That little beauty trapped the beast.

Elle got me good.

Caught me in the act and wasn’t afraid to call me out.

But she also didn’t freak out that I’d touched her.

And she didn’t fear my face.

No terror.

No disgust.

No hatred.

No pity.

Elle didn’t react at all.

My gruesome scars didn’t scare her.

What was this woman, some new age, love and light Mother Theresa in a sexy as sin body? Or was her concussion affecting her eyesight? Maybe she lost her marbles because of that bump on her head.

I’m itching to ask her why the sight of me doesn’t bug her. Why is she so nonchalant about the horrific imperfection that causes everyone else to back up a few feet, avert their eyes, stare with horror, or just turn and run? Or all of the above.

I can’t bring myself to ask her, but at least I give her a dose of her own medicine with my overly forward suggestion that I’d kiss her. And I see the need come over her with my own eyes. My admission about Samuel and I sharing everything including women elicits a physical reaction from her. Right from the tips of her gorgeous, silky head of blonde hair all the way to her pretty little toes.

First, she shivers a bit, and her pupils dilate, and I swear I see the peaks of her nipples raise up under the shirt she’s wearing. My shirt. With nothing by her awe-inspiring nakedness underneath. My dick throbs at the thought of her skin brushing against something that I own. It’s a miracle they don’t tent my pants right there and then.

The fact that she’s hungry gives me a good reason to retreat, regroup and shift my cock to a less uncomfortable position. Leaving the room in a hurry, I head down the hall toward the kitchen. I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee, put a few slices of bread in the toaster, and try not to make a big deal about the fact that Elle. Didn’t. Hate. My. Face.

As I let it sink in, the reality of it tips my lips up into a smile. I can’t remember the last time I had something to be happy about.

Samuel's eating at his regular spot at one end of the square kitchen table. It seats four people, but two places have never been used. Elle's our first houseguest.

First ever.

Knowing that she may be well enough to have dinner with us at some point, I search through a cabinet drawer near the sink and gather up a couple of items to make a third place setting. As I rest the table mat and dinner napkin on the empty spot, Samuel stops eating.

“I got three questions,” he says and swallows the mouthful of eggs he was chewing on.

“Yeah? What?”

“First, what are you doing with that place setting? Is it for Elle?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

He grins and piles more than a mouthful of his next bite onto his fork. “Which brings me to question two. I heard voices in there. Were you two talking? It sounded like an actual conversation.”

I feel a smile rise and warm my face before I notice my intended reaction. “Yeah. We kinda were.”

“And, how was she?” I don’t have to spell it out. He knows what I’m really asking about.

“Normal. Good.”

“Good as in she didn't freak out in that much, or you didn't mind her freaking out too much?”

“Neither.” I grab the loaf of bread from the fridge then drop two slices into the toaster to start it. “She didn't care...or didn't notice. I'm not sure which it is.”

“Nice. And the last question. What exactly are you trying to do with your face? It kind of looks like you want to smile, but it's been so long since that happened, you don't remember what to do with your face. Right now, it looks more like...like you're a little constipated.”

“Fuck off, idiot,” I bark, but there's no malice in my tone. I get his point. I can own it too. It has been a while. And it feels good.

“What did you talk about?” he asks.

I pour a cup of coffee for Elle in one of my stay toasty mugs with the fold-over lid that actually keeps the coffee hot for well over an hour. Then the toaster pops up around the same time.

“Hang on,” I tell him, putting everything on a tray. “Let me carry this food to her first. Be right back.”

Elle’s right where I left her a few minutes ago. Except her laptop is open between her legs and she’s crouched over, tapping on the keyboard. She barely looks up at me as I place the tray on the empty nightstand, but it’s not intentional, I don’t think. I’ve seen her this focused before, outside the window of her cabin. She has this look on her face like the world can end, and she’ll be doing exactly what she dreams of for her last second on the planet. I can’t say for sure that I can relate to that level of passion. Maybe for my gardening in the greenhouse.

Seeing her there in my bed, wearing my clothes, legs tangled up in my bedsheets continues to do things to me. Specifically, to my dick. I can’t get over it. Or the idea that she doesn’t cringe at the sight of my face. Shifting my cock around yet again, I leave her to her work. What I wouldn’t give to get a sneak peek of whatever she’s writing. Except for the odd autobiography or gardening manual, I don’t read much. But I’d read whatever Elle writes—just to get to know her better.

To understand how she thinks.

To learn what makes her tick.

To find out what lights such a fire in her eyes.

I fantasize about being the one to make her eyes light up like that.

Or, me and Samuel. Taking her together.

“Are you going to tell me what went down with our guest or what?” Samuel demands from his spot at the kitchen table. His plate is full again. He can pack away food, that's for sure. But he's always been a healthy eater.

Smiling, I pour myself some coffee and take a seat at the table. “I told her.”

He leans forward and examines my face. He knows me well enough to understand the significance of what I just said.

“And?”

“I think she'd be into it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, eyebrows raised high as his hairline.

I nod. “But let's give her some space, and time to get her head on right.”

“Sounds good to me, making sure she's up for it.” He gets up and takes his empty plate and coffee mug to the sink, starting to clean up our dishes but stops and turns to me with a broad smile plays on his entire face. “She's really that into us?”

“All the signs say yes.”

“The S and B duo still got it,” he says, referring to our first name initials like we used to all the way back in high school, right up until we enlisted.

“We are, as long as either of us gets fucking greedy and tries to make a move on her without the other.”

“Dude. That ain't gonna happen. Not unless that's your plan. I mean, she's in your room. I still gotta trust that you haven't already tapped that sometime last night.”

“Like I'd ever move that fucking fast.”

“You only moved at one speed back then, remember?”

“True, but that was then, and this is now. But anyway, you don't mean that. You're just shitting me.”

“I'm dead serious,” he says under his breath, but his smiling eyes don't match the words.

“Bullshit.”

“If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under right now. You were marking your territory when we brought her home last night.”

“Like you were any different.”

“I was.”

“Like fuck you were. Or did you forget I'm the one who put my ass on the line, driving out to her place for her stuff.”

“All right all right. You're the man of the hour. Just save me a piece of the action when it matters.”

“Speaking of clothes, I'll finish up with that duffel bag of stuff from her place. Think we should tell her about it now?”

“No. It’s all trashed, soaking wet and covered in nasty old dust from the roof. Clean it all up, wash the clothes, sort the other stuff, then give it to her then. She’ll appreciate it more.”

“All right.”

“I'll try her landlord on the sat phone after I'm done in here.”

My mind can’t help reading between the lines, but I force myself to avoid any confrontation, taking off to the laundry room instead. It’ll take a few hours to go through the stuff I grabbed from Elle’s cabin. Clothes need to be sorted, separated and washed.

While each load is in the washer or dryer, I bring a space heater into the laundry room and put the few pairs of shoes I found around it to dry off. For the books, the ones that are hardcover are easy. I stand those upright with each side of each book cover about ninety degrees apart so the book itself can support itself to stand while the pages air out. The paperbacks are harder, but I eventually do the same, leaving them upright and open for the warm air to dry the loose pages.

Then I find her wallet, a small jewelry box, and some other loose trinkets, pens, markers, and other stuff that was on top of a dresser and nightstand in her room. Grabbing a large cardboard box, I have laying around, I spread out the item to air dry them. Opening her wallet feels more personal than it should. I hesitate for a minute, but if anything made of paper isn’t dried out properly will end up sticking to the wallet, covered in mold, and ruined in no time. Things like family photos, important business cards she might have held onto for a reason, cash, and whatever else matters to her. One by one, I pull them from the wallet and set them down, inadvertently learning a little more about Elle with each item even though I do my best not to pry.

“How’s it going?” I hear Samuel call me from the hallway.

“Good. Everything’s salvageable. Just really dirty. Is she awake?”

“Nope. I’ll be outside chopping firewood.”

“It’ll take a couple more loads to wash and dry everything,” I tell him. “I’ll finish up in here.”

“You know where to find me,” he says and leaves.

I know what I said to Samuel, but I don’t mean every word. In between cleaning up her things, my feet can’t help walking to the doorway of my room to let my eyes gaze upon her. She’s asleep the first time I check, but on my next trip, she’s awake and back on the laptop.

I’m going on instinct when I clear my throat from the hallway and knock lightly on the door. I want her, and I sense some of that possessiveness, and maybe some competitive rivalry between Samuel and me rise up in my chest again. We both want Elle. Neither of us thinks of her as a casual one-time fling. That tells me the stakes are high. We're both willing to share her, but if given a choice, we'd happily make a move on her as individuals. Like I’m doing right now.

It’s unrealistic to expect it, but if Elle has to ever make a choice, I fucking hope she picks me.