Page 2 of Among the Screaming Trees

“Fuck, sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice is sonorous and smooth, a baritone whiskey rumble.

“My fault. I had to step around that stool and I just…”

“I’d offer to help with some napkins, but I don’t know you well enough to dab at your chest,” he says with due seriousness. “Yet.”

“No, my fault. I’ll fix it,” I lie, shivering as the beer trickles lower into my jeans.

“I’m Jay,” he says, thrusting an enormous hand toward mine, pulling the frigid fabric away from my skin.

“Pen,” I reply, my tiny hand lost in the acreage of his warm one.

“New in town?”

“Yes. I haven’t even unpacked yet. You work here somewhere?”

“I do. I’ve probably got a spare shirt in my truck,” he adds, hoisting a thumb over his shoulder. “We can go get it, or I can swap out mine for yours now if you’d like. You could go to the bathroom and change it.”

His offer has all sorts of horror thrillers playing on a loop in my mind. I imagine people screaming at the screen, “She just went with him to his truck for a fresh shirt, what a fucking idiot!”

Because I’m not a fucking idiot, and the looks from the snooker dudes are getting a little too creepy I opt to go to the bathroom anyway and see what I can do with the wet shirt. Before I can move, Jay hands me the plaid shirt from the bartender, along with a sheepish smile.

“This cost me twenty bucks,” he says with a grimace. “It won’t fit, but at least it will be dry… ish.”

Sure enough, the bartender is now in a snug white singlet, his inked arms on display. This must be a win from the cosmic gods because I have a dryish shirt to wear and his tips will skyrocket now that we can all see what he’s working with.

In the bathroom, I take one look at my reflection and know why the snooker game paused. My white T-shirt is completely translucent where the beer splashed, which is dead fucking center chest. Because my cotton bra was also in the firing line, it’s as useless as the outer layer. I was the 10:30 p.m. peep show. Fabulous. I peel the translucent shirt and bra off my skin and pull the soft cotton over my shoulders. It slides easily, with almost every button fastened; the red and black squares are a warm comfort after the unexpected beer bath. It’s not so bad. I figure the lumberjack mountain dude will only have an identical one in his truck. I tie it at the bottom in the front to give me some semblance of shape and wad up my wet clothes. Not wearing a bra isn’t something I typically do in public because of the size of my breasts. Those girls need support! Circumstances not in my favor, I slip from the bathroom and into the corridor.

Jay is waiting on the other side of the bathroom door. In Fort Collins, this behavior would be firmly in creeper territory, but up here, it’s borderline caring and gentlemanly.

His tee is just as damp as mine was, but lower because he is a giant, and I am not. Plus, the dark-gray, once-black weave is more forgiving of spilled liquids.

“Another drink? To drink this time, not wear,” he asks in that same throaty rumble that makes underwear damp.

“Sure thing,” I reply, and a double vodka lemonade appears as if summoned by the bar gods. “That’s not creepy at all, right?”

“Creepy? You wanted another drink,” he says, gesturing to the glass, “and here it is.”

“You didn’t even ask me what I was drinking,” I protest, and he chuckles.

“A good barman remembers everything, and our barman is the best.”

“I see,” I add, taking the straw between my lips and indulging in a long, slow suck. Jay’s eyes widen before becoming hooded. His posture relaxes as he takes a long gulp from his beer.

His throat works to swallow, and under the beard that coats his cheeks and chin, the movement is still incredibly sexy. I study his features in this different light, the way his chocolate eyes dance with some internal fire as yet unknown. Rugged masculinity is my catnip, and my pussy is purring with delight at the specimen in front of me. His age is harder to determine. Early to mid-thirties, perhaps? Although age is of no consequence if he is skilled with this tongue, and fingers, and…

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll be powerless to resist peeling you out of your clothes instead of replacing your damp ones.”

Fuck me.

Chapter Two

Jackson

ARABIAN JASMINE (JASMINUM SAMBAC)

We crash through the front door of my studio; the delay in finding my keys and opening the door was torture on its own. Pen’s hand never left my thigh on the drive here, and now her lips fuse to my skin like a brand. Holy shit. We tear at each other like feral beasts desperate for food. I’m fucking starving. How long has it been since I’ve fucked someone other than my hand? Too long.