C H A P T E R  O N E

MILLER

Three Months Later

Steam clouds around me, drawing a deep breath is harder than out in the open air. My balls pull tight against my body, ready to heave, but I bite into my lower lip, wanting to last longer, to keep myself going. I need more.

I groan low, feeling the sound scratch at my throat. Releasing a sound like a cornered animal, I do my best to steady my breathing as the tingling of my orgasm starts, spreading up from my toes.

The near scalding water rushes against the center of my back as the flat of my hand plasters against the cooler glass of the shower wall. I lock my elbow, steadying myself as my other hand holds my dick. I’m stroking my erection slowly, the image of her shimmering blue eyes and open lips dancing in my fantasy.

It’s the same sort of morning I’ve had more times than I can count over the last few months. The same fight I’ve lost several times a day, either lying in bed, standing inside this glass cage... Hell, even in my fucking truck on occasion.

In the beginning, I fought the urge, but I always lost. I don’t fight anymore. I’m jerking off every fucking morning because I can’t get her out of my mind. Then at least twice during the day and God knows how many times at night.

I’ve never come so much in my life, I swear, and she’s little more than a fantasy to me. A moment in time. One quick kiss. One touch. And I’ve been lost in her ever since.

“Lela,” I moan out her name as my grip tightens around the head of my cock.

The only reason I even know her first name is because her father called to her as he dragged her away.

I squeeze the tip of my dick, counting to ten, holding back the come that threatens to spray just at the sound of her name. Even now, when I’m struggling for release, I still want it to last. The battle to hold back, to keep her in my mind just a few moments longer, wages war with the need to let myself go.

To think of where my cum belongs.

Inside her.

On her.

Cascading from her lips.

Like my badge of honor.

The soap is slick under my rough palm as I give in and start the forward and back motion again. My grip tightens. I’ve been hard at the thought of her thousands of times over the three months since I found her standing there.

Watching me.

Watch her.

I’ve learned to be careful about when and where I think of her. I mean, popping a woody my size when I’m sitting at my mom’s house for Sunday dinner would not receive Emily Post’s approval, nor does it go over well when I’m doing a demo in front of a crowd of testosterone-fueled weapons enthusiasts.

Not to mention, it’s uncomfortable as hell sporting this bad boy when there’s no time or place to relieve myself. I practically snapped my dick in half a few times already when I couldn’t get it under control fast enough.

“Fuck,” I groan, speeding up, biting the inside of my cheek at the same time.

The fantasy playing in my head has her lush curves under me, my hands gripped tight into her sand-colored hair spread beneath as she arches upward into me. Her silver-blue eyes tell me she’s close to her own release; the look on her face hides nothing from me.

“It’s right there, Pip,” I speak out loud, pretending she’s here. “Give it to me. I need you to cum first, Lela. I need to feel it on me.”

The words rumble, low and heavy into the steam. Somewhere in the three months since I first saw those three freckles on her adorable nose, I’d started in my mind calling her Pip.  It just fit and now I can’t stop. 

Shutting my eyes, I draw myself up tall, tossing my head back into the hot water. My fist slams back and forth on my cock as I imagine it’s the inside of her pussy, clamping down as she cums just for me.

Always and only for me.

Oh my God I hear her words in my head.

That’s it.

Done.

With the image of her pleasure, my cock twitches, my balls draw up, and multiple spasms rock me as my orgasm erupts from some pent-up volcano deep inside me. Jets of cum spray on the wet glass wall as my breath catches in my throat and my arm shoots out, bracing myself again as the room goes dark and my body shudders.

I cum so hard my thighs shake and twitch. The thought of sending my spunk into her body makes me moan, my breath furious. Watching her face as she takes all of me, her legs as wide as she can pull them apart, giving herself to me in every way.

As soon as my breathing slows, I push out my chest and straighten up. My head falls back into the water for one last rinse, pushing the desire to go again down somewhere deep, locking it away. The light in the bathroom has warmed to a golden glow from the sunrise visible through the wall of windows across from the shower.

I reach over to twist the chrome handle until the water shuts off.

“Jesus.” I shake my head, an arc of water spraying as I step out into the warmth of the bathroom. I run a hand down my face, resting at my chin. Water clings to the coarse hair. Four days I’ve been putting off shaving, and I grip my hand tighter over my jaw, squeezing out the last of the moisture.

It’s near ninety degrees in the bathroom. I like it warm when I get out of the shower, so when I built my place, I made sure I had a separate thermostat just for this room. Standing here, looking out over the woods in the morning, this is my church. 

The water drips from my body onto the steel-gray shower rug my mom bought when she decorated the place, and I shake my head again. Not so much to release more water but to try to shake her from my mind, if only for a few moments.

Not my mom. Lela.

That sunrise is a glorious thing. Out here in the middle of nowhere it’s lazy, taking its time, tipping the pines with orange as it makes its way into the sky. I turn, ready to step over to the window, not caring that I’m naked. There’s nobody out there to see anyway. But before I can truly appreciate it, I hear the whining start.

Snatching a towel from the hook on the wall, I step toward the open bathroom door which leads into my master suite.

“It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning, Little Shit. Give me a break. You were just out.” I drag the towel down my chest, dry my still hard dick, and roll my eyes. I’m tired as fuck. And I’m out of socks.

I look toward the cardboard box on the floor by the side of my bed. The first night I found her, I had to bring the box into my bedroom because when I tried to leave it in the laundry room, Little Shit yelped and cried nonstop, so I brought her in here with me around midnight and thought it would solve the problem.

But she continued to yelp and cry until I put her demanding ass in the bed with me. And every night I try again.  Put her wagging ass in the box but end up with her snuggled next to me in the bed. 

And not just snuggled.  I’m off on the far edge of the bed holding on while she’s on her back, snoring tucked under my neck.

Now, early this morning after a quick outside break at 4:30 a.m., I put her back in the box so I could at least get my shower.

At least one of us ended up getting some sleep last night.

I should be pissed as hell. But that little vixen knows how to work those chocolate-brown eyes, and as much as I try to fight it, I’m falling for the fuzzy demon more every day. It’s a battle in my heart I know I’ve already lost.

She twists in excited circles when I come into view over the box.

Mental note: call my mother.

As cute as the little fur ball is, my mom needs to get over here and take her to her place. There is not a minute of my day or night that is not spoken for, and a puppy does not fit in.

Seriously. I called her once already and begged her to take on the mutt. The  morning when I found the puppy sitting at the bottom of my driveway, looking abandoned I scooped her up and brought her to the house. What else was I going to do?

Now, it’s like a week later and the Little Shit has me on all fours cleaning up messes and wondering how such a tiny little mouth can do such damage.

Once Mom knew the dog was okay, she’d just laughed at my frustration. Said it was a sign. I needed a girl in my life.

Mom was still laughing when I hung up, cursing under my breath. The last thing I need is a woman in my life. I’ve done just fine without one thus far. If you don’t count the handful of less than successful dating episodes in my life. Because I sure don’t.

Lela.

The drumbeat of her name is relentless.

With a sigh, I walk to my closet and stuff my feet into a clean pair of jeans, grab a fresh flannel from one of the hangers, and tug my boots on in haste sans socks as Little Shit’s yelping raises the roof.

I stomp back toward the box. “I’m coming,” I half shout. “Jesus, you are fucking demanding for such a little thing.” When I get there, I reach in and scoop her up with one hand then step to my nightstand and snatch up my phone.

Looking down at the screen, there are three texts from my mom since I’ve been in the shower. She knows I won’t respond. If it’s urgent, she’ll call. She knows my hard line about texting, but she’s my mom so I give her more leeway than I would anyone else.

I groan as I grudgingly read the messages. She knows I’m an early riser, but today she’s more in my business than usual.

Mom: Don’t forget. I set up Dan Sullivan to be there at eight o’clock. Don’t get lost in your work and forget because you need the help and he’s a busy man. I love you.

Mom: Oh, and I’m not taking that puppy home with me so don’t ask again. She’s yours, your responsibility. I’m telling you, you need this. It’s good practice. For a girlfriend. Or someday, maybe a wife. If I’m lucky. Then kids. You do well keeping your plants alive. This is the next step. The universe speaks, Miller, you need to listen. You’ll figure out work won’t keep you company forever. Those knives and blades you make aren’t going to give me grandbabies. LOL

Mom: One more thing, don’t mention anything to Dan or the trainer about Norman. His dad never has gotten over me, and I know if he had the chance, he’d be right back in my bed. Can’t blame him. LOL

I cringe and shake my head, shoving my phone into my back pocket. Norman is my mom’s newest gentleman friend. Dan Sullivan is a dog trainer whose compound is in Remington, about two hours east. He’s made a brand for himself on The Animal Channel, and he’s fast becoming a household name. My mom dated his father a year or so ago, and clearly, they are still on good terms.

Fuck, I don’t even like to think about my mom in that context, but apparently, she managed to stay friends with the Sullivans after they broke up. When she was here yesterday and saw the puppy taking a leak on my rug and dragging over one of a pile of chewed up Duluth Trading socks, she got on the horn and called in a favor with Dan. Now he’s set up to come here today and help me deal with this miniature hurricane named Little Shit.

But I have a fuck-ton of work to do. I always have work to do. 

I’m not complaining, mind you. I love what I do. I more than love it.

I live it.

Twenty-four seven. Knives and blades and forging are my life. I’m a lucky man; I get to do what I love and make a damn good living at it.

When I bought these forty-three acres seven years ago, determined to build my own house and shop with my own hands, I never dreamt my hobby would turn into what it has.

More than a hobby, I suppose. An obsession. With blades. With forming them. Forging them. Creating them.

Listening to the metal sing as I work. Hearing its voice tell me what it’s to become. It’s something most people wouldn’t understand, something that develops over time.

On the log wall above my bed hang some of my first and finest creations. I started working with metal and blade forging in high school when my metal shop teacher, Mr. Greg Kraminsky, took me under his wing. I was a pain in the ass back then, even I have to admit it. How my mom put up with me, I’ll never know.

With no father around, the stereotype of angry teenager fit me well. Mom worked like a slave to keep me in a good school district and in line. Even with her two jobs, she never missed a teachers’ conference or one of my football games.

When I would go out on the field, she would always say it didn’t look fair. Me out there with all those other little boys. She must have fed me some special Wheaties or something because even as a freshman I had six inches on all the other players and the kind of bulk that grown men would envy. My size still draws eyes, along with the occasional drunken challenge which holds no appeal.

Mr. Kraminsky was also the offensive coach for the football team, and he became the first and only father figure I’ve had. He forged blades as a hobby, and before long, I was hanging around in his garage and I’d manipulated steel into my first blade. I was hooked from day one. Soon enough, it was my obsession.

Set up my first homemade forge in a shed behind a house Mom rented when I was about seventeen. It kept me out of trouble and now has turned into a nice career. My mom thinks I work too much, but what the fuck else do I have to do? She also thinks I need a wife. Or even a girlfriend. But I disagree.

As a matter of fact, Mom has an opinion on most everything when it comes to me. I love her, but she can meddle nonstop when she puts her mind into something. Like pushing me to find a girlfriend. Or a wife.

Women are not my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I like women. The female of my species would be my choice in a romantic relationship if I ever pursued one.

Fuck, I dated. I tried. But I’m not an easy prospect. I get that. I get lost in my work and don’t come out for days. I grunt more than I speak. I don’t like anyone messing with the order of my days.

And on top of all the other reasons I sort of suck at dating, I hate texting. Seems that’s a basic necessary criterion for good boyfriend material these days, which baffles me.

But it’s more than that. You see, I’m a traditional kind of guy. I believe in loyalty. Integrity. Trust. And yes, devotion.

All old, traditional notions are apparently outdated because the couple times I tried to make a go of dating... Well, both times I found out the women I was dating were making a go of dating as well. Only with someone in addition to me.

That shit doesn’t fly in my book, so I swore off women years ago. How many years, I’m not exactly sure. Five maybe  Or three.  Even if I try to remember, I’m at a loss.. I figure love is not for everyone. Maybe I’m just not the kind of guy that’s cut out for those emotions.

Lela.

“Goddammit!” I say to no one as her name hits me again and makes my cock start to rise. Another yelp from Little Shit and I shift my attention back to her, taking a deep breath. “All right, come on you. Let’s get you outside before you ruin this box.”

The little puffball can’t weigh more than three pounds. She wiggles in the palm of my hand as I carry her out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, her front legs dangling between my fingers and her tail spinning in this crazy, wagging sort of circle.

“More java first.” I raise my eyebrows, looking at her panting puppy mouth and curl her into the red and black flannel covering my ribs, pulling the coffee pot to refill my mug. “Always coffee first, you’ll learn that.” She gives me a cute as hell head tilt as I talk, and I feel my heart twinge. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not staying.”

She squirms in my hand as I head out of the kitchen to the front door. Standing there facing the closed door with a wiggling puppy in one hand and my coffee in the other and no third hand to open the door.

A frustrated groan fills my throat as I grit my teeth, bringing Little Shit up to hold and squeeze her under my chin carefully, tightening her against me for just as much time as I need to twist the handle and open the door.

“Ouch.”

She scratches and slips against my neck, frees herself from the loose grip of my chin and tumbles in a soft ball back down into my hand with a satisfied twinkle in her eyes.

“You’re a pain in my ass.” I fight the smile as I step out onto the porch. The scent of fall hits me as my boots scuff on the wooden boards.

I step down onto the stone path that leads to the gravel drive, taking a long sip of coffee. The wind brushes leaves around my feet as I set the little critter down on the lawn, watching her uncoordinated steps take her into the deeper grass.

A minute later she’s taken care of her puppy business, and the morning sun is filtering around the cabin. My assistants will arrive here shortly, and we’ll get straight to work. I have a high-profile commission that needs to be finished day after tomorrow for some fucking rock star. I hate that whole cult of celebrity shit, but it’s done well as far as exposure for my work. Seems people with too much money need to spend it on flashy, high-priced items they will more than likely never use, and I’m more than happy to accommodate. I suppose I should be thankful I’ve made such a name for myself.

But I work constantly. I have zero downtime. It’s a grind trying to keep up with it all. And how I will keep this puppy alive and my house in order in the midst of my already chaotic life is daunting.

The low rumble of the enormous forge that runs twenty-four hours a day in my shop mixes with the sounds of waking birds and the occasional pop of leaves coming off the trees. The pines sway, adding a sharp evergreen scent to the cool air.

Little Shit works herself back my way as my mind is consumed with my waiting work.

“Okay, you. Back in we go. Time to make the donuts.” I lean down and scoop her back up bringing her to my lips and pressing them between her ears.

I can’t believe I just kissed the dog.

And I think I love that smell.

Puppy smell.

Jesus, man, get a grip. This little thing is going to be carrying your balls around in her mouth if you’re not careful.

I settle the puppy into the cardboard box I’ve brought into the kitchen, then block off the entry and exit with some chairs—just in case she escapes. I’m already out of socks, and I’m going to have to go into town and go to a store. I hate shopping nearly as much as I hate texting.

The second pot of coffee is brewing as I cross my arms and drop my chin, closing my eyes. My chest is tightening, and as much as I’m trying to fight it, my dick is thickening again with thoughts of her. I won’t win now any more than I did earlier. I’ll be jerking off at least once more before the guys get here.

I bring one hand up to squeeze my forehead and clench my jaw as the yelping starts again.

“Leave me alone,” I mutter to myself, not sure if I’m talking to the puppy or to the girl I met for all of five minutes, the girl who’s become my obsession.

The girl I don’t even know. I will never know. But I’ll never forget.