Chapter 6: The Virgin's Door
The rain started as a fine mist and thickened into a relentless, hissing downpour by the time Jasper’s truck fishtailed onto the muddy track leading to the Huttington family’s old hunting cabin. Pine branches slapped against the windows, the wipers fighting a losing battle. He killed the engine, the silence that followed swallowed by the drumming on the roof and the wild thrumming in his own blood.
He didn’t bother with an umbrella.
The cabin was dark except for a faint, feverish glow in one window—a fireplace, maybe a single lamp. The scent hit him as soon as his boots sank into the soft earth of the path. It cut through the petrichor and pine sap: a cloying, desperate sweetness, undercut by the clean, salty tang of male sweat. Heat. Primed and potent. His mouth watered.
He took the porch steps in two long strides, the wood groaning under his weight. He didn’t knock politely. He hammered the heel of his fist against the solid oak door, three booming strokes that shook the frame.
Silence from within, then a shuffling. The faint scent intensified, leaking through the cracks, a pheromone cry for help.
The door opened a few cautious inches, held by a chain.
The face that appeared in the gap was exactly as described, though the reality of it was more vivid. Fair skin flushed a deep, mortified rose, a constellation of freckles across the bridge of a nose currently crinkled in anxiety. Green eyes, wide and glassy with the fever. Sweat-damp red curls stuck to his forehead. He was huge, broad-shouldered, the physique of a athlete, but he held himself like a spooked colt, all trembling potential energy.
“Yeah?” The voice was deeper than Jasper expected, but cracked on the single syllable.
“Hey, man,” Jasper said, pitching his own voice into a register of rough concern. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Truck died. Saw the smoke from your chimney. Can I use your phone? Storm’s getting wicked.”
The boy—Liam, his name was Liam, Jasper recalled from the gossip at the hardware store—swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was drowning in a loose Blackstone College sweatshirt, but below the hem, thin grey sweatpants did nothing to hide the insistent, straining outline of his erection. The fabric was already dark with a damp spot at the tip.
“I… I don’t have service up here,” Liam mumbled, his gaze skittering away from Jasper’s intense stare. “Landline’s out. Storm last week.”
“Shit,” Jasper breathed, letting a sliver of genuine frustration show. Not at the lack of a phone. At the delay. He placed a large hand flat against the door, just beside Liam’s face. “Look, can I just… come in for a minute? Get out of this? I swear I’m not an axe murderer. Just a guy with a dead truck.”
He watched the conflict play out on Liam’s face. The ingrained politeness, the fear of a stranger, and underneath it all, the desperate, biological pull. The heat demanded proximity. It craved the very danger he was hesitating against.
Liam’s breath hitched, a soft, wet sound. He fumbled with the chain.
The second the latch disengaged, Jasper pushed.
The door swung inward, and Jasper stepped across the threshold, a wave of moist, fever-warm air enveloping him. The cabin was one main room: kitchenette to the left, stone fireplace ahead, a messy bed in the corner. The source of the scent. It was everywhere. It was in the rumpled sheets, in the air itself, clinging to the back of Jasper’s throat.
Liam stumbled back, hitting the wall with a soft thud. “Hey, wait—”
Jasper closed the door, the click of the latch final. He turned, crowding Liam against the rough pine wall, his larger frame eclipsing the light from the fireplace. He didn’t touch him yet. He just leaned in, inhaling deeply next to Liam’s ear, a low rumble of appreciation vibrating in his chest.
“Oh, wow,” Jasper murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You are in a bad way, aren’t you?”
Liam trembled. A full-body shiver that had nothing to do with cold. His head tipped back against the wood, exposing the long line of his throat. “You should… you should go.”
“I don’t think I should,” Jasper said, smiling now. He finally brought a hand up, not to Liam’s face, but lower. He cupped him through the soft sweatpants, his palm finding the hot, rigid length of him. Liam jerked, a gasped “fuck” escaping him. “I think you’ve been waiting for someone like me. Someone who knows exactly what you are.”
“I’m n-nothing,” Liam choked out, but his hips pushed forward minutely, seeking the pressure of Jasper’s hand.
“You’re a carrier in peak heat,” Jasper corrected, his thumb rubbing a slow, torturous circle over the soaked fabric. “You’re a factory. And you’re all backed up.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing Liam’s fever-hot cheek. “You can smell me too, can’t you? Know what I am.”
Liam’s eyes squeezed shut. A tremor ran through him. He gave the barest, most ashamed nod.
“I have a boyfriend,” he whispered, the protest weak, automatic.
“Where is he?” Jasper asked, his voice all rough velvet. “When you’re like this? When you’re dripping and empty and so desperate you’d let a stranger in during a storm?” He applied a little more pressure with his palm. Liam moaned, his head lolling to the side. “He’s not here. I am.”
"He's normal," Liam gasped, the words sticky in his dry mouth. He pressed his palms flat against the wall as if he could melt into it. "My boyfriend. He's… neither. Not a breeder or a carrier. Just… normal."
Jasper chuckled, the sound a deep, knowing vibration in the small space. His hand stilled its movement, but didn't remove its possessive weight. "Well, shit. No wonder you're like this. He can't satisfy you, not really. Not when the real thing hits." He leaned back just enough to let Liam see the sharp, predatory gleam in his eyes. "I could."
"You couldn't," Liam whispered, but it lacked conviction. His body was screaming the opposite, every nerve ending alight and pulling him toward the massive, scent-drenched man in front of him. "I'm not… I won't get pregnant by some random breeder who breaks down in a storm."
The last part hung in the air, a defiant lie they both heard.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Jasper’s face. He caught the slip immediately. "Random, huh?" He took a full step back, giving Liam a devastating once-over. "But you just said 'hottest man I've ever seen.' The heat's making you honest, red."
Liam's flush deepened to a mortified scarlet. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. The fever had stripped him of his filters, laying his raw, hungry appreciation bare. "That's not—"
"It is," Jasper said, his voice dropping to a coaxing rumble. He held Liam's panicked, desire-glazed gaze. "Look, I get it. It's a big deal. But be real for a second." He gestured at Liam’s trembling form, the obvious, needy strain in his sweats. "This isn't a ‘normal’ problem. This needs a specific solution. And I am that solution, walking through your goddamn door."
To emphasize his point, Jasper reached for the hem of his own damp Henley. In one fluid, deliberate motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
The firelight played over the defined ridges of his abdomen, the powerful cut of his shoulders and chest. A light dusting of dark hair trailed down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. He made no hurried move, letting Liam look his fill.
Liam’s breath caught. The man was carved from granite and shadow, a brutal kind of beautiful.
Next came the belt, the metallic click shockingly loud. The button of his jeans popped open. The zipper slid down with a low, deliberate rasp.
He shoved the jeans and his boxers down together, stepping out of them, leaving only a pair of tight black briefs. They were strained to their absolute limit, the fabric a thin, taut shield against the monumental thickness beneath. The outline was obscene, impossibly large, the swollen head clearly defined and dampening the black cotton at the tip.
Jasper stood there, a statue of predatory patience, all coiled power and blatant, offered virility. The storm screamed against the windows. The fire cracked.
"See?" Jasper said softly, his voice thick. "Not random. Not inadequate. I'm exactly what you need. Let me prove it."
The truth of it, thick and undeniable as the scent between them, hit Liam like a physical blow. This wasn't just some guy. Jasper was a fucking archetype, a primal answer to a question Liam's biology had been screaming for days. His mind buzzed with a frantic, desperate static. Every instinct told him to arch into that touch, to beg for it.
But a sliver of stubborn pride, thin and cracking, held him back. He couldn't just fold. Not like this. Being a carrier already felt like a vulnerability, a secret weakness. To give in so immediately to a stranger felt like surrendering the last shred of himself.
"Fuck you," Liam breathed, the curse lacking any heat. It was pure reflex. Then he moved, shoving away from the wall with a strength born of panic.
He spun and ran, bare feet slapping against the cold pine floorboards. He took the narrow staircase in the corner two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs. The upstairs was a dark loft, a single open space under the A-frame ceiling cluttered with storage trunks and old furniture shrouded in dusty sheets. He ducked behind a large, cloth-draped shape near the far gable window, the storm’s fury now level with his eyes.
He crouched there, lungs burning. He was hiding. It was pathetic. He knew it.
Downstairs, Jasper didn’t move for a long moment. He listened to the frantic footfalls, the creak of the stairs, the soft rustle above. A slow, indulgent smile touched his lips. He picked up his Henley, wiped his chest with it casually, and tossed it back down.
He took his time. He toed off his boots, the thuds solid and deliberate. He walked to the fireplace, added a log, and watched the sparks swirl up. The chase was part of the game, and he was very good at games.
"You know I can smell you up there, right?" Jasper called out, his voice calm, conversational. He rested an arm on the mantel, the firelight glazing his muscles. "The heat pours off you like steam. It's all over this house." He paused, letting the reality of that sink in. "Running just makes it more fun for me, red. Makes you sweat more."
Liam squeezed his eyes shut behind the dusty drape. His sweatpants were uncomfortably damp, clinging to him. Every ragged breath he took was full of his own scent, and underneath it, he could still catch traces of Jasper—leather, cold rain, and that dominant, earthy alpha musk. It made his head swim.
"I'm not playing a game," Liam shouted down, trying to sound firm. His voice wavered.
"Yeah, you are," Jasper replied, easy as anything. He finally left the fireplace, his footsteps a slow, heavy rhythm on the stairs. "You're playing 'hard to get.' It's cute. I like it." Each step was a measured thump that vibrated through the floorboards.
Liam held his breath. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped. He could feel the man’s presence filling the dark loft, a new source of heat and pressure.
"I know you looked," Jasper's voice came, closer now, moving through the clutter. "I saw your eyes. You want to know if it's as big as it feels through your pants. You're curious." A trunk lid creaked open nearby, then slammed shut. "It is. It's bigger."
"Stop talking," Liam whispered to himself, curling tighter.
"Or what?" Jasper was right beside the draped furniture now. Liam could see the shadow of his legs through a gap in the cloth. "You'll stay hiding? You'll just sit there, aching, until your little normal boyfriend shows up in a week? You'll hurt yourself, Liam."
The use of his name, spoken in that low, knowing rumble, was a shock. It was intimate. It meant Jasper had asked about him, had learned him before even arriving.
"It's none of your business," Liam said, but the defiance was crumbling.
"Your body's making it my business." The drape was ripped aside.
Jasper stood there, not reaching, just looking down at him. Liam was crouched like a cornered animal, flushed and beautiful in the dim light, his green eyes wide with fear and want. Jasper took in the sight, the raw need trembling in the air between them. He reached out, not for Liam, but to brush a strand of damp red hair from his forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
"See?" Jasper murmured. "You ran. I found you. Now we're both where we want to be."
Liam’s breath hitched. That gentle touch was worse than a grab. It acknowledged the person inside the desperate vessel, and that was somehow more terrifying. “I don’t want this,” he whispered, the lie tasting like ash.
“Your body’s writing checks your mouth can’t cash,” Jasper said, his thumb stroking Liam’s cheekbone. Then his hand slid down, fingers curling under Liam’s chin to tilt his face up. “Let’s settle the account.”
Something in Liam snapped. Not into surrender, but into a wild, reactive defiance. He slapped Jasper’s hand away and bolted.
He didn’t head for the stairs. He lunged for the gable window, fumbling with the rusted latch. The storm screamed as he shoved it open, a horizontal blast of rain soaking him instantly. He swung a leg over the sill.
“Oh, you are perfect,” Jasper laughed behind him, the sound rich and approving.
Liam dropped. The fall was a blur of cold and impact, his bare feet sinking into the churned mud and pine needles beside the cabin’s foundation. The rain was ice, needling his heated skin, plastering his clothes to his body. It was a shock, a brief, glorious clarity. He pushed off, running into the wall of trees behind the cabin.
The forest was a cathedral of noise and shadows. Rain thrummed on the canopy, dripped in cold streaks down his neck. Branches clawed at his sweatshirt. Every root and stone was a slick, hidden threat underfoot. He ran without direction, the fever burning inside him a stark counterpoint to the chill sealing his skin. And he loved it. The frantic pulse in his throat, the burn in his lungs, the sheer, stupid, animal panic of it. He was proving a point to himself, even if no one else was watching. He wasn’t just giving in.
A low-hanging branch whipped across his chest. He gasped, stumbling.
“Getting tired yet?” Jasper’s voice cut through the storm’s din, not from behind him, but from his left. Close.
Liam veered right, his heart hammering against his ribs. How was he so fast? The man was a phantom in the downpour. Liam’s flight took him into a small clearing where the wind howled unimpeded. He skidded, mud sucking at his feet.
A large, dark shape separated from the trees ahead.
Jasper stood there, rain sheeting off his shoulders, his briefs the only dark cloth against his skin. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He smiled, a flash of white in the gloom. “Tag,” he said.
Liam turned to flee again, but his foot caught on a submerged root. He went down hard, landing on his side in the sodden loam, the wind knocked from him in a pained grunt.
The world reduced to cold mud, roaring rain, and the hot burst of pain in his ribs. Before he could even suck in a proper breath, a shadow fell over him.
Jasper’s hand clamped around his bicep, hauling him upright with terrifying ease. “Enough sightseeing.” Mud streaked both of them, blending with the rain sluicing down Jasper’s chest.
Liam saw his opening. The grip on his arm was firm, but Jasper was close, off-balance from lifting him. This was a move he’d practiced a thousand times on the pitch: use the opponent’s momentum, drop your weight, drive through.
He did it.
With a guttural shout, he ripped his arm free, pivoted his hips, and drove his shoulder into Jasper’s midsection. He wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, leg sweeping forward, committing all his weight to the tackle. For one exhilarating second, he felt Jasper yield, the huge body tilting backward.
Then it stopped.
Jasper’s feet braced. A tree root, maybe pure strength. One hand fisted in the back of Liam’s soaked sweatshirt. The other snaked around his throat, not choking, but controlling. Liam grunted, pushing forward with everything he had, his boots sliding uselessly in the mud. He couldn’t budge him.
“Good,” Jasper breathed into his ear, the word almost lost in the storm. His voice held a dark approval. “That’s it. Show me.”
Liam pushed harder, muscles straining, a frustrated roar tearing from his throat. It was useless. Jasper was an immovable object, a cliff face wrapped in wet skin. The realization was a shock that went deeper than the cold. His body, which had always been reliable, strong, was being utterly mastered.
Jasper shifted his weight. It wasn’t a shove. It was a deft, clinical redirection of force. Liam’s own momentum was used against him as Jasper spun them, hooking a leg behind his knee. The world tilted. Liam crashed onto his back in the sodden ferns, the impact jarring his teeth.
Before he could roll, Jasper was on him, but not with weight. With precision. A knee pinned his right bicep to the ground. A hand pinned his left wrist above his head. Jasper’s other leg straddled his hips, applying just enough pressure to immobilize his torso. He was trapped, completely, with an efficiency that spoke of long practice.
“Some BJJ,” Jasper said, rainwater dripping from his chin onto Liam’s face. He wasn’t even straining. “In case you were wondering.”
Liam bucked, thrashing, a wild animal caught in a snare. It was futile. Every movement was absorbed, contained. The struggle became its own rhythm, a panting, grinding desperation. His sweat mixed with the rain, his heat-scent blooming ferociously in the steam rising between their bodies.
He was used to tackling big guys. He was used to force meeting force. This was different. This was submission. And a treacherous, hidden part of him, the part vibrating with the fever, sang at the proof of it. His resistance was a dance, and every failed move asked the screaming question: Are you strong enough? Can you take me?
The answer, solid and unyielding above him, was yes.
Slowly, Liam’s thrashing subsided into frantic shudders. His chest heaved. He stared up into those piercing green eyes, the fight leaching out of him, replaced by something more terrifying. Need. Raw, acknowledging need.
Jasper saw the change. The moment the fight turned into invitation.
The moment the fight turned into invitation.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Jasper’s rain-slicked face. He released Liam’s wrist, but only to cradle the side of his head, his thumb sweeping mud from a cheekbone. “Damn,” he breathed, his voice thick with something like reverence. “Look at you. You are one strong fucking carrier, you know that? Took a tackle. Tried to outrun me.” He shook his head, admiration gleaming in his eyes. “I love it. Makes the rest so much better.”
Liam went still beneath him, confusion and a sharp, unwanted thrill warring in his gut. Praise wasn’t what he’d expected. Contempt, maybe. Brutish triumph. Not this.
Jasper stood in one fluid motion, pulling Liam up with him. He didn’t let go. He simply turned and swept Liam’s legs from under him, catching him fully in a cradle hold against his chest. “We’re done with the mud.”
Liam’s protest died in his throat. Exhaustion and the deep, throbbing need were winning. He let his head fall against Jasper’s shoulder, the man’s scent—rain, musk, and pure, uncut male—filling his senses. He was being carried like a prize. It should have been humiliating. It felt terrifyingly right.
The main cabin was a stark contrast to the rustic hunting hut. Floor-to-ceiling windows, polished hardwood, sleek steel fixtures. Jasper shouldered through the door, kicking it shut on the storm. He didn’t pause to admire the view. He carried Liam straight through the great room, past the expensive leather sofa, and into a spacious bathroom done in slate tile and brushed nickel.
Steam billowed as Jasper turned the shower on full, adjusting the temperature with one hand while still holding Liam. The hot spray began to beat against the glass enclosure, fogging it instantly. Only then did he set Liam down, letting him find his feet on the cool tile.
“Get in,” Jasper said, his voice leaving no room for debate. He was already stripping off his briefs, the fabric peeling away from his immense, half-hard length. The sight was a physical shock.
Liam fumbled with his soaked, muddy clothes, his fingers clumsy. The sweatshirt was a heavy, clinging weight. Jasper watched for a moment before stepping close again. “Here.” His hands were surprisingly efficient, not teasing, as he helped peel the sodden layers away, letting them fall with wet slaps to the floor.
Naked, Liam felt more exposed than he had in the woods. The heat was a visible flush across his chest, his cock standing rigid and eager, betraying him utterly. Jasper’s gaze raked over him, hot and assessing. “In,” he repeated, softer now.
They stepped under the spray together. The water was scalding, perfect. It sluiced the mud and pine needles from their skin in brown rivulets that swirled at their feet. Jasper reached for a bottle of expensive, woodsy body wash, pouring a generous amount into his palm.
He started with Liam’s shoulders, his big hands working the lather into the tense muscles there. It wasn’t gentle, but it was thorough, a firm, kneading massage that drew a low groan from Liam before he could stop it. Jasper moved lower, down his back, over the curve of his ass, washing away every last trace of the forest floor.
Then Jasper turned him, pressing Liam’s back against the cool tile wall. He sank to his knees on the shower floor, his hands sliding down Liam’s thighs. “Gotta get all of it,” he murmured, his voice a husky vibration under the pounding water.
One broad hand pushed Liam’s thigh aside. The other, slick with soap, found the cleft of his ass. Jasper’s touch was deliberate, cleaning, but his thumb brushed over Liam’s hole, which was already slick with more than soap, clenching feverishly against nothing.
Liam’s head thudded back against the tile. A broken sound escaped him.
Jasper looked up, water coursing down his face. “See?” he said, his thumb pressing just a little, not entering, circling. “You’re clean everywhere but here. This is all you now.” He leaned in, nuzzling the inside of Liam’s thigh, breathing him in. “It’s fucking incredible.”
He replaced his thumb with a finger, one thick, insistent finger, sliding in with no resistance, buried to the knuckle in Liam’s slick, clutching heat. Liam cried out, his hands flying to Jasper’s wet hair, not to push away, but to hold on.
“Please,” Liam gasped. The word was torn from him, raw and stripped bare.
“Please what?” Jasper asked, working his finger in and out with a slow, devastating rhythm. He added a second, stretching him, the burn a bright, perfect counterpoint to the pleasure coiling in Liam’s gut.
“You know. Jasper, please.”
“I need to hear it.”
Liam was trembling, his knuckles white in Jasper’s dark hair. The water, the steam, the relentless, filling stretch of his fingers—it was too much. The last pretense shattered. “Fuck me. Please, just fuck me. I need it. I need you to.”
Jasper’s eyes darkened, victory and raw hunger flaring in them. He withdrew his fingers slowly, stood, and turned off the water. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing and the drip of water from the showerhead.
He didn’t bother with towels. He just pulled Liam against him, their wet bodies sliding together, and lifted him again. Liam wrapped his legs around Jasper’s waist, clinging to him, burying his face in the man’s neck as he was carried from the steam-filled bathroom.
Through the dim great room, past the windows streaming with rain, to the master bedroom. A huge bed with a crisp, white duvet waited. Jasper laid him down on it, the material cool against his heated skin. He followed him down, covering him, his weight a solid, welcome anchor.
“Main course,” Jasper growled against his mouth, and finally, finally, lined himself up.