Sierra

Lincoln’s truck hits a pothole and I jerk awake. A good fuck, a shower, a hot meal on top of a long month being on the run—I didn’t have a chance of staying awake. I barely remember turning onto the road leading out of town.

Sleep, whispers the heat blowing from the vents. Safe, say Lincoln’s large hands on the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” the man mutters, navigating the truck around muddy craters. The pavement is so bad, cracked and broken from icy winters, we might as well be off-road.

“It’s okay,” I sigh and close my eyes again. I haven’t been this comfortable in over a month. Maybe longer. It’s strange not to have fear gripping me. For weeks, fear has driven me forward, pushing me through the tough sleepless nights, the long bus rides clutching my backpack to me. I ate, drank, breathed it. It was my energy, muscles and bone, knitting me together. Now that we’re turning onto a long logging road, it loosens its grip a little, but I still need it.

I did it. I got the job. I’m the new ‘entertainer’ for a crew of lusty lumberjacks. Eight men, strong and strapping as Paul Bunyan. Every night, seven days a week. I’ll be getting it once a day, twice on Sundays.

Nausea clutches my stomach. I press my forehead to the cold car window, breathing in and out carefully.

“You all right?”

“Just carsick.”

He reaches an arm across my seat and tweaks the manual crank to crack my window a little. Sweet. “We’re almost home.”

I nod, and angle my head into the flow of fresh air.

Lincoln’s square jaw tenses for a mile before he says, “You don’t have to… with all of us. It’s your choice. I’m not going to let them hurt you.”

“It’s okay.” He’s trying to be nice, but there’s no way half the guys are going to stand by while I bestow sexual favors on the other half. Lincoln will have a war on his hands, and he won’t win. The victors will divide the spoils.

And I’m the spoils.

It’ll be better than being a sweetbutt in a grungy MC clubhouse. At least this way, I’m getting paid.

We’re quiet the rest of the way. The truck bounces over a few epic potholes before turning into a lot guarded by huge wire gates and a high wall around a muddy yard. Coiled barbed wire tops the wall—to keep people out or in?

Inside the walls, mud-spattered logging machines crouch like awkward insects. A few workers cluster around the back of one, turning as we roll past. A curious face framed by a bushy red beard pokes out from a truck cab, but I shrink back in the seat before he gets a good look at me.

Ahead is a long, low building with a few ATVs parked out front. Lincoln guides his vehicle to the end of the line, turns off the engine, palms the keys. I get a nasty jolt—Lincoln’s truck is my only way out or in. I can hide here from the Riders, but not from the eight men who hold my next few months in their calloused hands. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. What have I done?

“Stay there. I’ll get your door.” Lincoln grabs his own duffel and the few plastic bags left over from our shopping trip at the general store.

I start to open my door anyway, just to feel like I have some control, and nearly hit a stocky, dark-haired dude prowling alongside the truck.

He scowls at me—tanned skin, dark eyes and plump lips too sensuous for his scraggly goatee—and keeps walking, shooting a nasty glare back my way before disappearing into the building.

Holy hell, they make lumberjacks pretty. Must be all the fresh air. Shave the pathetic beard, mousse the silky dark hair, powerwash the mud off him and he’d be ready for a GQ photo shoot. Those cheekbones! Shame he hides them under the facial hair.

“That’s Mason,” Lincoln says at my elbow and I jolt, my breath rattling through me. I duck my head and shake my hair over blushing cheeks, hiding my reaction to Mason’s movie star good looks and gracefully muscled body.

“He doesn’t like people. Don’t mind him.” Lincoln holds out a hand, and I take it before hopping down, christening my new boots in mud.

Mason, Mason, Mason, I chant as we head to the door. One of the eight. Too late to make a good first impression on him. Not that I can compete with the one he made on me.

Inside the building is a small mess hall—a long table surrounded by eight chairs. Beyond the table, a hall leads to several closed doors. There’s no sign of Mason.

Two guys drift from the hall. I give them a perky little wave. One nudges the other, mouthing, “Fresh meat.” I step back, following Lincoln to the left, into a galley kitchen full of warmth and rattling pans. A massive guy with a shaved head and midnight skin mans the stove, stirring the contents of a pot big enough to fit me.

“Any luck?” he asks, and Lincoln steps aside to reveal me.

“Hi.” The word dies in my throat as the big guy looks me up and down and back to his bubbling stew without changing expression.

“Saint, this is Sierra,” Lincoln tells him. “She’ll be staying with us for awhile.”

“Didn’t realize we were a hotel.” The big guy, Saint, lifts the ladle and tastes the broth, pours it back in. With a hand five time the size of mine, he adds a pinch of spice. his face still wiped of expression.

“She’ll earn her keep. Just like you. Like all of us.” Lincoln glares at the huge guy as if daring him to argue. Ballsy move. I don’t think I’d bet against the big guy in a fistfight. He’s roughly the size of the commercial fridge in the corner.

Shrugging, Saint turns his back on us.

“Come on.” Lincoln guides me out of the kitchen. Strike two. My knuckles go white on my bag’s strap, and I force a smile on my face as we head back to face the rest of the guys. I can’t afford a third strike.

Men pour into the main room from each entrance. Big, bearded guys, forming a towering forest around me. I lean against the table and let my bag tumble from weary arms. I hope dinner is soon. These guys look at me like they’re hungry and I’m their meal.

Three of them tromp in from the outside. More big guys, big as the door, with muscles made from spending the day tearing trees up by the roots and snapping them in half over their knees. Or whatever lumberjacks do.

They tromp in and surround me, tall as trees, their cut off sleeves showing biceps resembling corded wood. Lincoln wasn’t lying when he said the crew were all guys like him. I’m lost in the woods.

“Who’s this?” one asks. A redhead. On the other side of me, an identical redhead—so identical to the first I’m sure one’s a reflection from some mirror—extends a finger to trace the edge of my hood. The scent of the outdoors washes over me, fresh and clean and bracing. I shrink in my clothes.

“Hey,” Lincoln snaps at the newcomers. “Wipe your boots.”

“Awww, Mom,” the redhead whines. He trudges back with his silent doppelganger, and I can breathe again.

Meanwhile, one of the guys from the hall, tall with dirty blond Kurt Cobain locks, comes closer. His tattooed arms add sleeves to his white wife beater.

“Hi,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Sierra.”

“Sierra,” he drawls, and bypasses the handshake, pulling me into a hug, bringing me eye level with a skull tattoo. There’s a snake coming out of one eye socket; it writhes as his bicep flexes. “I’m Jagger.”

“Jagger,” Lincoln says. “Sierra agreed to come stay with us for the season.”

“Mmmm,” Jagger clutches me closer. He must have a hammer in his pocket, because the handle is poking me in the leg. Either that, or he knows exactly why I’m here.

“That’s enough,” Lincoln clips. “She just got here, hasn’t even met everybody. Give her some space.”

“Of course,” Jagger says, but keeps an arm hooked around my neck. Not big on personal space, is Jagger. “Make your introductions. I’ll help. That’s Roy and Tommy.” He points to two guys and turns me before I get a good look at their faces. “And these are the twins.”

The two redheads by the door straighten and I blink, seeing double.

“Elon and Oren.” Jagger’s finger points at the space between them. “Irish dad, Jewish mother. Are they’re circumcised? I guess you’ll find out.”

He tries to tug me around again, but I keep staring at the identical ginger twins. There has to be a way to tell them apart.

One has a small mole near his right eye, above his beard. “What are your names again?” I ask, and when the guy with the mole points to himself and tells me shyly, I memorize it. Oren. Doesn’t matter if he’s the mirror image of his brother. He’s one of the eight, and I’m going to make a good impression.

“You’re staying?” Elon asks. His stark blue eyes are framed by extra long lashes.

“Yep. Isn’t she cute? She’s so little,” says Jagger, who was standing behind the door when God passed out tact.

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of me to go around,” I say to the assembly.

“Huh,” someone grunts from the direction of the kitchen. Saint.

“She’ll do.” Jagger grins like he owns me. Keeping his arm around my shoulders, he picks up my backpack. “I’ll show you to your room.”

“Me too,” both the twins chime together.

“Nope.” Saint points a spatula at one of them. “KP duty.”

“You’re cooking tonight?” Jagger asks the big man.

“Yep. Gumbo.”

“Awesome. Get some meat on her bones.” Jagger hugs me to his side again and I roll my eyes. I duck out of his hold, straightening just as Lincoln says to one of the twins, “She can dance tonight, but nothing more. Not until she sees the doctor.”

I gulp back my retort, grateful for the one night reprieve. Judging by the horny looks I’m getting from the twins and Jagger, I’m not going to have a night off for a while. There’s eight guys here and I’m the only woman around for miles.

Just then Mason stomps past, glaring like I’m mud under his boots.

Scratch that. Mason probably won’t touch me if I paid him.

Jagger throws his arm around me again and his erection manages to poke me in the thigh. I’ll probably get it twice on his night.

I shake Roy and Tommy’s hands—nice guys, too polite to leer—and sneak another peek at Mason. He says something to Saint, and runs his hand through his shock of raven black hair. Shadows fall on the hollows under his cheekbones. It’s impossible. It’s CGI, or madly contoured makeup. No man should be this gorgeous.

But he is. And he’s looking my way like he hates me.

“Mason, meet…” Jagger’s voice dies as Mason shoulders roughly past him, heading out of the room. We all watch his retreating back.

I find my voice. “Who peed in his Cheerios?”

Oren chokes and Jagger giggles. I’ve never heard a man giggle until now.

“Mason hates women,” Jagger tells me.

“That’s okay.” I cross my arms over my small chest. “He doesn’t have to like me to get his dick sucked.”

“Ah, Sierra, fresh as the mountain air.” Jagger smiles like a proud papa. “Let’s finish the tour.”

The tour consists of Jagger dragging me from room to room, with Elon following us like a puppy.

“This is the mess hall. And that’s the entertainment center.” He points to a couple of loungers and a couch set up in front of a giant TV. “We don’t get many channels, so there’s not too much entertainment. But I guess that’s why we’ve got you.” Jagger cocks his head at me, and I meet his gaze blandly. If he’s not embarrassed about what I’m here for, then I’m not going to be either.

“That’s me,” I quip. “Your own personal sex toy.”

Poor Elon blushes to his red roots. The way he and his brother blush and stare, I wonder if they’re virgins. Maybe just super inexperienced.

“This way are some of the bedrooms.” Jagger leads me down a long hall. The building is L-shaped, with the kitchen and main door at the elbow. “And…” He throws open a door to a dorm-style bathroom, multiple urinals and shower stalls all in a row.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Jagger says proudly. “Most camps have bathrooms and showers in a separate building, like a campground. But Lincoln had the company build it to his specifications. The company wanted him as lead,” Jagger explains. He continues down the hall, pointing out the individual doors. “Usually there are just barracks, but we’ve got bedrooms. More privacy.” He swings open one of the doors, smirking. “This room’s mine.”

“Great,” I murmur. There’s clothes and stuff strewn all over the dark space. Hovering over everything is the telltale musk of marijuana, confirming my suspicions: Jagger is the lumberjack equivalent of a college stoner.

The door opposite Jagger’s is half open. Roy and Tommy pause mid-conversation to give me polite but guarded smiles. I nod to them and turn to my guides.

“Where’s my bedroom?”

“Other wing. But my door’s always open.” Jagger lopes back the way we came.

My room is on the far end of the second hall. A twin bed, concrete floor, a battered dresser. All the charm of an empty dorm room.

“Cozy.” My voice echoes a little. Jagger puts my bag on the bed. Elon fetches sheets and a blanket—more faded plaid—and I thank him. I sit down on the bed and bounce, testing the springs. Not that it matters. It’s way more comfortable than a doorway in an alley.

“You want to hang out now, or nap or something?” Jagger asks, hovering over me.

“Nap,” I say decisively. He looks disappointed but leaves without protest, shutting the door quietly.

I close my eyes and sag back on the bed. Despite the nap in the car, I could sleep another hundred years. At least my stomach isn’t flopping like a fish. The mysterious illness seems to have been cured by food.

I doze a moment before wrenching myself up. Just because I met the guys doesn’t mean my first day on the job is over. Lincoln is sold, Jagger and the twins obviously want to fuck me, but Mason definitely doesn’t. Saint, Tommy and Roy also looked ambivalent. Fifty percent chance of keeping this gig, and I don’t like those odds.

I’m almost safe, a hundred miles away from the Hell Riders’ territory. A hundred miles away from everything. I can’t go back now. My bones ache with the thought of running another step.

I have to keep this job.

After running a brush through my hair and straightening my clothes, I head back to the common room. Voices echo down the hall, loud and male.

Mason stands in front of Lincoln, his arms outspread. Even if I couldn’t hear the argument, I could tell from Lincoln’s tight jaw that he’s getting shit.

“This is fucked,” Mason spits. “I know you wanted a woman, but her? She belongs in a halfway house. Pussy’s probably so full of disease—”

“If you want to talk about me behind my back,” I let my voice ring out, “make sure I’ve left the room.”

Mason stiffens like I’ve touched him. “We don’t need a junkie whore.”

“I’m not a whore. Whores get paid.”

“You’re not getting paid?” Jagger’s brow wrinkles.

“I’m getting paid to dance,” I emphasize. “I’m putting out for free.” I turn to Mason and continue coolly, “Get on my bad side and you won’t get any.” I glance at Lincoln to see if he’ll back me up.

He nods. “That’s right. Paying for sex is illegal. But anything that happens after the dance is between consenting adults.”

“Don’t worry,” I say to Jagger, who looks like someone cancelled Christmas. “I plan on distributing favors equally. I like men, and I like sex.”

Mason opens his mouth but Saint lumbers past him to the table, sets something down and motions me over. He pulls out a chair and I sit automatically.

“You’re too thin,” he rumbles.

Don’t worry, big boy, I can take you. I start to say when the steam from the bowl of goodness hits my nose. My mouth fills with saliva and my stomach almost lurches out of my gut.

Saint thumps a spoon down beside my hand. “Eat,” he orders.

He doesn’t have to say it again. I shovel food in my mouth, not only because I’m hungry, but because Saint looms behind me with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at everyone and no one.

“I fed her breakfast,” Lincoln defends himself.

“I have a fast metabolism,” I mumble with my mouth full. “Damn, this is good.” The broth is just a touch spicy, there’s sausage and vegetables and rice. I’d sell my body for this, oh yes I would.

“Eat more.” Saint rests his hand on the back of my neck—just for a moment, but there’s care in his touch.

“Wow,” Jagger says when Saint disappears back into the kitchen. “He likes you.”

“‘Cause he fed me?”

“That and he didn’t pick you up and throw you out,” Lincoln says thoughtfully. Mason grunts and stomps back to his bedroom.

“You know why they call him Saint?” Jagger says. “He played football in college in Louisiana. Rumor is he was a top pick to go pro, but he finished his degree and came north instead. Fastest bucker around. Makes gumbo when he’s in a good mood, and if we’re lucky, he’ll share it.”

“And you?” I ask. “Is your name really Jagger?”

“I got moves.”

I roll my eyes.

“Seriously. I’ll dance with you if you want.”

“I’ll think about it.” We talk music as the room fills.

More of the guys join us and despite Jagger making it sound like Saint is stingy with the product of his culinary genius, the big guy ladles generous gumbo portions onto their plates. Oren serves up plates of biscuits. I watch with wide eyes as each guy eats about twenty each. Both Lincoln and Elon sacrifice from their pile to put a few on my plate, and they just look at me when I protest that I’m full.

By the end of the meal, I’m comfortable around the big guys. For the most part they treat me like a friend, or their best friend’s little sister. Jagger shares his Coke and I get in a burping contest with him. Even Saint joins in. Everyone except Mason, who wears his permanent expression of disgust.

“I’ve got an idea,” he purrs, dark eyes on me. He’s balanced on the back legs of his chair. “Why doesn’t Sierra give us a show? Just a little taste of what we’re buying,” he adds, before Lincoln can remind him I don’t start work until after the doctor’s appointment.

The guys start to protest that I just got here and I hold up a hand. “I gotta warn you, I’m really full. I have a food baby.” I pat my stomach.

“That’s hot,” Jagger mutters.

“But I think it’s a great idea, Mason,” I say sweetly. “Just let me get changed.”

As I walk past him, I give his chair a little push. To keep his balance he has to set the front legs down hard. I hide my grin. Pissing Mason off is my new favorite hobby.

Behind the closed door of my bedroom, I rub my face and will my heartbeat to settle. This is happening. I’m gonna strut out there in my skivvies and give them a show. This is what I signed up for, and I’m not gonna back out now.

I just have to ace the group interview. I’m not naive enough to think that Mason still couldn’t convince the guys to send me back. So I have to show my stuff, and make sure it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen.

I’m the only woman around for miles. How hard can it be?

When I re-enter the group room, every guy swivels to watch. Underneath the table, there are quite a few tents in the faded work pants. Pretty fuckin’ hard. But that’s how I like it.

Some joker turned the lights down except for one that shines like a spotlight on a space besides the table, far enough so everyone can see me. I stop in the center of the makeshift stage and smooth my hands down the tails of my shirt.

It’s now or never.

I got this.

I point to Jagger and he turns on the music. Into You by Ariana Grande. Good song. I roll my shoulders back, close my eyes and start swaying to the music. My fingers play with the buttons of my new shirt. I’m wearing Carhartt plaid over my best bra and panties, and nothing else. My little lumberjack-themed stripper outfit. I’m only missing a pair of Timberland boots.

Unbuttoning my shirt, I let my hips swing, twitching and dipping to the beat, giving the guys little glimpses of my skin under the red plaid. The chorus comes on and I toss my head back, peeling off the shirt and waving it around my head before tossing at Mason. He catches it before it hits him in the face. Nimble fucker.

I strut over to the table, my eyes on Lincoln. He watches me warily as I grab his shoulders, straddle his lap, stick my barely clad boobs in his face and gyrate. Around us, the guys hoot. My smile stretches my face and Lincoln relaxes, his hands sliding up my back. I grab a biscuit, put it in my mouth, and scissor up to offer it to him. He snaps at it but I jerk away at the last minute, shaking my head. I bounce in his lap as I eat the whole thing, stuffing my cheeks like a chipmunk and licking honey butter off my fingers.

By the time I’m done, Lincoln looks like he’s a second away from sweeping the dishes off the table and laying me there as his feast. Perfect.

I ooze off him and skate by the twins, letting my fingers trail along their necks. Their heads turn like owls as I sashay past Roy, pausing to writhe my body between him and Tommy. I dance over to Jagger and his arms open to welcome me. At the last minute, I flip around and lean back into his hard torso. I twerk into his crotch as he crows—I knew he’d like this.

Around the table, all eyes are on me. Even Mason’s, who’s balanced on his chair’s back legs again, arms crossed, jaw clenched, shadows pooling on the hard planes of his face.

Smiling, I leave Jagger’s clinging arms, stepping from his lap onto the table. I toss my head and dance my heart out, my hips hitting the beat hard, my shoulders swiveling. I step carefully to a bare spot in front of Saint and crouch down, then crawl like a panther toward him. His eyes glint in his stone mask. I know just what to do to make his expression crack. I lean back on my arms, plant my feet wide, and rock my hips back and forth, waving my pussy in front of his face. I flip off the table and lean over it, sticking my tailbone in the air and swaying my ass in Saint’s direction. I pretend to spank myself until he breaks position. His huge hand covers my small butt-cheek. Chuckling to myself, I twist and dance away, shaking my finger at him. There’s no mistaking the hunger in his eyes now. I wink at him, my pout promising plenty of opportunity to spank me later.

Everywhere I look, I’m met with the same glorious horny gaze. Even Mason doesn’t bother to hide it. Jagger tries to grab me as I moonwalk by.

I’ve done it. They all want to fuck me. And they can’t. Nu uh, my wagging finger says. I lick it and circle one pointy nipple until my body screams, It’ll be worth the wait.

The song is ending. Time for the big finish.

I grab my chair and drag it near the light. Sit with my knees on either side of the seat. My crotch on display, I stick my hands in my see-through panties and rub, closing my eyes and smiling to myself, imagining how jaws have hit the floor. The song switches over to Candy Shop by 50 Cent and Olivia and I fondle myself in front of my audience, shivering with pleasure. I writhe on the chair like it’s a lover. Ride it like a rodeo bronc while eight guys fuck me with their eyes. I’ve never done anything like this before. Not that I’m sheltered—I grew up around girls putting out for their biker of the month. It wasn’t a party if a half-naked woman wasn’t getting felt up in the corner, drinking a beer and giggling until the guy dragged her to one of the private rooms. Or peeled down her Daisy Dukes and boned her in front of everyone. When I started dating Jack, I made him claim a room for us before we did more than heavy petting. I never thought I could get off with an audience.

I was wrong.

Lightning sizzles under my fingers and I arch my body into an exaggerated bow. I’m so close. So close. But for some reason, I want to savor this moment. Dance on the edge.

As the song wraps up, I pull my fingers out of my panties and lick them clean. I’m a hot little number. Oh yeah.

Without a backward glance, I rise and strut back to my room.

“That’s all for now,” I call over my shoulder. “Night night, boys.”

There’s a clatter of chairs. I’d bet a grand half the guys go right to their rooms—or the shower.

I close the door to my room and lean against it, shaking. I did it. There’s no way they’ll get rid of me. Not even Mason will push for it now.

I curl up on my new bed and pass out like I got fucked eight times.

Saint

Lincoln’s door shakes as I approach. When I want, I can walk lightly enough to pass like the Angel of Death over the homes of the Israelites. Tonight, I want to give warning.

Lincoln sits on his bed, hands dangling between his knees, staring at nothing.

I stop in the open doorway and wait until he looks up. My shadow stretches to cover the tips of his boots, so it doesn’t take long.

“Saint.” He gives me a rueful smile and runs his hand through his hair.

“We need to talk.” If I want, I can make my voice light and smooth, a Barry White timbre that flows like warm honey. Or I can hit the lower reaches of my register, the gravel rumble of an oncoming avalanche. Tonight, I want his bones to shake.

“Yeah.” Lincoln passes hand over his face and stands. “Yeah, we do.” He knows what he did. He knows he’s earned this talk and he’s willing to take it.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Every other word has the weight of a punch. Lincoln winces. I lean into his room, but don’t enter and don’t shut the door. If I wanted, I could make Lincoln follow me somewhere we can talk privately. Tonight, I want all the guys to hear.

“I think it’ll work out.”

“She looks like she’s got one foot in the grave.”

“She was hungry and cold and alone. Caught me outside the strip club. She had been begging Randy for a job so she could eat.” He spreads his hands and his voice rises. “What was I going to do?”

“Drive her to a shelter. Give her some money. This isn’t a halfway house.”

“She was one second away from offering herself to any trucker walking the streets. I thought it would be better to bring her back here.” He raises his chin. “I think she can do the job.”

“This isn’t what we agreed to.” I fight to keep my voice level. “We discussed this. We need a woman who can take us.” I could see her in my mind’s eye, the type of woman I’d choose. A painted jade, made of makeup and plastic, who could play a part. A woman who’d chosen the role long ago. A cum doll in a candy-coated shell, choosing johns who can pay for her next boob job or coke habit. Not a girl, trying so hard to be brave. Not an innocent with no armor. Not Sierra, pale and lissome and wholesome as a dairy maid, with nothing to defend herself but brash wit and sheer stubbornness. “This kid can’t do what’s necessary.”

Lincoln shakes his head, his breath hissing out. “I thought so too, and then I spent some time with her. You gotta get to know her, Saint. She’s... her will is strong.

“Her will is strong,” I repeat with heavy sarcasm. “Fuck. You fucked her.”

With another shake of his head, Lincoln starts to turn away.

“You fucking fuck.” My fingers catch the edge of his shirt. “You took advantage of her.”

“Fuck I did,’ Lincoln snaps around. He wades forward, crowding me until we’re chest to chest and glaring, two seconds away from beating the shit outta each other. Big guy, Lincoln. Tall, good fighter. Any other guy facing him would shake in their boots. Not me.

“I fed her,” he snarls in my face. “I got clothes for her, stuff she needed. I protected her.” His eye slides to the side catching on a memory. “She’s in trouble. Running from something.”

“No shit. So you brought home a stray.” My tone tells him just how stupid I think he is.

“Sierra isn’t a stray. You saw her tonight.”

Without permission, my thoughts snap to the dance. The pool of white light, Sierra’s small body twitching as she brought herself to the brink of orgasm in front of us. I wanted to go to her, kneel down and finish her. Feel her warmth on my fingers and taste her sweetness.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “That was something.”

“She was magnificent. Admit it. After that performance, you really gonna look at me and tell me to send her back?”

Despite myself, my right hand curls. Not into a fist to beat some sense into Lincoln, but as if I’ve caught hold of a ghost, a slight, dancing angel, and I want to hang on and see if I can catch her. Keep her.

Fuck. I want Sierra.

“Saint?”

“One week,” I say. “She has one week to prove herself. Then we send her back.”

Sierra

My clit wakes me. Swollen and angry, it pulses, reminding me that I fell asleep before rubbing one out. It wants me to finish what I started in the main room. After stroking myself for a few minutes, I sit up and head down the hall.

The door next to mine is open and I peek in as I pass. Two red heads swivel my way. Twin blue-eyed owls.

“Lincoln?” I ask, and Oren points down the hall.

“Last door on the right,” Elon says. With a wink, I thank him and tiptoe to Lincoln's room. A brief knock, and I enter without permission.

The big guy sets aside a worn paperback, frowning as I slip to his side.

“I don't want to sleep alone,” I snuggle next to him under the blanket.

He shifts to make room but it’s no good. I have to plaster myself against him to fit next to his large body in the narrow bed. “You need to rest.”

I let out a huge sigh.

“Don’t worry”—his fingers play with the lines on my forehead—“they already like you.”

I snort. “Mason doesn't.”

“Mason doesn't like anyone.”

We lie side by side, edges glued together. I hinge toward him.

“I'm horny.”

It’s his turn to sigh. “You don't want to save it? You might get tired of entertaining us.” His fingers slide down my arm.

“No.” I slip a leg over one of his. “I need it.”

He rolls his heavy body over me, blocking out the light. I smile into his soft shirt, my breath stuttering as his biceps frame my head. He grabs a condom and this time I do the honors, rolling it on his throbbing length as his chest rises and falls more rapidly. A strong woodsy scent rises around us, tart pine and dry sawdust. I’m drunk on eau de lumberjack by the time I guide his dick inside. With a quiet gasp, he slides the rest of the way. His body glides over mine, muscles flexing on the edge of my vision, the granite plane of his lower abs dragging over mine, catching my clit. I hitch a calf over a jutting hip, pressing up for more friction, but other than that, I let him do the work. Tipping my head, I rub against the coarse fur of his chest, and let my fingers follow the happy trail all the way down. His movements speed and my mind turns to jelly.

“Jagger will say you broke your own rule,” I murmur after, lazily stroking the firm contours of his back. Lincoln: strong as an oak, with thick dark hair like the pelt of an animal and a rich pine scent.

“Jagger can deal. Now be quiet,” he says, not unkindly. “You need to rest up while you can.”

But I want to lie here awake beside this tall tree of the man who made me safe, and drink in every second.

My eyelids flutter and close without my permission.

“Who are you running from?” Lincoln murmurs. But it’s too late, I’m far away, under the spell of his rumbling voice, slipping into sleep.