Page 7 of Jealous Lumberjack

And now here I am.

Dragged like a sack of flour through the woods, over his shoulder as I kick and shout. I can’t pound my fists effectively because I’m still tangled in his rope like some poor animal.

His body feels carved out of stone. He doesn’t even grunt. Just keeps walking, each stride eating up the ground until we break out into a clearing and the cabin rises out of the shadows.

If I imagined a safe place out here, this wouldn’t be it. It’s the stuff straight out of a B-horror movie. Logs weathered gray, chimney smoking and traps hanging like trophies on the walls. An ominous dark cabin that blends into the darker trees and whispers danger, not sanctuary.

He kicks the door open, hauls me inside, and sets me down none too gently on a rough-hewn chair. I try to bolt, but his hand—huge and hot and larger than a dinner plate—presses me back down with an implacable demand. A command he reiterates with a feral look from dark eyes.

Two seconds tick by. Five.

Then he straightens and stalks across the room, finds a metal box, and comes back, tugs it open and takes out gauze and antiseptic.

Now he kneels in front of me, first cutting away the rope, then starts cleaning the wound on my calf in silence.

And I can’t stop staring.

I’ve seen men this big only on TV.

Wrestlers tossing each other around like ragdolls. Back when I was single, I’d watch sometimes, secretly fascinated by their size. Of what one would look like next to me. Dominating me with their size. A secret size kink I’ve told absolutely no one.

But none of them ever looked this terrifying. Or this…fascinating.

He’s even bigger up close.

Even sitting like this, my head barely reaches his chest. His hands—God—one of them wraps fully around my leg, holdingme steady while the other dabs at the rope-burned cut. There’s a veritable landscape of scarred knuckles and veins running like rivers up his thick forearms.

I should be terrified. Iamterrified. But somewhere beneath the panic is something else, something I refuse to name.

All I know is that his touch is sparking electric currents along my nerve endings that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with…with…

I shift, attempting to distance myself both from him and from that horrifying tingle between my legs.

“I…thank you for cutting me down, but as soon as you’re done, I need to g-get going.”

His nostrils flare and his hand tightens just a fraction on my flesh.

“You can’t just—keep me here,” I whisper, testing my voice. Testing the situation.

Again he doesn’t answer. Just keeps tending my cuts.

But when I wince, he freezes, his chest rising and falling heavily once, dark eyes fixing on my face. Then, clenching his jaw, he moves the cotton slowly over my skin. I don’t wince this time, and he seems to breathe out. Heavily.

“Are you going to kill me?” My throat feels tight.

Nothing. Just the swab moving, steady as his breath.

“I didn’t mean to trespass, okay? I was just?—”

His eyes flick up. Black and bottomless. My words tangle and die in my throat.

I swallow and drop my gaze to stare at the floorboards.

They’re splintered, weathered, and sturdy. Immovable, just like him.

Dear God, how did I end up here?

If I didn’t fear dissolving into hysteria, I would laugh. Long and hard.