Page 22 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

“Like nothing else in the world,” Mav adds, his eyes darkening as he wets his lips.

I take a deep breath, noting that his eyes didn’t leave mine my entire speech, except for now that they’ve dropped to my lips. I watch the slow roll of a swallow down the column of his throat. His stubble is rough, I imagine. I want to scrape it along my fingertips, feeling its coarse scratch between my thighs. Because he seems to understand this innate need in me to experience everything I can. I wasn’t lying when I said I love sex. I love the power it brings me, filling me up with the brightest white light until I fall into oblivion, the light shooting out of my chest, as if my body couldn’t possibly contain it any longer.

In the last few years of my frequent trips to the city, I’ve gone to sex clubs, had a threesome, slept with two girlfriends and a famous ice hockey player who also appreciated my tongue move. I’ve been treated like a whore, treated like a prized possession, and learned that I loved both, but ultimately preferred being a prized possession. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve never felt like one before, but the older gentleman I spent a few hours with worshipped me like a goddess. He treated me better than any man I’ve ever been with. A true pleasure dom that I could have spent weeks with, maybe months. But just as things started, James started calling round, and I called things off immediately, noting my eagerness to pursue something with James.

Mav shakes his head, turning toward the fireplace as he adjusts his pants.

Oh.

Oh . . .

The bulge in his pants has my mouth watering. Because I have no doubt Mav would know what he was doing. I bet he could bring me to the brink of insanity over and over before finally letting me fall over the edge.

“Did you always want to stay here? Even before your mom got sick?” he asks, shifting the conversation.

It’s the million-dollar question. Something I think about a lot, especially on my hardest days.

“I had a scholarship to Elwood University. I was going to build my own business like my mom, but it was going to take over Seattle.” I laugh, fiddling with the hem of my T-shirt. “It was nothing more than a dream, but when you’re a kid, you can see things so clearly. Whereas now, I see spreadsheets, bills, and payroll.”

He nods; he must understand, given that he built his own business too. I wonder what young Mav had to do to get to where he is now.

“Do you think you’d ever try now?” He’s turned his whole body to face me, his head resting on the heel of his palm.

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

The dream is still as vivid as ever. And yet, my responsibility is here; my home is here.

“If I could find a buyer for The Hibernation Station, I’d love to move to Seattle, even if it were temporary. I’d love to do it once in my life, live somewhere new and exciting.”

“Well, if you’re ever looking for a job, I have a lot of contacts. I could . . . well, I could help,” he offers a little awkwardly.

It’s oddly endearing the way he shifts his position, the way his hand rubs the back of his neck.

“Thanks, if I have the chance, I might take you up on that. Call it payment for the room.”

His eyes meet mine once again, and a playful smile pulls at his lips.

“I should go to bed,” he says. “Will you help me out of my T-shirt? I don’t think I can lift it over my head after MacIn-boring-in-bed sucker-punched me.”

I look away, hiding my smile. I shouldn’t laugh at his James joke. James isn’t terrible in bed. He’ll do what I ask, but I don’t want to ask . . . I want someone to take control of my pleasure without specific instructions. I want someone to take the initiative.

“You got any scissors?”

“You want me to cut you out of it?”

“Indeed I do. Indeed. That guy is a bulldozer. Rip it off me.”

I roll my eyes at yet another incorrect name. At this point, the only Ind-word he hasn’t said is Indigo. Heaving myself off the couch, Mav follows me into the kitchen. Once I have the scissors, I snip the bottom of his T-shirt, just a small incision before placing the scissors down.

“You’re gonna need to do more than—”

I grip the two sides with my hands, ripping the fabric up and apart. The shredding of cotton tears between us as Mav’s lips part with a sharp inhale. I continue to tug and pull until it reaches the collar, and the fabric falls away at his sides. The plains of his muscles come into view. The hard chest with scattered hair. He’s strong, toned, his abs chiseled from hard graft. They’re not sculpted with careful precision, but earned with the labor that only someone who builds things can achieve. His chest rises and falls, and it’s then I spot the bruising that's darkening around his ribs.

I reach out to run my fingertips along the coloring, just to ensure it’s not a broken rib, I tell myself. His abs twitch as my skin touches his, his chest deflating like he’s been holding his breath. I place my other hand on his waist to steady myself, delicately running my thumb along his bottom rib. It doesn’t feel broken, but then again, I’m not a doctor. I have no idea what I’m doing, only that I’m drooling over the abs of a guy I met two nights ago, feeling him up because I’ll never get the chance again.