You found your towel. Do you like it?"

"Did you make it?" I ask.

"Hell no. With these hands?" He holds them up, turning them one way, then the other, as if I've never seen them before. "Lynx did it."

I'm about to point out that Lynx's hands are just as big as Rusty's, if not bigger, when Rusty says, "He wanted to be a surgeon, you know. So he practiced on anything he could with needles growing up. Ma once caught him trying to stitch me up and I didn't even have any kind of cut, so she made him start the embroidery."

The easy mention of the past, of their mother, does not go unnoticed, but I don't make a big deal out of it.

"I'm on laundry duty," Rusty says. "Got anything that needs a wash?"

I'm a bit caught off guard, because I don't remember seeing a washing machine or dryer anywhere, but of course they do laundry. Maybe the washer and dryer are in one of their sheds, or maybe there's another hidden doorway leading to the laundry room? I marvel at how the cabin looks so small on the outside but I keep discovering new rooms and spaces.

"Yes, I do have some stuff, thanks. This might sound a bit princess-y, but…do you guys use hypoallergenic detergent?" I cringe at my own words, hoping I don't sound too high-maintenance. And it's kind of ridiculous since I've been bathing in some kind of all-purpose washing-up liquid.

Rusty chuckles, his relaxed demeanor not missing a beat. "We don't use detergent. It would pollute the river."

My eyes widen in genuine surprise. "You wash clothes in the river? Like…beat them against rocks?"

He laughs again. "No, we've got a washboard. It's old-fashioned, but does the trick. So, how about it? Got any dirty clothes you want to toss in with our stuff?"

I think about the outfit I was wearing when I first tumbled into their world and into that puddle with Luke.

"Actually, I have what I was wearing when I first got here….it's pretty much ruined. Probably beyond saving," I admit, feeling a slight pang of guilt since that pink sequined camouflage outfit technically belongs to the wardrobe department at the studio and was just a loaner.

"Let's have a look. Maybe it's not as bad as you think."

We head to the bedroom, where I dig out the mud-caked clothes from my bag, a testament to my less-than-graceful entrance into their lives.

"The rest of my clothes can wait 'til I get home—they're not exactly in dire straits like this poor thing," I say, holding up the ruined garments with a resigned laugh.

Rusty takes them from me, his fingers lightly brushing against mine, sending an unexpected buzz through me, like he's a human vibrator. As he examines the fabric, the closeness of our bodies in the small bedroom feels suddenly intimate. Rusty meets my gaze, his hazel eyes a clear, open invitation. I hesitate for a breath, then, emboldened by his gentle confidence, I close the gap between us and our lips meet in a soft collision of a kiss.

The touch of his lips is gentle, almost reverent, and a rush of affection sweeps through me, warm and enveloping as his hug had been. The kiss is short, but oh so sweet.

Suddenly, a sobering thought kicks me in the logic sector of my brain. Rusty is only twenty, a full decade my junior. In my "real" world, I'd never even consider dating someone so much younger—too many complications, too much potential for mess and heartache, way too much societal judgment—I know because one of Mother's husbands was ten years younger than she was. It's a serious, eyebrow-raising age gap, especially and unfortunately, when the guy is the younger one.

But as I stand here, looking into Rusty's hopeful eyes, a wave of sadness washes over me. How many experiences have I denied myself in the pursuit of an ideal that may not even exist? How many moments of genuine connection have I sacrificed on the altar of societal expectations?

Coming to this mountain—stumbling into the lives of these men—has demolished so many damaging beliefs I've been walking around with. In only a few days, they've taught me that life's true beauty can exist in the unexpected, wild moments that you never planned for.

The old Goldie would be horrified that I've fucked three men I barely know without even making a pros and cons list before sitting on their dicks. But now? These days on this mountain will be ones I'll remember on my deathbed, days I'll tell my grandkids about (leaving out the naughty bits, of course). Days I could've completely missed out on because of my quest for perfection.

"Pick me up?" I ask.

Tossing down the wrecked outfit, he picks me up, and then I give him a proper kiss. Fuck the age gap and the horse it rode in on. He's two years past legal.

His breath is warm against my skin as he leans in, a smile playing on his lips. I can feel the heat radiating off him, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just us—his lips, my lips, and the magnetic pull between us.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of my neck, his touch both rough and gentle, and my breath hitches. He pauses, his lips hovering so close to mine I can almost taste him, and for a second, I think he might be having second thoughts. Maybe he's decided I'm too old for him? But then he closes the distance.

The first brush is soft, tentative, like he's giving me a chance to pull away. But I don't. I press into him, and that's all the encouragement he needs. His mouth takes mine, deliberate and desire-filled, and I lose myself in the kiss, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I wrap my legs tighter around him. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping across my bottom lip, and I part for him, letting him in.

The moment our tongues meet, something inside me snaps, and the kiss turns hungry, desperate. I'm kissing like a starving woman. I've been starving for some Rusty. My hands slide up to grip his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans, his hands wandering down my back, down, down, until his hands are hooked under my ass.

The kiss lasts until someone clears their throat. We pull apart and Rusty puts me down. He is bluuuuuuuuuuuuuushing. Lynx is standing in the doorway.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," he says. "Luke just told me you were doing laundry and I have some flannels that need washing. You got room in the basket?"

Rusty nods. "Throw 'em in. Do you want to come with me, Rose-Gold? I can show you how we use the washboard."

"I bet you could show me all sorts of things, Rusty, and believe me when I say I want to see them all. But I'm on lunch duty."

"Next time, then," he says.

I nod. "Next time. Oh, did you get Luke's good pants? Because they got covered in mud too."

Rusty nods. "He says they're a lost cause, but I'm gonna give it my best shot. See ya in a while."

"Good luck! Be back in time for lunch!" I remind him as he leaves Lynx and I alone in the bedroom.

"What time is it getting to be?" I ask.

"You still have plenty of time to make lunch, especially if I help, which I will," Lynx says. His gaze shifts from my eyes downward with a blend of concern and mischief. "How's that ankle doing, Goldie? I haven't checked it out in a bit. Want me to take a look?"

"It's actually a little bit sore today, so that would be great, thanks."

Lynx gestures toward the two beds that are pushed together with a playful raise of his eyebrows. "Let's get you to the examination table, shall we? I'll run and grab my medical bag and be right back."

Holy shit, are we gonna literally play doctor? If so, I definitely need to mention my concerns about my out-of-control libido.

I get settled on the bed, lying back on the pillows, and Lynx returns. He sits on the edge of the mattress, gently lifting my foot onto his knee. His fingers are gentle yet firm as they probe the area around my ankle, his touch professional but…also a little bit not.

"Looks like it's healing nicely," he comments with a smile, after he's given it a thorough examination. His tone is light, but his careful attention reassures me he takes my well-being seriously. Then he leans forward to press a soft kiss to the still bruised skin. "Just to make it better faster," he adds with a wink of those gold-green cat-eyes. "Your insurance probably won't cover that."

I can't help but laugh. Lynx's playfulness eases any tension, and his proximity stirs something deeper than just the comfort of being cared for.

"Let's make sure everything else is in working order," Lynx continues, his hands sliding up to my calf, then to my knee, each touch light and teasing.

By the time he caresses my thigh, his face is close to mine, his breath warm against my skin. "And how does this feel?" he asks, his voice a low murmur.

"Feels like you might be blurring the lines of the doctor/patient relationship," I reply. "But…it also feels nice."

"Good," he says. "Are you experiencing any symptoms that concern you, Miss Locke?"

"Well, I have a fluttery feeling in my belly," I say with the utmost seriousness.

"Butterflies. Not uncommon when in close proximity to someone you're attracted to." He nods.

"Um, and I seem to have a case of heaving bosoms," I say, but I can't keep a straight face.

He glances at my chest. "Well. That, we need to check out. Would you mind removing your shirt and your bra so I can take a look?" He clears his throat, but he can hardly keep a straight face either. "After an injury, it's important not to take any symptom lightly."

"I understand, Doc," I say, pulling my shirt over my head and then reaching around to unclasp my bra.

My breasts are immediately supported by Lynx's hands, cupping them with the gentlest of pressure. "They do seem to be heaving a bit," he says with a solemn nod. He catches my erect nipples between his fingers. "And this—well, you could just be cold, or it might be a sign of arousal, which we definitely don't want to let go untreated."

I shake my head. "Definitely not. And I think your diagnosis may be spot-on there. In fact, Doctor, I'm very concerned I may be coming down with a case of nymphomania."

His eyebrows shoot up. "That's a serious condition. And there's only one way for me to be sure."

My heart thuds. "Oh?"

"Well, it'll require you to remove the rest of your clothing so I can do a full vaginal exam. I don't have stirrups here, obviously, but do you think you can spread your thighs wide for me?"

I nod. "I think so."

My throat is bone dry, because apparently all the moisture in my body has pooled in my panties. Apparently I enjoy roleplaying. Who knew?

I lift my hips up off the bed so Lynx can pull down my pants and my underwear. He drops both to the floor and his gold-green eyes rove over my stark-naked body.

"Now, for the examination. Spread your thighs wider, please."

I grant his request, a flush crawling up my chest as I expose myself to him.

"First, a digital exam," he announces. His fingers part my folds, exposing my swollen, pink pussy to his gaze. I gulp audibly as I watch him study my entrance. His eyes are intense, burning hot with desire. First, he thumbs my clit then with excruciating slowness, then he slides a finger inside me, and my cunt clenches around it. He looks up at me, concern etched on his face.

"Extremely responsive and quite evidently wet," he declares with a clinical nod that fails to mask his growing desire. "Symptoms of acute arousal, possibly chronic. I'm afraid it's more serious than I thought."

Well, yes, the way my clit is pulsing wildly certainly feels serious as hell.

"What do you suggest, Doctor?" I manage between ragged breaths, completely caught up in our game.

Lynx's expression turns thoughtful, almost comically so, as if pondering over a particularly challenging diagnosis. Then he nods. "Emergency oral stimulation is crucial—cunnilingus therapy," he prescribes without missing a beat. "As the only physician currently on shift, I'll have to perform the procedure immediately."

I want to keep playacting, but I have to break character for a minute. "Lynx," I say. "No one's ever…I've never had, um, cunnilingus therapy before. Also, I had sex with Clay earlier."

He cocks his head. "Do you not want me to…perform the therapy?" he asks.

I shake my head, my curls bouncing all over the place. "No. I do. I definitely do. I want to keep, um, playing."

"Okay, then. Because Dr. Lynx wants to make you feel good. As for the sex with Clay…we agreed to all share you. You don't have to tell me everything you do with anybody else. You can if you want to. I'm not going to be upset, or jealous. But you don't have to make any sorts of confessions to me, Goldie. Understood?"

I nod.

"Then, I believe your prognosis is excellent, as long as we get your treatment underway without further delay."

Lynx pushes my thighs even further apart, holding me wide open, and dips his head. I gasp as I feel his warm breath, his beard tickling my exposed sex. Then his tongue delves between my folds, licking a slow, torturous path from my opening up to my clit. I arch off the bed at the foreign but incredible sensation of his mouth on my most intimate parts.

"Oh, Sweet Lord," I whimper, my fingers clutching the sheets as Lynx laps up my arousal with the flat of his tongue. He traces teasing circles around my throbbing clit before drawing it between his lips to suckle.

Holy damn fuckmonster.

He alternates between flicking his tongue rapidly over my clit and sucking it with increasing pressure. It's almost too much stimulation and I writhe beneath him, panting heavily. But he pins my hips to the bed, not letting me escape the overwhelming pleasure…or is it torture? Both. Aching pleasure, sweet torture.

"The treatment isn't complete without a climax," he says before he seals his lips around my clit and sucks me hard as he thrusts two cock-sized fingers deep inside my heat.

I let out a keening cry, my body bowing off the bed as the orgasm crashes over me in intense waves.

Lynx crawls up my boneless body, a satisfied smirk on his face. "I'd say the treatment was very effective based on your response."

"Oh, you mean when I was trembling and gasping out your name?" I laugh, still breathless. "Holy fuck, Doc. If that's the cure, I never want to be without this particular affliction ever again."

"Well then, we'll just have to make this therapy a very frequent part of your care plan." He winks.

I pull him down for a deep, sensual kiss, moaning at the taste of myself on his talented tongue. After a few minutes of making out, he sighs.

"As much as I hate to do anything other than this, ever, we should probably start lunch," he says.

"Can you just hold me for a few minutes first?" I ask, and he immediately takes me in his arms, pulling me close.

"Lynx," I say into his chest, because I don't know why, but he seems to be the right one to tell. "I think I'm getting feelings. That's not…possible, right? So soon?"

"Well," he says, then lets out a deep sigh. "I'm afraid I think it is. Unfortunately, I don't think there's a cure for that."