WILD PLEASURE {short erotic stories} Chapter 79: Fired Up (5)

The watchtower at Widow’s Peak was a decades-old cabin perched on stilts thirty feet up in the air. It took ninety steps to reach the trapdoor in the catwalk floor from the ground, her calves burning all the way. If that wasn’t enough, reaching the place at all took a ten-hour drive up the fire roads from Big Bear Lake, followed by a brutal hike in by pack trail. Her piece of the park for the summer came with a big dose of welcome peace and quiet, plus million-dollar views. Hannah got up each morning to a panoramic, ringside seat looking out over mountains and forests, and a hundred-plus miles of pure visibility.

Unfortunately, running water was limited.

Her bathing choices were stream, pond, or go dirty. The pond was already choking up with algae as the water levels dropped further with each passing day, so Hannah headed for the stream. After losing her radio—and Cole, a little voice in her head said—falling asleep had been hard. She’d have to decide if she was hiking out tomorrow to pick up new gear or if she wanted to sit tight for a couple of days and hope base camp figured out her dilemma. Maybe a little cold water would clear her head, make things clearer.

Because the images from last night’s conversation were seared into her brain, she’d spent the morning alternately staring sightlessly out at the horizon and looking at the veterinary textbook she was supposed to be reviewing. She had exams this fall and being too prepared was impossible. Unfortunately, Cole made a far better bedtime story than animal anatomy. Right now, her dreams had nothing to do with the veterinary degree she was mere months from earning.

Back home, she would have been plenty concerned about running around a public stream naked. Sequoia National Park was different. She was different here. There simply weren’t that many people, and the ones who did come out this far were visible miles away. Yesterday’s thru-hikers hadn’t met anyone else on the trail for days, so she could enjoy her solitude. No one would bother her today. All the same, she brought her rifle with her, just to be on the safe side.

 She picked a deeper spot, where the water running off the rocks gave her some way to wash the biodegradable soap out of her hair. “One, two, three and in,” she muttered to herself, like saying the words out loud would psych her up enough to make the plunge palatable.

No such luck. She went under and came up gasping. The water was still ice cold, although the day’s heat had warmed it up a few degrees. A few, meaning “not enough to make a damned bit of difference.” This was going to be the world’s quickest wash. In. Soap and rinse. And out.

She closed her eyes and got busy with the shampoo. A cold shower was just what the doctor ordered. Since she had no radio, she wouldn’t be talking to her hotshot tonight. Tomorrow, she’d think about packing down to base camp and picking up some new equipment. Tonight, however, she was good and alone.

Leaning back, she let the water rinse the peaches-and-cream suds away. The movement exposed her breasts, cold pebbling her nipples when they broke the stream’s surface and met the air. The erotic burn and tingle had her wishing Cole was there.

Cole. What kind of face would go with that sinfully rich, sweet molasses voice? His sexy rasp got her wet in seconds and she wouldn’t get her next fix until she acquired a new radio. So all she could do now was fantasize. He’d be a big man, she decided, given his work as a hotshot. A stubble- roughened jaw, because shaving went by the wayside out in the field, with a powerful, loose-limbed sprawl. That Cajun accent of his promised he’d be dark haired and dark eyed. All yummy things.

She slowly dragged the washcloth over her breasts.

The day’s temps were headed well north of ninety.

Cole was fairly certain he’d spotted a new smoke.

And there wasn’t a cloud in sight, while the humidity index kept

climbing. The Big Bear Rogues would have the aftereffects of last night’s lightning storm to contend with along with the summer’s fires.

“Laissez les bon temps roulez,” he growled.

The good news? He was outside. This part of Sequoia National Park was all wide-open space broken only by tall stands of ponderosa. The place had a rough beauty, but when Cole looked closely, plenty of fire scars, too. Still, the faster he beat feet, the faster he’d see for himself that Hannah was doing okay.

 He’d been hiking for forty minutes when Cole hit pay dirt.

Oh, yeah.

Unless he was seriously lost or the park’s visitors were a way better-

looking crew than he’d run into before, his lookout was having herself a bath in the stream. As he came along the trail, eyes scanning left and then right, he caught the sound of a whistle. A little hum and splash, followed by an unmistakably feminine gasp. He’d bet that water was still a cold son of a bitch despite the hot summer temps.

He didn’t need a porn star. That made for good times in his head, yeah, but what he really wanted—who he really wanted—was the woman standing watch at Widow’s Peak.

Tall, short, fat, thin—he wanted a face to go with the name and the voice. Whatever she looked like, he’d enjoy her.

Silently, he prowled to the top of the trail. The stream was down and to

his right, a real pretty jumble of mountain boulders and a nice, smooth entry. Despite the waist-deep water, the current was a lazy dog, rippling gently around a pile of boulders four feet in. Those rocks made a convenient waterfall for the mermaid washing her hair.

The buck-naked mermaid.

She was definitely safe. That was his first thought, followed by an adrenaline rush of relief that fucked with his knees almost as much as it messed with his head. Whatever had knocked out her radio, she was fine.

Hell, way more than fine.

His day had definitely improved.

His first view of Hannah Green was nowhere near as closeup and

personal as he’d fantasized, but his hard-on didn’t seem to mind. This close to Widow’s Peak, he figured his mystery bather had to be Hannah. There was no pack or gear in sight to mark a thru-hiker or even a day-tripper. She was definitely local.

With her head back, the delicate arch of her throat tempted him to run his mouth over the vulnerable curve. Water-darkened hair spilled down a sun- kissed back, the soapy rush half-masking her body with a sudsy curtain. Her hands worked the mass of hair, separating the strands and, wouldn’t you know it, the water was clearly every bit as cold as he’d expected, because her breasts—Jesus, her nipples were hard, greedy nubs. He wanted to flick them with his thumbs, cup those generous mounds, and tease her good.

He shouldn’t have looked.

 He sucked in a harsh breath, fisting his hands on his thighs. Not looking was an impossibility. She arched her back, running her hands through all that hair again, then slicked the water off her face. Her eyes closed, blissed out, but her hands stayed busy, running over her cheeks and along her shoulders like she was enjoying the simple touch.

“Lower, sha,” he growled to himself, because he didn’t want to break this spell she didn’t know she’d cast.

And it was definitely his lucky day, because, as if she’d heard him, she obediently smoothed her hands lower, trailing her fingers over the tantalizing slope of her breasts. She didn’t slow, going right for the gold, her fingers finding and shaping those nipples, and he swore he heard her pant. Her pretty pink lips opened right up and a throaty moan boiled out.

He loved that sound.

Hell, he knew that sound. Splashing and half-humming, half-singing an off-key song, she had a voice he’d have known anywhere.

Hannah Green.

Had to be, and he had to get a closer look.

Shower time over, however, her hands fell away from her breasts and she

started wading toward the bank. She was finished, even if he was barely getting started. He watched her come toward him and saw that his mermaid wasn’t buck-ass naked after all. No, she was wearing a pair of miniscule panties that had his heart pounding against his rib cage and his dick lifting. Soaked through, the scrap of white nylon and lace pressed against the dark arrow of hair covering her pussy. Then, Holy Jesus, she made his day. Right there, she bent over, wriggling the wet panties down her thighs.

She was killing him.

He ran options in his head. Walking down to meet her wasn’t his best plan. He’d scare the shit out of her; plus, he’d tip his hand. She’d know exactly what he’d seen. No, the safer bet was meeting her back at the tower. Decided, he hauled ass to the watchtower and was waiting for her on the bottom steps when, ten minutes later, she finally finished up and came back to the tower, trailing clothes and gear. She hadn’t bothered getting dressed at all.

No, she rocked a towel and a pair of hiking boots, all long, muscled legs and bare skin.

He’d tried to be a gentleman, but some things just weren’t meant to be. “Evening, sha.”

 Maybe he should have called out earlier, given her some more advance warning, although he enjoyed the look of surprise on her face. The shotgun she leveled on him? Not so much. Knowing his luck, she’d be loaded for bear and Sam would laugh his ass off.

She cursed like a trucker, the obscenity a turn-on coming from that innocent-looking mouth. Of course, he already knew she liked to curse. And that there was nothing she wouldn’t say.

Her clothes hit the ground as she racked the shotgun. The bra that bounced toward him didn’t match the panties she’d shucked back there in the stream at all. Her bra was pink-and-white checks and all smooth, padded curves. He imagined it on her, wanted to run the backs of his fingers along those lines, explore the softness for himself.

She gestured with the gun, but he didn’t take his eyes off her face. Up close, she was even prettier than he’d thought, although he liked her best without the towel. He still hadn’t recovered from those little panties.

“Start talking,” she growled.

He could explore later. If she didn’t accidentally kill him first. “You got a hell of a way of welcomin’ a man.”