Page 9 of Rough Marshal Daddy
We sit by the fire together, the storm still howling outside but feeling farther away now. The heat from the stove warms our faces while the hot cocoa warms us from the inside. Riley curls her legs under her on the couch, close enough that her knee brushes my thigh. Every small touch feels electric. I sip my own cocoa, the rich chocolate coating my tongue, sweet and comforting, but it does nothing to dull the ache in my body.
She glances at me over the rim of her mug, eyes curious and soft. “Thank you for letting me help earlier. And for drying my hair. No one’s ever taken care of me like that before.”
I grunt, staring into the fire. The flames dance and pop, throwing sparks up the chimney. “You were freezing. Had to warm you up.”
She takes another sip, the sound of her swallowing quiet in the cabin. I can still feel the ghost of her body pressed against mine when I dried her off. The way she leaned into my touch. The soft sounds she made. My dick remains painfully hard, trapped against my thigh,leaking steadily now. I want her so badly it hurts, but I stay where I am. Professional. Controlled. Barely.
The night deepens. The storm continues its assault, wind screaming and snow battering the cabin. Riley finishes her cocoa and sets the empty mug aside. She looks at me with those bright eyes, vulnerable and trusting.
“Will you lay in bed with me until I fall asleep?” she asks softly. “Just until I’m out. The nightmares… they come back when I’m alone.”
I should say no. Should keep that distance. But the plea in her voice and the fear still lingering in her eyes make the decision for me.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “I will.”
I follow her to the bed, climbing on top of the quilts again while she slips underneath them. The mattress dips under my weight. She shifts closer immediately, her body seeking mine even through the barrier. The heat of her soaks through the fabric, and her damp hair brushes my arm. I stay on my back, one arm behind my head, trying to ignore how hard I still am.
She curls against my side, her head resting near my shoulder. Her breathing slowly evens out as sleep pulls her under. I stay awake long after she drifts off, listening to the storm and the soft sounds of her breathing, mybody aching with need and my mind fighting to remember that this is just an assignment.
But deep down I already know the truth. Riley’s becoming so much more than that. And I’m not sure I have the strength to fight it anymore.
9
Riley
Morning light filters weakly through the small gaps in the boarded windows, gray and cold. The cabin feels much chillier than it did last night. I wake up slowly, burrowed deep under the heavy quilts that still carry Mason’s warm, masculine scent of pine and cedar and something uniquely him. My body aches in a good way from sleeping so close to him, but the air nipping at my exposed cheeks and nose makes me shiver and pull the blankets tighter around myself. The wood stove has burned low overnight, leaving only glowing embers that give off faint heat and the rich smell of cooled ash.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and look across the room. Mason stands near the kitchen area, already dressed in a thick flannel shirt and jeans that hug his powerful thighs. His broad back is to me as he checks something on thecounter. Even in the dim light I can see the tension in his shoulders. The aroma of strong coffee drifts toward me, dark and bitter and comforting.
“It’s really cold in here,” I say, my voice still thick from sleep. I pull one of the quilts around my shoulders like a cape and pad across the wooden floor on bare feet. The planks feel icy under my toes, sending little shocks up my legs.
Mason turns toward me, those dark eyes scanning me from head to toe. He catches sight of my shivering and stills, like he’s recalculating something on the spot. “Generator broke sometime in the night. Power’s out and the stove isn’t keeping up with this cold. I need to fix it before we lose all the heat.”
I nod quickly, already moving toward him. “I can help. Tell me what to do.”
He hesitates for a second, like he wants to tell me to stay warm by the embers, but then he nods. “Put on my big coat by the door. It’ll swallow you but it’s warm. We’ll work fast.”
I slip into his massive jacket. It drapes almost to my knees and the sleeves hang way past my hands. I roll them up as best I can and follow him outside through the side door that leads to the small generator shed attached to the cabin. The moment we step out the cold hits melike a slap. Wind whips snow around us in swirling white clouds, stinging my face and making my eyes water. The air tastes sharp and clean, like ice and pine needles. My breath puffs out in visible clouds that the wind snatches away instantly.
Mason lifts the cover on the generator, his big hands working with practiced efficiency. The metal’s freezing to the touch. I can see frost forming on the edges. He kneels in the snow, muscles flexing under his flannel as he checks connections and fuel lines. The cold does not seem to bother him nearly as much as it bothers me. I stand close, handing him tools as he asks for them. The wrench feels heavy and cold in my gloved hands when I pass it over. Every time our fingers brush, even through the gloves, a little spark of heat shoots through me.
“Where did you learn to fix things like this?” I ask, watching him work. His forearms are strong and veined, the muscles shifting beautifully as he tightens a bolt. I can’t stop staring at the way his body moves, powerful and controlled even in the brutal cold.
“My father taught me,” he replies, voice low and steady over the howl of the wind. Snow clings to his dark hair and melts on his broad shoulders. “He lived off grid most of his life. Knew how to keep things running when the world tried to shut down around you.”
I hand him a screwdriver, the metal handle so cold it bites through my glove. “What was he like?”
Mason works in silence for a moment, the only sounds the clink of tools and the relentless storm. Then he speaks again. “Quiet man. Didn’t do people much. Preferred the mountains and his own company. Taught me how to survive. How to fix what breaks. How to stand on my own.”
I watch him talk, noticing the quiet tension in his expression, like he’s holding something back beneath every carefully chosen word. There’s pain there, old and deep. “He passed away while you were on tour, didn’t he?”
He nods once, not looking up from the generator. Snow swirls around us, sticking to my lashes and melting cold on my lips. “Yeah. I got the call halfway through a mission. Made it back in time for the funeral. Packed up his cabin afterward. Everything he owned fit in two boxes. He lived simple. Clean. Alone.”
“That must’ve been really hard,” I say softly, handing him another wrench. My fingers brush his again and this time I let them linger for a second longer than necessary. The contact warms me from the inside despite the freezing air.
“It was,” he admits, voice rough. “But he wouldn’t havewanted me to fall apart. He raised me to keep moving forward.”
We work together in the cold for what feels like a long time. I hand him tools and hold the flashlight when the light fades. My hands grow numb inside the gloves but I keep going, fascinated by the way his muscles bunch and release under his shirt as he works. The generator finally hums back to life with a low rumble that vibrates through the snow at our feet. Warm air starts flowing from the vents inside the cabin again.
