Chapter 6: The Lumberjack
The grey dawn light was a cold intruder, leaching the fire’s warmth from the room. Alex woke to the silence first—a deep, muffled quiet that meant the world outside was buried. Then he felt the chill on his face. The fire had dwindled to a nest of crimson embers. Lynn was a warm weight against his side, her breathing even and deep.
He disentangled himself carefully, tucking the blankets around her. She murmured something indistinct but didn’t wake. The cabin was freezing. The power was still out; the silence confirmed it. He pulled on his trousers from the night before, the fabric cold and stiff, and shrugged into his sweater. More wood was the only priority.
In a closet by the door, he found an old, thick-knit wool sweater in a garish red-and-black check, and a worn black toque. He put them on, the wool scratchy against his skin. He looked like a caricature of a Canadian lumberjack. He smiled to himself. Lynn would laugh.
The world outside was a monochrome shock. A foot of fresh, unblemished snow lay over everything, softening the jagged edges of the forest, weighing down the pine boughs. The sky was a solid sheet of pearl grey. The cold bit through the wool immediately, sharp and clean in his nostrils. He trudged through the deep powder to the woodpile around the side of the cabin, where a tarp was half-submerged under a soft white drift.
He wrestled the tarp back, the snow cascading off in a mini-avalanche. The dry, seasoned logs beneath were a relief. He loaded his arms with as many as he could carry, the bark rough against his cheek. He was turning back toward the front porch when he saw her.
She stood in the open doorway, framed by the dark wood. Her silhouette stole his breath. She wore only his discarded grey cashmere sweater, which hung to mid-thigh, a pair of thick wool socks, and the same black toque pulled down over her ears. Her long legs were completely bare, stunningly pale against the endless white. She had pulled on her winter boots, unlaced and loose around her calves.
“What are you doing?” he called, his voice loud in the stillness.
She stepped out onto the porch, sinking into the deep snow up to her shins. She didn’t flinch. Her dark eyes held a mischievous, challenging gleam. “Thought you could use some motivation,” she shouted back, her breath pluming in the air.
“You’ll freeze,” he said, a laugh caught in his throat. This was insanity.
“I’m freezing,” she called, her voice crisp and clear. “I won't get back in until you give me my morning orgasm. Can you make me come before my feet turn blue?”
She spread her stance slightly, the sweater hiking up. She was naked underneath. The dark triangle of her pubic hair was a stark, intimate mark against her skin and the white wool. The cold air must have been biting at her, making her nipples hard against the soft cashmere. Her face was a mask of defiant arousal.
He dropped the armful of wood onto the porch with a heavy thud. The game was immediate, visceral. His body responded before his mind could question it, blood rushing south, overriding the chill.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he said, striding toward her.
“Thirty seconds already wasted,” she said, a wild smile on her lips.
He didn’t bother with the steps. He planted his hands on the porch decking and vaulted up, snow spraying from his boots. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He fumbled with his belt and fly with one hand, his other arm locked around her back. The cold metal of his zipper sounded obscenely loud. He shoved his trousers and briefs down just enough. His hands went under the sweater, gripping the bare, cold skin of her ass. She was ice.
She gasped as he lifted her, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist.
He was already hard. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her frozen entrance. She was wet, a shocking, silky heat amid the cold.
“Hurry up,” she breathed, her head falling back.
He pushed in. A sharp, shared gasp tore from both of them. The contrast was exquisite—the searing tightness of her, the biting cold air on his exposed skin. She was so deep, her legs locked around him, her arms clinging to his neck. He started to move, quick, shallow thrusts, driven by the clock she’d set.
“Fuck, you’re so deep,” she moaned, her face buried in the scratchy wool of his chest. Her breath was hot through the sweater.
He walked them back a few steps until her back was against the rough log wall of the cabin. The solid support let him really fuck into her. Each thrust was a hard, claiming drive, his hips slapping against her bare thighs. The sweater had ridden up completely; he could see where they were joined, the slick, rhythmic gliding of his shaft into her body. The visual, the raw physicality of it in the stark morning light, was overwhelming.
Her internal muscles clamped around him, a rapid, fluttering tension. “Yes, right there, don’t stop, Alex, please don’t stop!” Her words were ragged puffs of steam in the cold.
He angled her slightly, changing the tilt of her hips, and hit a spot that made her scream. The sound echoed across the silent, snow-blanketed lake. Somewhere a bird took off. Her climax seized her, a violent, whole-body convulsion. Her cunt squeezed him in rhythmic, milking pulses, so tight it was almost painful.
“Now,” she pleaded, her eyes squeezed shut. “Put me down.”
Her legs slowly unlocked from around his waist, trembling visibly. Gently, he lowered her until her feet found the snow-covered porch boards. She winced as her bare soles met the cold. She took a shaky step back from him. Her expression was dazed, sated, triumphant. Then she smiled, a wicked, deliberate curl of her lips. She sank to her knees in the snow before him. His rock hard cock, wet with her, lay against his sweater. She didn’t touch it with her hands.
She leaned forward, her mouth open, and took him in. The sensation was overwhelming—the soft, wet heat of her mouth, the shocking cold of the air, the sheer audacity of the act, tipped him over. He drove into her mouth, holding her head as he erupted. His release was hot and pulsing, a jetting warmth deep inside her in the freezing air. A guttural sound, half-groan, half-roar, was torn from his lungs, hanging in the frozen stillness. She licked him clean with slow, thorough strokes of her tongue, her dark eyes locked on his. She worked him until he began to pulse again from the sensation alone. He was softening inside her.
He held there, his arm against the cabin wall, the heat of their joined bodies creating a tiny, temporary pocket of steam. Then she pulled back. She kept his gaze as she gathered the fluid in her mouth. She held it for a moment, then turned her head and spat a pearly strand into the virgin snow at her knees. It landed with a faint, darkening splotch.
Without a word, she pushed herself up, turned, and ran back into the dark doorway of the cabin, her bare legs flashing in the grey light, leaving him standing there, exposed, stunned, and fiercely, utterly hers.
He took a few deep, steadying breaths, the cold now truly seeping into his bones. He tucked himself away, fastened his trousers with numb fingers, and gathered the scattered logs. His mind was blank, humming with a pure, animal satisfaction.
Inside, the cabin felt like a sauna in comparison. She was already by the hearth, kneeling, carefully placing the logs he’d dropped onto the glowing embers. The fire caught quickly, tongues of orange flame licking at the dry wood. She had removed the boots and socks. Her feet were fine but her knees were a angry red.
“Your knees,” he said, his voice rough.
“Worth it,” she said, not looking at him. She poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “Bring in the rest of the wood.”
He did, making several trips until a neat stack was piled by the hearth. The cabin began to warm, the new fire cracking and leaping. He stripped off the damp lumberjack sweater and the toque, hanging them near the heat. He sat on the sofa, watching her.
She finally turned and crawled over to him. She didn’t speak. She simply laid her head in his lap, facing the fire. He stroked her hair, the short, dark strands soft between his fingers. Her cheek was against his groin, a quiet, possessive comfort. He could smell the scent of their sex, the cold air, and woodsmoke on her skin.
They stayed like that for a long time, listening to the fire consume the wood, the wind beginning to pick up again outside, promising more snow. The game was over. The strangers were gone. But the husband and wife had 24 more hours.