Page 29 of Jealous Lumberjack

That terrifies me, maybe even more than my ex ever did.

“Come,” he rumbles again, pushing back from the table.

I stiffen. “Where?”

“Outside.” His eyes gleam. “You’ll see.”

He holds out his hand and, telling myself I have no choice, I slide mine into his giant paw, my pulse kicking hard when our palms meet. If he feels anything more, he doesn’t show it.

And holy crap, that perma-bulge behind his fly hasn’t softened since last night, so I can’t even tell whether he’s ignoring it or not. Or if that’s his constant state and he’s okay just lugging that thick log around.

I follow him out into the crisp morning, blinking at the beauty around me. At the way the pines sway, the mountain air sharp in my lungs.

We cross the clearing and he stops near the woodpile, spreads a thick blanket across the ground, then points to the spot in the middle.

“Umm…what?”

“Sit,” he says, gesturing. “From now on you stay exactly where I can see you. At all times.”

My stomach flips, even as I sink onto it, heart hammering. The memory of last night slams into me—me pinned against his tree, his mouth on me, his growls vibrating like a dirty sonnet through my skin.

I shiver.

He crouches in front of me, eyes never leaving my face. His sheer size makes me tremble, but not just from fear. From the insane possibilities rushing through my brain. That he could crush me, cage me, keep me here forever.

And God help me, part of me isn’t flailing and clawing for escape.

I press my palms flat against the blanket, grounding myself.

He studies me for a long moment, then rises, grabs the axe leaning against the pile.

My breath catches.

Not because I think he’ll hurt me.

Because I know what’s coming.

The wood-chopping.

The very sexy wood-chopping that has somehow found its way into a kinky fantasy I never saw coming.

He lifts the axe high above his head, and a needy whimper escapes my parted lips.

Jesus. What the hell is happening to me?

Knox

The morning air bites fresh,the sun not yet high.

I try not to stare at the way she sits, the way her hair catches the light, her legs crossed to one side, my T-shirt doing a way too good of a job covering her thighs.

And I can’t not think of it—her spread against a tree, writhing on my tongue.

I shake it off, grip the axe firmer.

The log waits on the block. My body knows this rhythm better than prayer. Lift, swing, crack. The wood splits clean.

Repeat.