Page 60 of Jealous Lumberjack

And then he pushes deeper, filling me, stretching me to the edge of pain.

I cry out, arching under him, and his roar shatters through the mountain air. His pleasure floods out raw and primal as he praises me, voice shaking. “That’s it. My pretty, perfect girl. Taking my monster cock so fucking beautifully.”

He fucks me hard and fast, his heavy balls slapping my ass, insane lust and determination etched on his face. His every grunt and my every cry is like the mountain’s own poignant and beautiful symphony.

“Don’t need to leave this mountain. Not for anything. Not if I have this tight, gorgeous cunt stretched around me. Not if I have you, Lily. Need nothing else.”

It feels like a final vow, cleaved by his axe into stone.

“Nothing but you.”

It should’ve terrified the shit out of me. But all it did was make me gush, spread my thighs wider for my Bear.

Scream with piercing joy as the world tilted and my body trembled.

I come apart with him, clinging, shattering.

When it’s over, I collapse against his chest, breathless, boneless, dizzy.

He kisses my temple, murmurs something low and possessive I can’t even process.

We lie there for a long while with the sun warming us and the sound of the water trickling nearby.

But when I glance up, I catch him staring at me.

And it’s not just lust in his eyes.

It’s something pensive.

Heavy.

Like he’s weighing my words.

Maybe finding grains of truth in them, even if he won’t admit it yet.

Bear’s mountainis full of secrets.

Surprise clearings, streams, meadows bursting with wildflowers.

Bear’s shown me some, but this view... this one repeatedly steals my breath.

A rise high above the valley, the cabin just a speck below, the air so crisp it feels like drinking glass after glass of cold water.

And then there’s him.

My Bear, axe in hand, chopping wood like he was born to do it.

As usual, he brought me out after breakfast. But today we turned it into a game of how many logs he can split in one minute.

And what started as me teasing him for being cocky has turned into something else entirely.

Something hotter.

I lounge back on the blanket in nothing but his boxers and his socks.

I lost my T-shirt in the last round, and I haven’t seen my bra in weeks.

My nipples pebble in the morning air, and I arch my back and make no effort to hide them. I like the way his eyes cut to me between vicious swings, like he’s punishing the wood just to keep from pouncing on me.