Page 27 of Wrong Cabin, Right Time
I stare at her, gripping her neck a little tighter with one hand as I push her leg up with the other. I slam my cock into her as hard as I can. The headboard shakes and bangs against the wall with each thrust. I’m glad I don’t have any neighbors, because I would have a possible noise complaint on my hands if I did. Sage is screaming at the top of her lungs as I fuck her.
With each thrust of my hips, I feel my frustration growing more and more. The only thing I want to do, I can’t. I have a mental block I would give anything to get rid of. But if I can’t kill her, I can at least have this.
I lose myself in the motions, squeezing her neck tighter and releasing, giving her just enough time to gasp for breath before gripping her again. Her eyes practically roll back in her head, and her entire body spasms below me when she finally comes.
Her pussy convulses with each thrust and sends me over the edge, pulling every drop of my cum deep inside her. When I’m done, I let go of her throat and pull out of her. There’s a clear handprint on her skin, a small but temporary reminder of what I couldn’t do. I sit on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
What the hell has gotten into me?
Sage moves closer, her hands climbing up my back to gently massage my shoulders. “You know, you’re the only man I’ve ever met who’s more stressed out after sex than before.”
She doesn’t know the half of it. I take a deep breath and look at her, seeing the afterglow of our morning escapade coloring her cheeks. Her eyes are pale blue, glimmering in the sunlight. I can just make out the speck of brown in her iris, a minor flaw in an otherwise perfect appearance. She looks peaceful. Happy, even.
“I guess I’m too busy thinking about the person who wants to kill you,” I say, keeping my voice monotone. The smile on her lips falls, and for the first time I see worry clouding her eyes. There’s a storm of anxiety brewing behind them that tastes like victory to me.
She sits up and rolls off the bed, her feet padding against the floor somewhere behind me. I smile to myself. Once again, I have control.
Reaching for my phone, I google “is it normal to be horny and homicidal at the same time?” Before reading the first listing, I abort. I clear my search history just in case the NSA is watching. Plus, I have more important things to do. I need to analyze this dream state I was in earlier.
I grab a notepad and pen from my nightstand and start scribbling everything down, complete with threat levels and a totally unnecessary arousal chart. Only to rip it all up and throw it in the trash. It’s all compromised data anyway. Plus, I really should be worried about the mystery man who tailed me at Scoops instead.
Chapter Fourteen
Sage
After the blow job last night and morning sex that ended with a somewhat unsavory conversation, the last stop on my thank-you tour is breakfast. Maybe I can make him a soft, buttery croissant—hot, flaky, maybe a bit moist, and yeah, definitely leaving some crumbs.
Wait. Am I comparing sex to a pastry?
I blush at my own internal thought.
Travis can butter my biscuit any day.
Don’t get me wrong, if Travis wants to make me blow my back out every day while I’m in Lake Lure—or for the rest of my life, for that matter—he can. But these acts are the only thing I can really give him to thank him for stepping in and helping me out.
Travis’s kitchen is stocked. His fridge is filled with a myriad of fresh meats, vegetables, fruits—just about any healthy stuff you can imagine. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, it’s meticulously organized. In such a way that I actually have trouble finding things.
“Come on, he’s got to have tomatoes here somewhere,” I say to myself, shaking my head at the organizational system while I dig through a crisper drawer of vegetables.
“You won’t find any fruits in the vegetable drawer,” Travis says over my shoulder.
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys?” I close the fridge and look at him with feigned exasperation. Travis looks confused as he puts on a pot of coffee. “You know, one of thetomatoes are fruits because it has seedspeople.”
“Is that why you think tomatoes are fruit?” Travis raises an eyebrow and leans against the counter while he waits for me to answer. I just shrug. “Everything in the fridge is classified by what it is. There are larger subsections: meat, dairy, fruits, and vegetables. Each of those has their own subsections, to be more specific.”
Travis pushes himself away from the counter and walks over to the fridge, opening it to point to everything as he explains. I watch, genuinely intrigued by whatever process this is.
“Tomatoes are fruits because they grow from the flower of a tomato plant—”
“And they have seeds,” I interrupt, standing my ground that it is a characteristic of a fruit.
“In my house, you’ll find them with the berries,” Travis continues, not paying my comment any attention. He opens a drawer in the fridge filled with your typical berries: raspberry, strawberry, blueberry, etc. Right next to them, where they undoubtedly should not belong by any normal person’s standards, are tomatoes.
I know he has his reasoning, and I’m not one to argue, so I leave it at that. I smile and walk toward him, reaching into the berry bin and grabbing a few tomatoes. “I hope you worked up an appetite this morning, because I’m making shakshuka.”
“What’s the caloric content of that?” Travis stares at me with genuine curiosity that I almost think is a joke.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I say. “But it can’t be much. It’s mostly water-dense vegetables and eggs.”
