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Reminders of her cling to the back of my eyelids, burned there just to torture me. The sight of her splayed across the blanket, skin the delicate pink of fine China, breasts full andperky, puckered by my greedy mouth, glows at the forefront of my brain. It’s tangled with images of her open for me, legs wide, her pussy wet and swollen. Her big, trusting eyes stared up at me from a face flushed with desire and uncertainty. Her hair a wild halo tangled around her head.

So fucking perfect.

It took everything in me not to slam inside her like some feral, rabid creature. Every muscle shuddered with my effort to take my time with her.

I drop my hand from the wall and wrap it around my cock. Jets of water slice down my back, scalding rivers burning flesh, but it’s nothing to the fire crawling through my veins.

Everly’s weak little whimpers claw at me, filling every crevice. Her tight body, a torturous fist clamped around me, greedy and slick.

I pump into my fist, eyes shut. Mind back in the meadow with Everly on her knees, pussy speared over my friend’s cock. Her dark eyes peering up at me from over the plump lips she has suctioned around my swollen head. The hot lash of her tongue up the underside from base to head.

“Fuck...”

My hips twitch faster. I squeeze harder.

The image shifts to Everly in Lachlan’s lap, knees wide around the hand he had keeping her on the edge. The entire moment reminded me of a pottery master working his magic atthe wheel. Watching him smooth through her folds and dip into her tight little channel, watching Everly’s glazed, almost euphoric expression. It had been the most erotic thing I have ever witnessed.

With a low grunt, I jerk forward and spray my shower tiles with thick, white cum. It runs over my choking grip in hot spurts and hits the top of my feet. The water washes away my weakness, but I remain under the pounding stream, still wound so tight I think I might lose my mind.

By the time I get out, my jaw is tight from clenching it too long and there’s a growing pulse between my eyes. I towel off briskly, dress in dark jeans, a plain thermal, and my old leather jacket, worn in all the right places — creases in the elbows, soft along the collar. A comfort piece I’ve had for longer than I can remember.

I head into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee, black and bitter enough to scrape down my throat. I drink it in silence, leaning against the counter and staring out the window at the faint blush of dawn seeping over the tops of the trees. A soft drizzle splatters across the deck and runs down the windows. It’s not heavy yet but the clouds churn an angry black, pregnant with a storm.

Setting the mug down, I move through the house with purpose, collecting what I’ll need for the day, plus a little extra just to be safe. I throw a change of clothes, a hoodie, my shavingkit, and a few essentials into a duffel bag. Including an unopened bottle of lube I’d bought ages ago but never had a chance to use. All day alone with Everly in an isolated cabin? Definitely going to come in handy.

I toss in a flashlight and a first aid kit just in case. A few spare batteries, my solar powered power bank, and my favorite hunting knife. My phone gets stuffed into my back pocket along with my wallet before I head out the door.

Moving to Jefferson was a drastic change from the sprawling streets of downtown Vancouver. No matter the hour, Jefferson neverbustles.There is forever a level of calm and order to everything the town did that, as a military man, always feels both comforting and suspicious. The familiar cycle of habits calms the anxious nerves I brought back with me from Afghanistan. The lingering prickles of PTSD ease with the knowledge that I know where everyone will be at any given time. That nothing crazy or dangerous will ever happen.

But the hardwired resolution stomped into me from thirty years of training and battle has a much harder time accepting that danger isn’t lurking around every neatly painted fence.

My house is the fourth building along the curve of the cul-de-sac lining Maple Crest. It has a clear view of the road and a dense forest in the back that I reinforced with a high, stone wall that Lachlan helped construct while repeatedly reminding me nothing ever happened in Jefferson. That isn’t the point. Justbecause nothing has happened yet doesn’t mean nothing will, and I sleep better knowing I’ve done all I can to prepare.

Lachlan’s two-story bungalow sits second from the bend from Maple Crest to Silver Pines Road. A wall of bush and two massive red spruces obstruct the view of his entire house. I study the chaos through narrowed eyes as I draw closer.

A dog barks in the distance, the sound sharp in the stillness. My boots echo softly against the wet pavement as I turn up the driveway and pass Lachlan’s truck to the front door. It sits squat and ready, the truck bed piled with plastic bins we’d picked up from the storage tucked safely beneath a tarp.

I knock once before letting myself in, because unlike me, no one in Jefferson locks their damn doors.

The inside of his house smells like fresh coffee and whatever cologne he spritzed on. Wood smoke and something sharp beneath it. Familiar.

He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a travel mug in one hand and his phone in the other. His duffle is already slung near the door, black and well-worn. He looks up when I enter, face unreadable, but his eyes catch mine with something unspoken between us. Maybe he didn’t sleep either.

“You good?” he asks.

I shrug, dropping my bag beside his. “Define good.”

He huffs and sets down his mug. He lifts his free hand to rub the back of his neck. “Slept like shit. You?”

“Same.”

Lachlan glances toward the window with its gloomy landscape. The rain has picked up. A rising patter hitting the roof. It’s the kind of onslaught made for tangled limbs and warm kisses. It makes wish for Everly and a day spent with her in bed.

“Think she’s awake?” Lachlan asks as if reading my thoughts.

“No idea,” I mutter.

His head bobs once, grim but resolute. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?”