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But if it was Millie, Tanker would be going crazy, sniffing the air and running in frantic circles like he always does when he hears her coming. He always knows when it’s her.
Instead, he’s frozen, the way he does when there’s a car coming but he’s not familiar with the owner, like a delivery driver. I tickle him under the chin… as he’s gotten older, he’s started to grow a little white beard, prompting Millie to sometimes call him The Wizard.
“Huh, boy?” I say. “Who is it, huh?”
I stroll over to the front-facing window, looking over the miles and miles of pine forest that stretches up the hill which leads to the cabin. We’re completely secluded down these parts, which is one of the reasons I love it so much for writing.
Or, at least, one of the reasons I loved it so much – past tense.
On the other side of the hill is the small town of Summerdrop, where the people are friendly and the smell of fresh-baked bread often fills Main Street on the rare occasions I have to visit it. But mostly I stay secluded here, hammering out the words. Or, more recently, trying to hammer out the words.
I watch as a car bumps up the mud path, appearing from the shadows of the pine forest. It’s a rental car, and not at all suited for this terrain, bumping and jostling its way down the road before coming to a stop next to my off-roader, looking like a toy as it sits next to it.
“What the hell?” I murmur as I stare at the woman…
Something explodes in my chest, hammers, and roars, and suddenly that hole I’ve been trying to fill – with exercise, with writing, with living – floods and it’s like I don’t have to try anymore. I don’t have to ache anymore.
She’s there, right there. My meaning. My woman.
I stare as she runs a hand through her long brown hair, letting out a gorgeous yawn. She’s wearing a summer dress that hugs onto her curvy made-to-be-fucked body, her breasts large and heaving, her hips wide and perfect for grabbing. As she turns to the car, I have to bite down to stop myself from letting out a feral roar.
Her ass is goddamn perfection, round and plump and made to be palmed and spanked and claimed.
This is it. She’s it, the thing I’ve been waiting for.
This woman, with her gorgeous wavy hair and her perfect body…
She’s going to be my everything, whoever she is, my life partner, and the mother to my children. I’m going to claim her in the most carnal way a man can, painting every inch of her body with my touch, with my tongue.
I’m going to own her.
Forever.
But first I should probably learn her name.
Chapter Three
Rayla
I walk toward the trunk of the car, letting out a satisfied breath. This must be the place. When the guy at the rental place said it was a little ‘out of the way’ and gave me directions, I couldn’t have guessed just how out of the way it would turn out to be.
As I was driving down the bumpy country road, I became convinced I was going in the wrong direction.
Even though Millie had warned me, it still felt difficult to believe.
I stop at the trunk, putting my hands on my hips and looking over the glittering lake, with more pine forest on the other side.
I can’t complain too much, because this place is beautiful, every part of it summer bright and inviting, causing a smile to spread across my face.
Then suddenly there’s a dog running at me, a tiny cute squat dog with a patch over his eye. He leaps over to me with his tongue hanging out, jumping up on his hind legs as he puts his forepaws on my leg.
I laugh and lean down, stroking him behind the ear as he jostles around in excitement. “What’s your name, little fella? Where’s your owner? Where did you come from?”
He whines and runs in a small circle, his excitement getting the better of him, making his small silver tag rattle.
Standing, I look over at the lake, wondering if his owner is walking him around the edge or through the forest, but everything looks untouched, as though the scenery hasn’t seen a human in a while.
“Come on, Tanker.”
I flinch when the man’s voice strikes me. It’s deep and intense, husky, the sort of voice that is difficult to ignore.
“I’m sorry,” I say without thinking, turning to address the man. “I didn’t think anybody would be near the cabin. In the cabin. Around the cabin.”
I’m rambling but who the heck could blame me?
The man who approaches me is like something out of a cover of a magazine. Six and a half feet tall with throbbing muscles… muscles that look as though they’ve been recently worked out if his tense arms and pulsating veins are anything to go by. He’s got wide-shouldered and wears a sweat-stained T-shirt, showing me the outline of his ripped torso.
