Page 3 of Single Mom’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #1)

Charlie

Driving always does this to me; gets me into a mind space where all my worries seem much more manageable.

Not that I have too many worries. I've got a roof over my head, a job I enjoy with people I can put up with, regular, nutritious meals, and no one has tried to shoot at me or blow my head off since I left the military.

I should be grateful for all those things, and I am.

It’s just this accompanying sense of dissatisfaction that I can neither shake nor pinpoint that's starting to bug me.

I spot the gas station in the distance and automatically, my eyes flicker to my tank. The dial hovers on the first line of the letter E, and I grunt in annoyance .

Thanks a lot, Wes. Would it kill you to put a little gas back in the tank after using my truck?

Then again, my little brother has never been the considerate type and doesn’t understand the concept of leaving things as he finds them.

He never returns any of my shirts in the same condition they were in when he took them.

He borrows my tools and either doesn’t return them or returns them with parts broken or missing.

Whenever he uses the Xbox, I always have to tinker with it again before it works right.

And though I regularly fill up my tank as a habit, when he borrows my truck, he always seems to manage to bring it back on its last damn leg.

This is becoming more than a regular occurrence because Wes currently doesn't own a truck or a car of his own since he wrote off his old Pontiac Firebird a few months ago. He’d managed to have a particularly spectacular crash when he misread a hairpin bend on the way home from Cockrey’s bar late one night.

Instead, he has a two-wheeled deathtrap which he rides around town, terrorizing all the townspeople.

Now, I don't discriminate against bikes. I have a bike too, but I’m a lot more careful with it and at the very least, it’s not black with skulls painted all over it.

My bike is a little more practical. It’s an Indian Roadmaster with a more than sufficient 1,811cc Thunder Stroke 111 air-cooled engine, a large and very sensible front fairing and windscreen to deflect wind and rain, plus a comfortable, fairly upright seating position that makes riding the thing a joy rather than a pain in the ass.

My little brother, on the other hand, imagines himself as a member of a biker gang, and he acts the part too.

His heavily customized Harley Davidson Sportster Forty-Eight is his pride and joy, and the damned thing must be worth a small fortune with all the components he has lovingly purchased for it via mail order and added to it over the years.

With all the chrome parts gleaming in the sunshine, not to mention the custom skull paint job of course, you practically need sunglasses to look at it properly.

Though slightly smaller in engine size, needless to say it is considerably louder and more menacing sounding than either my own bike or my other brother’s bike.

When Wes arrives somewhere he likes to make sure everyone knows about it.

I sigh as I pull into the gas station. I need to let it go at this point.

Truth is there's no benefit to my annoyance if I'm just going to whine about it, because I know I'm probably going to lend it to him again if he needs it.

I'd much rather he wears out my gas than that he ends up dead on the side of the hill after attempting to ride his bike home from town late at night.

As his older brother, I guess that's just my damn cross to bear.

Besides, it's not like I'm in too much of a hurry to get gas. The grocery store in Gasten closes early at five pm, but I've still got about an hour till then.

I park the truck right behind a beat-down Ford Taurus sedan of indiscriminate age and color, with a tire that seems like it’s not quite as buoyant as it should be.

In addition to the tire, the exhaust box is loose and dangling downwards at a jaunty angle – probably rusted off its securing brackets and just held in place by luck and perhaps one last, half-rusted bolt.

It could probably last for a few more miles, but at some stage the whole back of the exhaust will probably give up and either fall off completely or be left trailing sparks as it dangles beneath the car.

Neither option will be very drivable, so whoever owns it needs to get to a mechanic pronto.

As I walk in, I’m preoccupied with my phone, trying to pull up my mobile gas card. I hear the tinkle of the bell when I open the door but barely catch the “ Excuse me ” before my body brushes fairly hard against someone else.

And then I look down, only to be instantly transfixed by the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

She blinks at me, as I take her in, blonde curls tied into a messy bun at her nape with a few escaped tendrils flying over. A face that looks to have a healthy tan underneath a temporary pallor. Wideset, sparkling eyes that aren’t dulled by the heavy eyebags underneath.

And God, she has freckles. The most adorable dotting of freckles scattered over her nose.

Oh Lord, you know what freckles do to me.

Time seems to slow to a pause as we stare at each other, but my body’s response is rapid and overwhelming. Blood pumps from my head straight to my dick.

“Sorry,” she says, in a breathless voice that drives my hormones even wilder. “My bad.”

When she speaks I also see that she has a tiny gap tooth, an adorable one that makes me want to lick it with my tongue. I want to taste those lips too, especially the plump lower one before I suck it into my mouth.

And then kiss down the line of her neck…

“Mommy.”

My eyes snap away from hers to the two little girls on her train.

One of them, the older one, has dark hair and eyes, and watches me steadily with a fathomless gaze.

The younger one is the spitting image of her mother.

She clutches a bag of snacks in one hand and holds onto her mother’s jeans in the other.

And as they stare at me, I see the blatant fear in her eyes.

It seems Wes isn’t the only one who can scare the townspeople.

I get it. I’m a big guy, bigger even than either of my brothers, at six foot six and two hundred and thirty pounds. That’s usually enough to make most people at least a little apprehensive.

And then there's also the fact that you're standing there like a mute staring at their mother like you want to rip her clothes off, you neanderthal.

Damn. Very smooth, Charlie. Very smooth.

I blink and take a step back. I should probably say something right now, to put her daughters at ease.

Wait, didn't she just apologize? I'm not sure why she apologized, so perhaps I should tell her that it's alright and she doesn't need to.

Maybe she thought she bumped into me, but I was the one who wasn't watching where I was going.

But then all that comes out of my mouth is the word, “Fine.”

And even as her eyes widen, I can tell I said it entirely wrong. It’s in the wrong cadence, with too much force, and my voice is gravelly from lack of use, so I simply sound like a grouchy old man, mad at her for something that in reality was entirely my own fault.

Great.

The woman doesn’t say anything else. She presses her lips together in a tight, polite smile and brushes past me. Her daughters sidle past too, glancing nervously upwards as they do so. Once they’re out the door they head across the bare, concrete forecourt to the beat-up old sedan and get in.

I should say something , but I can’t think of what to say. My mind is blank but for the picture of those tired yet still sparkling blue eyes.

Her eyes and those damn freckles have completely discombobulated me, and all I can do is stand there and watch them drive away.

Damn. I should have at least told her to see a mechanic .

But it’s too late now, she’s already gone, so I simply sigh, regretting how I’d failed to handle the situation, and make my way up the center aisle to the checkout desk.

“Hey Charlie,” the attendant, Jamie, greets me.

“Hey, Jamie. I need eighty on pump number 2.”

She nods and turns to her computer, clicking it in. “I just sent that lady and her kids your way.”

I frown. “You did?”

“Yeah. She was looking for somewhere cheap and affordable to rent. Says she’s been driving quite a bit. And she looks exhausted. She nearly passed out when she climbed out of her car.”

My frown deepens and I instantly turn back to the road, seeing her headlights disappearing. Damn it. I should definitely have talked to her. She shouldn’t be driving at all if she’s that tired, let alone in that old death trap. Maybe I could have given her a ride.

“Thanks for the info,” I say, and she nods before turning back to her magazine. I step outside and fill up my gas tank as quickly as I can. Then, I get back into my truck.

But instead of continuing down the highway towards Gasten, I turn around and head right back up the mountain, gaining glimpses of the mystery woman’s sedan ahead of me from time to time as the road straightens out for a moment, or after clearing a dip in the road’s contour.

I step on the gas, hoping I’m not too late. Worry ignites my mind. Wes aside, there haven’t been all that many accidents here. Maybe a couple of college students caught by the local cops being stupid whilst under the influence. But there usually isn’t enough traffic to warrant a lot of casualties.

Hopefully, that luck persists.

Still, I remain tense and only breathe a sigh of relief when I round a bend and the stranger’s car comes into sight again .

Thank God.

I think about pulling her over, but even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to say at that point.

How will I tell her not to drive her vehicle without being creepy?

Especially considering I ogled her in that store like an asshole.

It probably seemed like I was giving her a hard time, while she was clearly fatigued and ready to be on the road.

I need to brush up on my people skills.

I'm not a people person and it's never bothered me until right this moment.

Maybe I need to get some tips from Wes. He's a regular ladies’ man, known by all (and perhaps especially by himself) as being more than capable of charming even the coolest headed and most sensible of women out of their panties.

I'd love to do the same with her.

And just like that, an image flashes in my mind.

Even while staring into her eyes, I hadn’t missed her curvy body under her baggy clothes.

For a second, I had let my gaze dip to where her breasts swelled over her shirt.

And her jeans stretched tightly across her ass as she walked away from me.

Fuck, I must be a giant pervert because I can’t get her out of my mind. It's no comfort that I'm not usually like this. Typically, I'm not the type of guy that’s led around by his dick and allows himself to get horny all the damn time.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t been with a woman since my ex left me, almost two years ago.

Or maybe there’s just something about her that’s completely captivated me, something beyond her beauty and her body.

Maybe it's the hint of vulnerability in her eyes.

I want to lay her down on the softest mattress I can find, and cover her precious, feminine curves in sheets of finest satin.

Then I want to give her a massage that loosens all that muscular tension from her body.

If she'd let me, I'll kiss down her neck and across her shoulders as I do so.

I'll pay special attention to those breasts, slowly licking and nibbling her nipples until they're tight and swollen, pointing to the sky.

And then when she can't take that anymore, I'll continue downwards, dipping my tongue into her belly button while scenting her, making sure she's ready.

Then I can slowly lap at her center as she moans and unravels even more of the tension, letting it melt away into oblivion. She’ll mewl and move underneath me, and I'll hold her stomach down and eat her out, using my entire face to do it, so I can get lost in her taste and her scent.

The image becomes even more vivid the more I let myself fantasize.

I have a hand around each breast, plucking at her nipples with my thumbs and fingers.

Her pussy glistens for me and trembles for more of my tongue.

I give it to her, pushing down on her clit, enjoying the feel of it throbbing on my tongue.

Jesus!

Suddenly, I come to an alarming realization that my truck has shifted to the left and I’m about to veer off the road into a culvert.

With just fractions of a second to spare I manage to jerk the damned thing back onto the road, and I sit blinking at the windscreen in disbelief. My heart is pounding in my chest and I let out a long breath, realizing as I do just how long I must have been holding it for.

I can't believe I just did that! Nearly drove myself off the road, because I was daydreaming about licking a stranger's pussy until she came all over my face .

God and my cock is still hard too, despite the danger… or maybe because of it?

Wes would have a field day if he could see me right now.

I take a few more deep breaths then let out the clutch and get back on my way.

Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes later before the turning to the Norris estate comes into view.

Surrounded by acres of mature woodlands, our winding private road leads eventually to a two-story wooden lodge, the original part of which was built sometime in the late eighteen hundreds by our great grandparents and lived in and slowly added to by generations of our family ever since then.

The unknown woman parks behind a junk Toyota that’s been there since forever, and I park a little down the way from her.

As I apply the parking brake and turn off the ignition, I watch her tear out of her vehicle and storm towards my window.

Her face is tense, her eyes are wild, and perversely, my stomach tightens with excitement.

She looks like she's coming over to have a fight.