Page 70 of Jealous Lumberjack

But I can see her eyes darting everywhere. Over me. Over the ring.

Over the impossible thing I’ve built for her.

The barn isn’t a barn anymore. It’s my world reborn. Floodlights blaze down from the rafters, catching dust motes drifting like sparks. Ropes are strung taut and corners padded, the extra triple-padded canvas floor gleaming with polish.

Somewhere from the old barn speakers, a low, gritty beat rumbles to life—“Red Right Hand”by Nick Cave—bass and drum, steady as a predator’s heartbeat. My pulse syncs to it instantly, my blood pounding as my breaths come faster.

My cathedral of heat and glory.

And she’s standing in it with her bare thighs, my socks pulled high, wearing my white vest double-knotted at the back so it clings from tits to waist. Braless, erect nipples pushing through and the juicy rings of her areolas catching the light.

She looks like the most delicious pint-sized sacrilege wrapped in my vest and the white cotton panties I didn’t even notice her pick up at the drugstore. The kind that looks full and innocent at the front but are lethal tucked between her round, juicy butt cheeks at the back. The kind destined to drive a man to an early grave.

And me... God help me, I’m ferociously jealous of that piece of string.

I’m back in my old trunks, boots laced tight and wristbands biting into my veins. My chest is bare, scarred, hair damp from hours of work.

I feel like I’ve stepped out of my own ghost and into a dream.

She’s glowing.

Shining so bright it almost hurts. I know she’s never seen anything like this. Never imagined I’d give her this.

I should be proud. Instead, I’m pacing like a caged beast, jaw locked, eyes shadowed. One wrong move and?—

“Describe it again,” she says quickly, like she can sense my terror.

Like she knows how deep this runs.

I exhale hard and go through it again. Slow, careful, my hands guiding her, positioning her. Where her feet should go. Where her weight should shift. How to brace when I come at her.

Every detail makes her shiver, and every shiver feeds me.

Pride flickers through the worry. She’s hanging on my every word, and Christ, it’s making me hard. This isn’t just wrestling. This is me handing over something no one else ever got to someone who won’t use it to manipulate me. Someone who will appreciate the art I bled for.

But my gaze keeps slipping downward.

Down her body. Down to where the vest clings and stretches.

My patience frays.

How long can I last before I forget the lesson and fuck us both blind right here on the canvas? The very thought of it makes my balls scream.

She’s addictive. She’s my forever. And I’m the one about to break.

“Like this,” I mutter, stepping close, grabbing her wrist, twisting gently until she gasps. Her bones feel fragile in my hands, but she moves with quickness, her fierce little body trusting me, bracing under my strength. I could crush her.

Instead, I teach and I treasure.

She stumbles and I steady her instantly. “Good,” I rasp, voice gone gravelly.

Her nails rake my chest without warning. The scrape of them ignites my skin.

My cock swells heavy against my trunks, but I keep my hands steady on her waist, showing her how to pivot?—

Until she surprises me. Drops low. Wraps her thighs around mine, calves locking tight.

A hiss rips out of me, half curse, half moan. My hand clamps her hip, holding her there, testing her.