Page 5 of Wrecked on the Mountain

That music that I heard… yeah, that's definitely real. I haven't completely lost my mind. It's not in my head at all, and the fast beat of the drums is matching the heavy sound of an axe hitting wood with perfect, consistent precision.

Someone who actually knows what they're doing.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I dust myself off, creeping toward the sound. There's a tall wooden fence separating my rental property from whatever's next door, but if I stand on my tiptoes near the corner and crane my neck just right...

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

The man in the yard next to mine is... well, let's just say he's not struggling with wood-chopping technique.

At all.

Thick dark hair falls across his forehead, damp with exertion, and sweet mother of pearl, the man is built like a fantasy.

Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, every muscle defined and flexing with each movement.

And this isn't gym muscle.

This is real, functional strength earned through actual labor.

I watch him position another log, the movement making his back muscles ripple. He lifts the axe overhead, biceps bulging, abs contracting, and I swear I can see the individual ridges of muscle across his torso.

When he brings the blade down, the wood splits with a satisfying crack that reverberates through my core and settles somewhere much lower.

No bouncing. No sticking. No dramatic tumbling into decorative planters.

Just pure, masculine competence that makes heat pool between my thighs and my brain temporarily forget how to form thoughts that don't involve licking the sweat off his chest.

Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.

I'm completely mesmerized.

Like, full-on sexual awakening happening behind this fence while I watch a stranger split wood like some kind of lumberjack porn fantasy come to life.

A bead of sweat trails down his spine before disappearing into the waistband of jeans that hug what can only be described as the most spectacular ass I've ever had the privilege to ogle.

The denim clings to powerful thighs and…God help me… outlines what appears to be a very generous package in the front.

My nipples tighten against my sports bra, and there's a definite pulse of want between my legs.

The mental image of him using that same focused intensity on my body, of those hands gripping my hips, that mouth trailing down my neck…

All of it makes me actually whimper out loud.

When's the last time I felt this immediate, visceral attraction to anyone? This desperate urge to climb a man like my personal jungle gym?

Never. The answer is never.

He sets up another log. The axe lifts over his head, and holy hell, the way his entire torso elongates and tightens is like watching pure sex in motion.

I can see the definition of every ab muscle, the way his chest expands with each breath, the tantalizing trail of dark hair that disappears below his belt—

And then he stops.

Completely freezes mid-swing and turns his head directly toward my hiding spot behind the fence.

Shit, shit, shit.

Deep blue eyes lock onto mine through the gap in the wooden slats, and the intensity of his stare sends liquid fire straight to my core. His gaze is molten, assessing, with a heat that suggests he's fully aware of the effect he's having on me.