Two Weeks of Sin

Yep. Not even her hug poncho can hide a voluminous figure like that. That’s all it takes for me to start getting hard. Just a little twitch, but yowza, it’s like she’s pulling me towards her like some sort of alluring magnetic north.

And that, as fate would have it, is when the little dumbass steps out of the trees behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder in a way that looks too aggressive for my liking. I’ve done a lot, I’ve seen a lot, and I can handle a lot, but seeing a man put his hands on a woman against her will is not one of them.

I have to be sure before reacting. She shrugs her shoulder and he takes his hand away. Then he starts waving his arms wildly like he’s being attacked by hornets, gesticulating in a manner known only to men who feel like they’ve been wronged. I’ve got a sizable ego but I’m the first one to admit that the male ego can be a very silly and fragile thing.

No, she looks like she can handle herself. Most women can who are hot enough to be turning down the constant, inept advances of men. But what the hell are they doing out here? You get a feel for city people, and these two are absolutely out of their element, especially the guy, who’s wearing about one metric ton of camera gear around his neck.

She walks away from him and he follows her. Then he puts his hands on her poncho and pulls her backwards. Now we are in very different territory indeed.

Tightening my grip on the handle of my ax, I start walking towards them both. When I’m within a hundred feet I let out a bellow that they hear over the thunderclap.

The poor guy. He looks so terrified that it’s all I could do not to laugh.

Her, though? She’s a little harder to read. Her feelings, I mean. She looks like she was feeling something like relief mixed with fury.

“It’s you!” she says. “It’s him!” she says, turning to the guy with the cameras, who is now a nice shade of spectral white. From the look of him you would think I’m a cannibal come to collect his glossy pelt.

What does she mean, “It’s him?”

There is no way that these two ninnies are out here looking for me, is there?

“That’s got to be him!” she says, clasping her hands in front of her.

Damnation.

There’s a fine line between intimidation and inspiration. Whenever I see someone bigger, smarter, or richer than me, it doesn’t make me think, “Oh, I could never be like that.” I either don’t care what anyone else is doing or I use it as fuel.

These two aren’t like that. Well, the man definitely isn’t. I know that I look intimidating, particularly in this setting, which is pretty damned cinematic with the thunder and lightning and all. He is not going to be using my demeanor, size, or anything else as inspiration. In fact, he looks like a bug that expects to be crushed.

She, on the other hand, is something else. She pulls back her hood and stares right into my eyes. “You’re who we’re looking for,” she says, which puts me on edge immediately. I’m no one’s business, and no one’s problem.

As annoyed as I am, I would rather look into her eyes than worry about what she’s saying. They are blue pools of fire. I can instantly sense that this woman—and she is a woman, my at-a-distance judgment was wrong, she’s not some svelte, squirrely little girl. Given by her demeanor, she has no idea of how stunning she is. I probably won’t be the one to tell her either, given that the clouds just burst and we’re all going to be drenched like fools within seconds. Once you get wet out here it’s tough to get warm.

She turns to the guy. “Get away from me, Jarom! Go home! I’ll do the assignment myself!”

What kind of name is Jarom? To look like this poor guy is one thing, but to be named Jarom as well? Jesus wept!

“I’m sorry,” he says, blubbering. “I love you.”

Oh brother. I would have been better off locking my door and popping the cork out of a bottle of whiskey. I actually don’t hate the idea of some company, but if company means soft city people, you can count my ass out. Once I know that this guy’s not actually going to push his luck with her – I’ll promptly make my exit.

“Who are you two?” I say.

“Samantha Washington,” she says. “You can call me Sam.”

“I don’t want to call you anything yet, except trespasser,” I say. “And who’s your confederate here?”

“That’s a word I don’t hear often,” she says with the hint of a smile. The absurdity of the situation is peaking, scaling with the growing intensity of the rain.

“Mind your own business,” says the guy.

“No, Jarom,” I say. “You don’t give me orders.”

“This is a private conversation,” he says, staring at his shoes.

“Do you live there?” says Sam.

“Jarom,” I say, “you are on my land. Shrieking and carrying on. I could have shot you if I wanted. Hell, I would be within my rights to smite you with this ax here.” I grip it until my knuckles turn white and shake it at him. He blanches bu