Chapter 7 #2
I’m not a big fan of being vulnerable, though since December that feeling has been a near-constant companion.
Maybe even before that, when my schoolroom stopped being my safe space.
Then Bex got hurt, and it threw my world order entirely out of whack.
Things and people I trusted, the security I believed we’d all managed to wrap ourselves in, were ripped away.
And I was just getting my balance again when I came here and found the pub beast—otherwise known as Michael the Mystery Guest—lying in wait for me.
Finishing up, I wrangle with the drawstring to keep the loose-fitting sweatpants from falling off my skinny frame, limp over to the sink to wash my hands and accidentally glance up at my reflection.
I’m surprised I don’t scream, because the horror cannot be overstated. That’s not me. That’s some ghostly, scratched-up and zombified stranger, with hair that’s been styled by a wind tunnel full of demons.
Looks like my snowed-in, pornographic Hallmark movie just got canceled due to bad casting. No wonder Michael is treating me like an invalid. I look like I’m halfway to Hadestown , and not in a sinful, soulful, someone-would-risk-hell-to-get-me-out sort of way.
Priorities, Winnie.
Fine. Sure. Priorities.
But what if I’m vain and shallow? What if hard, sweaty, life-affirming sex is one of my priorities after this morning’s scare, and I’d rather not do that looking like a ghost of Christmas past?
I suppose it doesn’t matter to anyone else that I could have died but am instead snowbound for the night with a man I never thought I’d see again.
Opportunities like that fall out of the sky every day, don’t they?
And who cares that, even before my sabbatical, I hadn’t had sex for a while, what with lesson planning, after-school detentions and study groups, or those in-services the principal always seems to schedule when I even think of having a fun night out.
There hadn’t been time in the last two months either, since Bex left the hospital and didn’t want to go back to her apartment. She, Connor and I had all temporarily moved into Val’s big house for her recovery. None of us wanted to be too far away from each other after the scare.
I was there to distract her during the day and hear what she couldn’t share with the others.
Connor was on heavy lifting and moral support.
Val moved Bex into his bedroom and slept on a cot beside her in case she had nightmares while I was sleeping.
She had them a lot. And she clung to him those first few weeks.
He was the one to rescue her, and he seemed to be the only person who could bring her back from that dark place she’d go to after her dreams.
Wow. That was some serious off topic inner monologuing, and I’m sorry. Like I said, there’s been a lot going on and I’ve been too frustrated and distracted to get any. Though I’m not even sure why it matters when I look like this.
You know why.
Because Michael is outside the bathroom door waiting to see if I’ll need him. Still humming like I asked him to. Still planning to feed me.
Who knew grumpy but nurturing was my weakness? Honestly, that’s how I’ve been describing Val for years, and I’ve never once been attracted to him. Why is it an irresistible combo with this guy? The chocolate and peanut butter—or in my case, the jalapenos and ice cream—of personality profiles.
Don’t judge me. I almost died today.
I see a packaged toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste by the sink and nearly cry in gratitude.
As I brush, I look around the room. I actually like it in here.
If most of the cabin is wood-on-wood violence, this floor-to-ceiling tile in a soothing grayish-blue ombre makes me think spa retreat in the clouds.
The excessively large tub is sized for at least a couple and sits temptingly beside a walk-in shower with a bench and multiple shower heads.
As long as there is hot water and the power stays on, I wouldn’t mind spending the next four hours in there.
My mind instantly adds Michael to that shower scenario and I rinse out my mouth, silently swearing at the heaviness of my cock.
This is not a good time, I tell myself, even as every daydream I’ve ever had about him returns with a vengeance.
My hand drops to my hardening dick without my permission and gives it a solid stroke through the fabric.
Then another. God, that feels good. A little shameless too, since I can still hear him humming. What is that song anyway?
And what is it about him? I enjoyed everything about our impromptu office meeting that night, except for the way it ended.
But that can’t be why I’m still reacting so strongly to the man.
I’ve been interrupted mid-bang before. It happens.
I’ve always been able to let it go and move on.
No regrets and very few repeats, that’s my jam.
No one has ever captured my attention this completely, or made me want them to the exclusion of my sanity and all common sense. Until Michael.
You’re different with him. He’s different.
I can’t deny that. I saw him from a distance and had to find him. I found him, and I had to stay. I stayed, I flirted and I unzipped his pants. I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.
That isn’t casual, it’s a compulsion. Troubling but irresistible.
It’s still there, that something I can’t put my finger on, like a cord connecting us.
Drawing me closer to him since he walked down those stairs.
Making me want things, most but not all of them related to orgasms. The not all bits are more alarming.
“Do you need any help in there?”
I yank my hand away from my dick, and my jolting twist of surprise sends pain shooting up my leg. “Fuck,” I hiss under my breath as I hop on one foot. When did he stop humming? “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve been doing this on my own for a while now, Michael,” I snap unfairly, glaring at the closed door.
“I know your heart is in the right place, but trust the person with sixteen years of roommate experience when I say solitary bathroom time is sacred. We can’t all be LBJ holding meetings while doing our business, can we? ”
There was a moment of silence and then, “No?”
I slump against the sink in shame. LBJ? What a perfect fucking visual to add to the mix.
I don’t care how big Jumbo (his nickname, not mine) was purported to be—or how many times he let the press in while he was in the restroom or skinny-dipping in the pool to show it off—the man was not attractive.
Am I actively trying to turn Michael off and chase him away?
Well, you’re really into him. So, yes?
“I’m sorry. I think it’s low blood sugar.” If low blood sugar is code for I was about to jerk off and you interrupted me , then I’m not lying. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He doesn’t respond, so I sigh and turn on the tap again, running wet hands through my hair until I no longer look like Sonic the Hedgehog. That’ll have to do for now, I think, girding my loins.
(Weirdest saying ever, by the way, but I guess telling people to “make diaper-shorts out of your man-skirt so you don’t trip in battle” isn’t nearly as catchy. The more you know, right?)
As soon as I open the door and see Michael leaning against the dresser, an ACE bandage in his hand and a look on his face that is the opposite of casual, my girding unravels and leaves me hanging.
Wood is still the word of the day.
“I found this in the first aid kit,” he says quietly. “It should help stabilize your ankle so you don’t twist it again.”
I’d like to argue, but I’m still hurting from my bathroom excursion so I nod grimly. “Where do you want me?”
Leading question, I know, and so does he, based on the spark I see in his eyes. Before he can answer, I carefully step toward the uncomfortable-looking wooden desk chair. The only place to sit that isn’t that bed. “Let’s do it there.”
I roll my eyes because everything sounds sexual at the moment, then turn to face him, lowering myself into the chair. When he’s right in front of me, I look up at his face. Mostly so I’m not staring at the zipper of his jeans—and what I already know it’s hiding—like a sex-starved perv.
But that’s what you are.
I’m also his guest and a man he would have rescued regardless of who I was or whether we’d met before.
I need to try and keep some perspective here.
Which isn’t easy when he kneels at my feet like some knight about to ask for a damn quest to win my favor or a prince who wants to make sure the slipper fits before he pops the question.
I snort when he gently takes my foot in his hand.
He looks up. “What? Are you ticklish or did that hurt?”
“Neither. I was just thinking about Cinderella.”
“That’s…unexpected.”
I wave an arm around. “Random is practically my middle name, and we’re basically in a Disney bridal suite, so it’s not that unexpected.”
He grimaces in agreement, beginning the process of wrapping my ankle. “So, what about her?”
I’m not sure if he really wants to know or he’s just distracting me.
“Not her so much as the story in general. The ending is completely unrealistic. No one else in the entire village had the same shoe size? Really? And the prince was willing to base the future prosperity of his kingdom on that statistical improbability? What a horrible way to pick a partner. Think about it. He could have ended up with Sal the grocer instead of Cinderella. A big hairy guy with a bad temper and a booze problem but unexpectedly dainty feet could have been his new princess. Make it make sense.”
“Fairytales aren’t known for their realism.
” He sounds amused and relaxed, which is nice for him since I’m about the climb the walls as his deliciously rough fingers caress my leg.
“Not that it ever stopped my mother from believing in them. She’s an artist,” he explains when I don’t respond right away.
“She’s been painting fairies and magical creatures for as long as I can remember. No bunny weddings, though.”
“She sounds fun.” And she does. An artist with a wild imagination certainly tops what I grew up with. It might explain why mother discussions make me so uncomfortable. Meeting the parents is something I’m only willing to do for my students, and even that gives me knots in my stomach.
In case you were wondering? My mother was…not fun.
I tangle my fingers together to keep myself from touching him as he adjusts the wrap. “Can I ask what you were doing outside in that weather today? You never told me.”
“I was checking on the generator and chopping more wood for the fireplace. The wind had really started picking up when I heard you singing. I thought I might be imagining it, but I decided to check it out, just in case.”
If he hadn’t, I’m not sure I would have made it to him. “Have I said thank you yet?”
“You have.” His hands are on my knees now as he stares at me. “And you’re welcome. I’m glad I was there.”
This close, I can see the crow’s feet around thickly-lashed eyes. The lightest sprinkle of freckles on his skin. His beard isn’t bushy, but trimmed to perfectly frame his lips and draw attention to his strong jaw. Still a GQ dragon, in spite of his claims of chopping wood in the wilderness.
“You cut your hair and grew out a beard. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He runs a hand over his short haircut self-consciously. “It was time for a change. This is easier to manage.” The look he sends me is somehow both bashful and carnal. “And you’re the one who told me not to shave.”
Is he kidding? “I meant that night, not ever again.”
“You don’t like my beard?”
“I didn’t say that.”
We’re flirting. In a bedroom. That’s dangerous on so many levels. “Didn’t you mention something about feeding me?”
He knows I like his beautiful beard. I can see it in his eyes. “I made some soup this morning. I can warm it on the stove.”
“You made soup?” I eye him dubiously. “As in, you opened a can?”
Michael shakes his head, staring at my lips. “No cans involved.”
“You can cook?” I reward him with a suitably shocked expression. “You’re telling me you chopped wood and rescued a stray lodge guest after slaving over a pot of homemade soup? Because that sounds like a fairytale to me.”
He grins. “Let me carry you downstairs and prove that it’s not.”
My stomach rumbles again and I refuse to blush, even when he chuckles. “Fine. You have my permission to carry me down the stairs. But only for food. And this is the last time. We’re not making this a habit.”
“Whatever you say, Win.”
The most dangerous sentence in the history of mankind, and this fool keeps repeating it.
Whatever you say.
I could say so many things right now. Kiss me. Take me. Keep me in this cabin forever.
“I’m saying carry me to my soup, Michael. And don’t forget, you promised to satisfy my curiosity as well as my appetite.”
So much flirting. Why do I never listen to my own advice?