Page 47 of Mountain Man

It would have been nice to have more freedom, but I couldn’t exactly get a room under an alias at the Black Horse Inn or regularly skip out of town on a whim and meet someplace where no one knew us.

Those birdhouses gave me an excuse to have my SUV parked in Waylon’s driveway. If anyone asked, I could say I was helping Coop and his new lumber manager test a few kits or pick up the ones the kids had done. No one asked, but the excuse was there and mentally, I needed it.

So…

Can I come by to pick up the birdhouses at 6pm?

Waylon had sent me a thumbs-up, and a few hours later I gasped a fervent “Fuck, yes,” as he’d held my legs wide and guided his cock to my hole, pounding my ass till my eyes crossed and I no longer knew what day it was.

Of course, I forgot to take the birdhouses.

I didn’t take them the following night either. The second he’d opened his door, we’d stumbled upstairs to his bedroom, stripping in between soul-cleansing kisses. I’d pushed him on the bed and climbed him like a tree, rolled him onto his stomach, and feasted on his hole. And the fact that there was no weird conversation about who was going to fuck whom was its own kind of turn-on. We were so fluid and in tune with each other. I couldn’t get enough of his gorgeous cock, his perfect ass, his talented mouth.

The birdhouses remained in his garage.

As excuses went, it was a flimsy one. We should have addressed the situation like mature adults, but we couldn’t spend five minutes in the same room without wanting to tear and maul and fuck like horny animals in heat.

My God, I wanted him, but time was our biggest challenge.

I’d had my kids last week, and my schedule had been completely booked. That meant I was responsible for having food on the table, lunches prepared, and rides to school and practices scheduled.

Oh, and I had to work.

Fallbrook had an issue with permits for their Harvest Festival due to an easement issue and a city councilman who’d been pulled over with a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of coke in his briefcase. There’d been complaints about excessive noise in Elmwood that probably came from a Pinecrest asshole who was pissed their team had lost the season-opening football game. I had reports coming out of my ears, and meetings with executives who loved the sounds of their own voices, and more reports. That was what a chief did—sat behind a desk and tried to remain sane.

Then there was my dad.

I checked in with my parents daily with my fingers crossed, hoping for the best. I’d corralled Layla into stopping by regularly, though my first inclination was to protect her from anything sad or difficult. I didn’t like leaning on anyone. Even her. But these were extenuating circumstances, and there were only so many hours in a day.

Which was why it was unfathomable that I’d steal thirty minutes in the middle of the day to meet Waylon. There was no time for a booty call.

But I did it anyway.

Every day last week during lunch, one of us would text, Now? If I texted Waylon, he’d respond with a thumbs-up or down, followed by a left arrow, the direction of his house from Mill Depot, or a right arrow toward my house. Three weeks into this, the birdhouse excuse wasn’t going to fly. Now we parked our vehicles in different spots to avoid curious eyes.

We never had more than an hour, so we made the most of it. This wasn’t about leisurely exploration. This was an excuse for passionate kisses, a hand job, a blowjob, or fast and furious fucking. We didn’t linger afterward. There was nothing to talk about. Our personal lives didn’t belong here. We were just a couple of horny guys giving in to epic temptation.

And yes, it was dangerous, but it was life-affirming too.

Furtive fucks on the floor of Waylon’s foyer, over my kitchen table, in his shower, my shower. Yes to all, please.

Every day this week, I’d glanced through the glass window in my office, orienting the date and time based on the activity in the station and Petey’s lunch choice. Then I’d pick my poison. Waylon’s place or mine.

Today, for example, I had half an hour in between meetings at lunch, Petey stretched his arms above his head and declared he was heading out to lunch. Did anyone want to join him for pot pie? So it was Friday.

Waylon had taken half a day off work to fly home to see his family. He had a regional flight out of Rutland later that afternoon and probably had less time to spare than I did. That didn’t stop us.

He opened his door, ushered me inside, and promptly shoved me against the nearest wall.

Waylon’s tongue tickled my tonsils as he molded his hips to mine. Neither of us uttered a single word, just grunts, growls, and low moans. We grappled, grinded, and did our best to climb into the other’s skin, but ultimately he licked my hole and fingered me till I begged for mercy.

It was a fast, nasty ride, his nails digging into my hips as if to hold me steady while he moved like thunder. I had afternoon meetings, I had responsibilities; this was not okay. And yet…it felt so damn good to let someone else take the wheel. Just for a few minutes.

Afterward, I cleaned up in his bathroom, double-checking to be sure there wasn’t cum on my trousers.

“If you keep scrubbing, you’ll make it obvious you’ve been up to no good, Chief,” Waylon hummed, bare chested with his boxer briefs riding low on his slim hips.

My gaze stalled on his abs, but I eventually met his eyes in the mirror. “I have a meeting with Fallbrook’s mayor.”