Chapter 4Goldie

Chapter 4

Goldie

M y head— Ow .

My ankle— OW .

My cheeks, which have felt slapped hot by embarrassment ever since the fog clouding my brain started to lift and I realized that the Sasquatches I watched bathing, and then straddled (only one of them, but still), are not actually mythical creatures but incredibly virile, giant-in-stature men— owwww .

Everything hurts, even the sharp knife of disappointment that goes through me because these bearded, long-haired, incredibly burly men, despite having bodies that are hot as hell, are not what I was looking for. I know it's only the first day of my venture, but I was so sure I'd just gotten lucky and found a nest of Sasquatches right away, like it was fate.

"How tall are you?" I blurt out to the one who was told to escort me back to my car.

Lynx, he was called, and he does look like a lynx with his golden-green catlike eyes. But his wild hair falls down past his butt, jet-black like a panther. He holds me steady with massive arms, and I get a neck cramp as I tilt my head back forty-five degrees in order to look up at him.

"Seven foot one," he says in a gruff, grumbly voice.

The grumbling sounds I'd heard from a distance were the deep, velvety timbre of their voices. So low, so resonant that their whole chest rumbles. It really does. I felt it when the grumpy one they called Luke talked and my hands vibrated as they skimmed over his pecs…

Oh me, oh my, indeed. I have to be hallucinating or dreaming. Or maybe I'm dead. Could I have died and gone to Big & Tall Man Heaven?

Another one—Hunter, they're calling him—is kneeling down at my feet, with a hand as massive as a bear's paw around my ankle as he assesses the damage. The thick, sandy-blond hair on his arms shines in the midday sunlight. The hair on his head is darker, probably because it's wet. He's dripping on me, but I don't mind.

"I don't think it's broken, but we should get you back to the cabin so Lynx here can examine it thoroughly," he says, and the way he's holding my foot is…nice.

I gaze at Hunter, flashing a grateful smile and getting caught on the warmth of his hazel eyes. They sparkle.

When he kneels, he's practically my height. Wow.

Also, he's still naked, my good God.

They may not be Sasquatches, but they are all definitely built like hot and hairy mythical creatures…right down to their enormous cocks. I didn't know cocks came that big.

Also, I've never had the urge to run my fingers through anyone's pubic hair before, but here we are. The golden curlicues wreathing the base of Hunter's very erect cock shimmer invitingly.

Did someone mention the possibility of me having a concussion?

Desperately, I try to think of a quote, needing a distraction, but as they surround me with all of their…virility, my brain can only jumble up words. Instead of wisdom, it babbles forth with: Much like the robust girth of an eggplant and the succulent peach, true beauty lies in embracing our own unique dimensions, and maybe holding them in our hands—

"What's that, ma'am?" Lynx asks.

Did I say it out loud?

"My sunnies," I blurt, realizing that I haven't been wearing them since…I'm not exactly sure when, but I must have lost them as I ran through the woods. Why is the sun so damn bright all of a sudden? "I was wearing sunnies."

"What the hell are sunnies?" the grumpy one I took down like a bowling pin, Luke, demands. Then he holds up his hands, as if in surrender. "Never mind. I do not need or want to know."

He shakes his head and stomps off.

"Sunglasses. My sunglasses," I clarify, in case anyone else needs or wants to know, or has just happened to see them. "They're gone."

"I don't mind lookin' for 'em," one of them rumbles in his sexy-as-sin voice, and I shiver before I even look over and then up, up, up at him, to see that his hairiness has nearly hidden another pair of sparkly blue eyes. Sky blue on a cloudless summer's day.

"My phone," I exclaim as I realize I don't have that either. "I dropped my phone."

Shit , I think as I remember Mom's call. Another marriage bites the dust. Poor Clive.

There's a grunting battle between the rest of them over who will help me next. SO much big dick energy and I'm SO here for it.

I count them up. There are eight of them. Nine, if you include Grumpy Luke.

I immediately think of Winnie, my best friend, who recently found love with not one, not two, but all ten of the Hammer brothers, that lucky bitch. I may have jokingly asked her if they had cousins, because having ten hunks fawning over you can't be a bad thing, right?

And now here I am. With eight men fawning over me.

Not a bad thing at all. Even if they could use haircuts and a razor. A bulk order of razors. Between them all, there's probably eighty-five pounds of body hair. Why cover up all the heavenly manliness that obviously lies beneath?

"Let's get going before Luke eats all our lunches out of pure spite," Lynx says.

"He's probably seeing how many rolls he can fit into his big mouth at once as we speak," one of them says…what did the other one call him? Clay, I think.

"I think I can walk," I say even though the trees are swaying despite the fact that I don't feel a breeze.

"Nonsense," Hunter, no longer holding my foot, says. Then he plucks me up into his arms like I'm an apple or something.

"Hello," I giggle, peering up at him.

With a crooked grin, he says, "Hi. I'm Hunter."

I'm muddy as fuck, which isn't ideal, but it's not stopping him from holding me bridegroom-style against his chest. His bare chest. Water droplets from his hair roll down his pecs in rivulets that I absolutely must not lick.

Must. Not. Lick.

Holy shit, his biceps are massive. Everything about him is massive. Each stride he takes is about three or four times what each of mine would be. Maybe more.

"You really don't have to carry me," I tell him—though, what the actual hell is wrong with me? The last thing I want is for him to let me go. I wouldn't mind if he carried me straight to his bed and fucked the virginity out of me right this very second.

I'm shocked by my own thoughts. Yes, I'm a thirty-year-old virgin, but that's by personal choice. It's not anything religious or moral or about wanting to remain pure 'til marriage or anything. I've always wanted my first time to be perfect, is all. And…well. That necessitates the perfect penis attached to the perfect guy. I most definitely have not found that yet. Far from it. And I definitely am not doing it for the first time with a total stranger, I can promise you that.

The altitude or all the fresh mountain air must be getting to my head, clouding my judgment, because other than the massive quantities of testosterone floating about, why the heck am I thinking about sex right now? Unless I do have a concussion and sudden-onset horniness is a little-known symptom of that.

I wince as a pain shoots through my ankle.

"Yeah, Hunter," Lynx, who's walking next to us, says in a fierce growl that hits me in the parts of me that have officially been awakened for the first time…ever? "Luke asked me to be the one to escort her, in case you've forgotten. Which means if anyone is to be carrying her, it should rightfully be me."

I burst into giggles. It's so absurd. I'm being pranked. That's what's happening. Because there is no way this is actually happening to me. All these mountain men are actually battling over Rose-Gold Amber Locke.

Actually, maybe I should be thinking about how these are eight (nine, if you count Grumpy Luke) total strangers. Who knows what their plans for me are? Haven't I learned anything from all those true crime podcasts I listened to while traveling between film sites?

My giggles stop fast. They could be serial killers. They could be a sex cult. Are we even going in the right direction? What did they say when I asked if they were going to kill and eat me?

"Um, my tent is that way, I think," I say, pointing the other way. There are too many trees to know for sure. "You can really just take me there and—"

"We're not going to your campsite, darlin'," Hunter says.

And no, I am not charmed by the way he says darlin' —except there are parts of me that totally are.

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" I ask him again.

I mean, Hunter! His name is freaking Hunter! Hunters kill things. So he could totally be a serial killer.

"What?" Hunter replies, incredulous. "No! We're going to take you back to our cabin and take care of you. You're injured."

That's right. They said that. I squeeze my eyes closed, really wishing I had my sunnies. My head is pounding.

"You're injured and it's our fault," Lynx says.

"All our fault," another one of them adds. "I'm Nash by the way." He widens his stride to catch up, while it seems the others all linger back to find my missing items. He winks at me and I feel it in my ladyparts. "And we need to feed you. Keep up your strength so you can heal. Luke isn't much of a welcome wagon, but he sure can cook."

"Grumpy Luke can cook?" It slips out, heavy with disbelief.

"Grumpy Luke, huh?" Hunter chuckles, and with my body pressed against him, I feel the rumble in his flat, gloriously chiseled stomach. "Fitting, alright."

His laughter is causing flutters in my own belly. What the heck?

I have so many questions about these mystery mountain men. Time to put on my reality television show producer hat and draw answers out of them with stealth and tact, so they don't even realize they're spilling their guts until it's too late.

"Are you some kind of mountain men sex cult?" I blurt out.

So much for stealth and tact.

It's very possible I'm concussed.

Lynx laughs, the sound cracking like thunder around us. Hunter catches me in an earthquake of an embrace, his laughter rumbling through my entire body.

"We're brothers," Clay explains.

Ohhh. Well. That explains…you know. Nothing.

"Brothers," I repeat.

"Yeah, but if you're looking for a sex cult, we could—"

"Don't mind Clay," Lynx says. "He's a wiseass. We're brothers. We live a simple life. Off the grid. Not much more to it than that."

I beg to differ—I bet there's a helluva lot more to it than that. I have so many questions. But still, I commit Wiseass Clay to memory. Wiseass Clay, Grumpy Luke, Cat-Eyed Lynx, and Cute Pubes Hunter? Ughhh, my head.

"Clay, why don't you run up ahead and draw a bath for her?" Hunter suggests.

I open my mouth to say that's not necessary, but a bath sounds divine. No harm in getting a little cleaned up and taking advantage of hot running water before I go back to roughing it at my campsite. Maybe I can get one or two of them to come back and help me pitch my tent?

"On it." Clay takes off at a jog.

"His hair is quite Rapunzelesque," I remark. It's platinum blond, longer than mine, and I wouldn't mind climbing it to sit on his face. The thought makes me laugh, but laughing makes my brains feel like they're rattling around in my skull. I wince.

I update my mental file: Wiseass Clay with the Rapunzel hair.

I settle into the arms of the man holding me, experiencing an entirely new view of the forest from up here as we follow what must be a path they know well, though it doesn't look like a trail. They plow through each wild tangle of brambles and step over fallen branches and logs as though there's nothing in the way at all. I realize that I've never felt so comfortable or safe in my life. I'm truly at ease, as though my heart and body believe I'm exactly where I should be and have auto-relaxed for some unexplainable, chemical reason.

Definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent concussed.

They said they're not going to kill me, but allowing them to carry me off with pretty much zero resistance, along with the way my body is reacting to them, is definitely not a good thing. Like, I know how predators attract their prey. I've read Twilight. And I've fallen into their trap. We're in the middle of nowhere! I have no cell service. I have no cell phone!

But just as I start to struggle in Hunter's arms, the snarling maze of forest breaks open, and I'm too stunned to do anything but stare at the clearing before us, containing a wild vegetable garden bursting in a rainbow of colors, and a sturdy enough–looking log cabin, the front door left wide open like an invitation.

From a purely professional standpoint, the house isn't much. I mean, it's certainly not big at all, especially considering the size of the brothers. I mean, there can't be more than a room or two, a kitchen, a bathroom—hopefully, because I won't be taking a bath if the tub is just sitting out in the open. Just because I've seen theirs doesn't mean I'm showing them mine.

But even though it's very small and isn't the most charming dwelling I've ever seen by far, at least it doesn't look like what I imagine a derelict murderer's mountain sex cult hideout would look like.

"Here's home," Hunter rumbles into my entire body.

I can hear the beaming pride in his voice as he says it. I know the sound of it well after working on a home renovation show with ten men for nearly a decade. The way he says it tells me he must have built this cabin himself, or at least lent a hand as it was being built. Taking in the weathered logs that make up the walls, I can easily picture the brothers carrying entire trees over their shoulders as they worked on the build.

Strangely, it's a very appealing image, all these burly men building a log cabin. I've never had a thing for builders—as far as I was concerned, all ten Hammer brothers, as hot as they all are, were always Winnie's guys.

But these men…

It's curiosity, that's what it is , I tell myself. I just want to know who these mysterious men are. I'm just curious to know how they eat, where they sleep, why they all live together up on this mountain, how they spend their time in their tiny little cabin. I produce reality TV—or I did , I remind myself. Past tense. Either way, it doesn't mean anything that I wonder about their lives. Curiosity is natural. Normal.

And maybe I'm reluctant for Hunter to put me down, but that's probably just because of my primal instinct to protect myself while injured. Lynx was right. If my ankle is broken, I shouldn't be putting weight on it. There's no other reason I tighten my arms around Hunter's neck, because Lord knows I'm not the clingy type. It's just not in me. I'm the opposite of my mother. She clings, I kick.

And apparently, I lick, because there's one last droplet of water winking in the sunlight at me, and I want to clean him up with my tongue so damn bad.

Who even am I?

Lynx has been leading the way through the garden, which up close is rambling and disorderly with vines and stalks intertwining haphazardly and plants spilling over their beds. It's lush and full of life, but obviously is not carefully curated or maintained with aesthetics in mind. Lynx bounds up the front walk, and reaches the door first. He calls out, his voice like a boom of thunder, "Hey, we're back!"

Then he turns to me, flashing this lazy wildcat smile that would weaken my knees and cause my full collapse if I wasn't already being held by Hunter, and says, "Ready?"

Hunter squeezes his arms around me, and a couple of the others run past, flashing me equally heart-melting—no, panty-dropping—smiles as they dash through the door.

Am I ready?

Ready for an orgy , my inner vixen thinks.

I tell her to shut the hell up, because 1) my brains are concussed and scrambled and 2) I'm pretty sure an orgy would not even make the top one-thousand of perfect—or even good—ways to lose your V-card.

"I'm ready," I tell Hunter.