Chapter 3: Comparison and a Trailside Surrender
The lodge was silent when she slipped through the side door.
Blake moved through the darkened hallway like a ghost, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, her body still trembling from the cold and from something else—something she refused to name. The fire in the main lounge had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dull orange glow. Someone had left a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. A woman's scarf draped over the arm of a leather chair.
She didn't stop to look.
The stairs creaked beneath her weight. She winced, pausing, listening. Nothing. Just the distant hum of the heating system and the wind rattling the windows.
Their room was at the end of the hall. Room 7. Craig had been so pleased when he'd gotten the key—"Lucky number," he'd said, grinning like a boy. "Maybe it's a sign."
Blake pressed her palm against the door and pushed it open.
The room was dark save for the moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the bed in silver and shadow. Craig was exactly where she'd left him—sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung across her empty pillow, his breathing slow and even.
She stood in the doorway and watched him sleep.
Her husband. The man she'd promised to love, to honor, to cherish. The man who had never done anything wrong except be too kind, too patient, too fucking oblivious to the fact that his wife was a monster.
Blake closed the door behind her and walked to the bathroom.
The shower was scalding. She turned it up as high as it would go, until steam filled the small space and the mirror fogged over. Then she stepped under the spray and scrubbed.
She scrubbed her face. Her neck. Her breasts. The place between her legs where Jack's mouth had been. She used the rough hotel washcloth until her skin was raw, until it stung, until she could pretend she'd washed away every trace of him.
But she could still feel him.
His fingers in her hair. His teeth on her throat. His voice, low and commanding: Whose are you?
Yours.
Blake pressed her forehead against the tile and let the water run over her.
She stayed there until the hot water ran out. Then she dried off, wrapped herself in a robe, and walked back into the bedroom.
Craig was awake.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He rolled onto his back and squinted at her through the darkness. "What time is it?"
"Late." She crossed to the bed and slid beneath the covers. "Go back to sleep."
"Mm." He reached for her, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her close. His skin was warm. His smell was familiar—soap and laundry detergent and something uniquely Craig. "Missed you."
"I was just in the bathroom."
"No, I mean—" He yawned. "Missed you. All night. Kept looking for you at the bonfire."
Blake's throat tightened. "I was tired."
"You should've told me. I would've come up with you."
"I know."
He nuzzled into her neck, his breath warm against her skin. His hand found her hip, his fingers tracing lazy circles through the fabric of her robe.
"You're cold," he said.
"I went for a walk."
"Without a jacket?"
"Just a quick one."
Craig hummed, not quite awake enough to question her. His hand slid higher, past her waist, past her ribs, until his palm was cupping her breast through the robe.
"Craig—"
"I know you're tired," he murmured. "But I've been thinking about you all night. About how beautiful you looked at dinner. How proud I am to be your husband."
Blake closed her eyes.
"I love you," he said. "You know that, right? I love you so much."
"I know."
He kissed her shoulder, her neck, the corner of her jaw. Gentle. Always so gentle. Like she was something precious, something fragile, something that might break if he held her too tightly.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she turned her head and kissed him back.
He made a soft sound of surprise—pleased, eager—and rolled onto his side to face her. His hand found the tie of her robe and pulled it loose. The fabric fell open, exposing her bare skin to the cool air.
"God, you're beautiful," he whispered.
Blake didn't feel beautiful. She felt dirty. Used. Like something Jack had chewed up and spit out.
But she let Craig touch her.
He was slow. Methodical. He kissed his way down her body, pausing at her breasts, her stomach, the inside of her thigh. When he reached the place between her legs, he didn't dive in like Jack had. He teased. Explored. Used his tongue in soft, careful strokes that were meant to please, not dominate.
Blake stared at the ceiling and tried to feel something.
"Does that feel good?" Craig asked.
"Yeah."
"You're so quiet tonight."
"Just tired."
He hummed and went back to work. His tongue found her clit, and he licked it in slow circles, the way he always did. The way he'd learned from some article or another, some "how to please your wife" listicle that he'd taken far too seriously.
It didn't work.
It never worked.
Not anymore.
Blake closed her eyes and let her mind drift. She thought about Jack's mouth on her, rough and demanding. Jack's fingers inside her, stretching her open. Jack's cock, thick and relentless, splitting her in two.
Her hips bucked.
"That's it," Craig murmured, encouraged. "Let go, baby. I've got you."
She imagined Jack's voice instead. Come for me. Now.
The orgasm hit her like a wave—not real, not even close, but convincing enough. She gasped, arched her back, dug her nails into Craig's shoulders. He groaned in response, pleased with himself, and crawled up her body to kiss her.
"I love making you feel good," he said.
"I know."
He positioned himself between her legs. She felt him press against her entrance, hard and eager, and then he was inside her—slow, careful, inch by inch.
"Is this okay?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me if it hurts."
"It doesn't."
He moved. Slow. Rhythmic. Face-to-face, missionary, the way he always did. His eyes were soft, filled with love, and he kept whispering things—how beautiful she was, how much he loved her, how lucky he was.
Blake wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.
She should have felt something. Guilt, at least. Shame. Self-loathing. And she did—she felt all of those things, a toxic cocktail swirling in her gut. But beneath it all, buried so deep she barely acknowledged it, was something else.
Boredom.
Craig's thrusts were gentle. Measured. He kissed her forehead and told her she was perfect, and all she could think about was Jack's hand fisted in her hair, Jack's teeth on her neck, Jack growling whose are you while he fucked her like she was nothing but a hole to fill.
She wanted that.
She wanted to be used.
She wanted Jack Linden to wreck her so thoroughly that she couldn't remember her own name.
But she smiled at Craig instead. Kissed him. Told him she loved him too.
When he came, he buried his face in her neck and groaned her name like a prayer. Then he collapsed on top of her, spent and satisfied, and rolled onto his side without pulling out.
"That was amazing," he said.
"Yeah."
"We should do this more often. Get away. Just the two of us."
"Yeah."
He kissed her shoulder and drifted off within minutes, his breathing evening out, his body relaxing against hers.
Blake lay awake.
The clock on the nightstand ticked. The wind moaned outside. The fire in the main room had long since died, and the room was cold, and she was wet—not from Craig, not from her fake orgasm, but from the memory of Jack's tongue inside her.
She pressed her thighs together and tried not to think about it.
She failed.
I'll see you again, Jack had said.
And God help her, she wanted to.
---
Dawn came gray and cold.
Blake slipped out of bed before the sun had fully risen, pulling on her running clothes in the dark. Craig didn't stir. He slept like the dead, always had, and she was grateful for it now.
She needed to run.
Not for fitness. Not for health. For punishment.
She needed to feel her lungs burn, her legs ache, her muscles scream. She needed to hurt in a way that made sense.
The trail behind the lodge wound through the forest, a narrow path of packed dirt and pine needles that climbed steadily uphill. The air was crisp, sharp with the smell of cedar and frost. Her breath fogged in front of her face.
Blake ran.
She ran until her thighs burned. Until her heart pounded against her ribs. Until the only thing she could hear was the rhythm of her own footsteps and the ragged pull of her breath.
She didn't think about Craig.
She didn't think about the way he'd touched her, loved her, whispered sweet things while she pretended to feel something.
She didn't think about the way she'd used him.
She didn't think about Jack.
She didn't.
She didn't.
She—
The trail curved, and there he was.
Jack.
Shirtless.
Sweat-slicked.
Running toward her like the forest belonged to him, like he'd known she would be here, like he'd planned this all along. His torso was a roadmap of muscle and discipline—every ridge and plane of his chest and abdomen carved from years of early morning workouts and sheer, stubborn will. The early light caught the silver in his hair, the same silver she'd noticed the first time she'd stormed into his office.
Blake's feet slowed.
She wanted to stop. Wanted to turn around. Wanted to sprint back down the trail and lock herself in the lodge and never see him again.
But her body kept moving.
Toward him.
They fell into step without a word.
The trail narrowed, and they ran side by side, their breath synchronized, their footsteps matching. The silence stretched between them, thick and loaded, until Jack spoke.
"How was your night, Blake?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"What do you want me to say?"
He glanced at her, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "The truth."
She didn't answer.
They rounded a bend. The trees opened up, revealing a small clearing—a fallen log, a carpet of moss, the distant sound of a stream. Jack stopped.
Blake stopped too.
Her heart was pounding. Not from the run.
"Did he fuck you?" Jack asked.
"What?"
"Cruig. When you got back to the lodge. Did he fuck you?"
Blake's jaw tightened. "That's none of your business."
Jack stepped closer. "I asked you a question."
"And I said it's none of your business."
He studied her face. His eyes were dark, intense, seeing straight through her.
"He did," Jack said. "I can tell. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look of a woman who just got fucked by a man who doesn't know how to do it right."
Blake's hand shot out before she could stop it—a slap, hard and fast, cracking across his cheek.
Jack caught her wrist.
He held it. Not tight. Just enough to let her know he could.
"That's twice now," he said.
"What?"
"You've hit me. First at the office. Now here."
"You deserved it both times."
"Maybe." He pulled her closer, until she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "But you're still here."
"No, I'm not. I'm going back."
"Not yet."
"Jack—"
"I want to taste you."
The words hit her like a punch to the gut.
"No."
"Just a taste."
"No. Craig is waiting. This—this has to stop."
"Then walk away."
She tried.
She tried to pull her wrist free. Tried to step back. Tried to remember why this was a bad idea, why she needed to go, why she couldn't do this again.
But Jack was already leading her off the trail, past the treeline, behind a stand of pines. His grip on her wrist was firm but not forceful. He wasn't dragging her. He wasn't pushing.
He didn't have to.
She followed him like she'd been waiting for it all along.
The clearing was small and private, hidden from the trail by a wall of evergreens. A fallen log lay in the center, old and mossy, its bark worn smooth by years of weather.
Jack stopped beside it.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at her with those storm-gray eyes, patient and predatory, waiting.
Blake's hands trembled as she reached for the waistband of her yoga pants.
"Bend over," Jack said.
She did.
She bent over the log, her palms flat against the rough bark, her hips angled up. She heard him move behind her—the soft crunch of footsteps on pine needles, the rustle of fabric as he knelt.
Then his hands were on her hips, pulling her pants down to her ankles.
"Stay still," he said.
"Jack—"
"Still."
The sharp edge in his voice made her shiver.
He spread her legs wider, baring her to the cold morning air. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Completely at his mercy.
And she wanted it.
His tongue touched her clit.
Blake gasped.
It wasn't like Craig's gentle circles. It wasn't tentative. It was a deliberate, obscene kiss—his mouth hot and demanding against the most sensitive part of her. He lapped at her clit in long, broad strokes, his tongue flat and firm, and it made her legs shake.
"God," she whispered.
Jack didn't respond. He just kept going. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady, while his tongue moved in slow, torturous circles. He sucked her clit into his mouth, worked it between his lips, flicked it with the tip of his tongue.
Blake's fingers curled against the bark.
She was already close. Already teetering on the edge. The memory of the night before—of what he'd done to her in that tent—was still fresh, still burning, and now he was doing it again, in the open, in the woods, where anyone could see.
Except he moved lower.
His tongue traced down the length of her cunt, from her clit to her entrance, and then—lower still.
Blake stiffened.
"Jack—"
He didn't stop.
His tongue found her asshole.
"What are you doing?" she gasped.
He didn't answer. He just pressed his mouth against her, licking the tight ring of muscle with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Jack, not there—"
He ignored her.
His tongue circled her asshole, teasing it, testing it, while his thumb found her clit and began to strum. The dual sensation was overwhelming—wet heat on her ass, tight friction on her clit, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but grip the log and hold on.
"Jack," she whispered. "Oh god—"
His tongue pushed against the tight ring.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
Working its way inside her.
This is wrong, she thought. This is so wrong. This is—
Her phone rang.
The sound cut through the fog of pleasure like a knife. Blake froze. Jack didn't.
"Probably Craig," he said, his voice muffled against her skin. "Makes sense. Waking up alone. Wondering where his wife went."
Blake tried to move. Tried to reach for the phone in her pocket. But Jack's hand pressed down on her back, keeping her in place.
"Don't," he said. "Stay exactly where you are."
"Jack—"
He reached around her, his fingers dipping into the pocket of her yoga pants. He pulled the phone out. Craig's name glowed on the screen.
Jack answered it.
"Say something," he said, holding the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Blake?" Craig's voice was sleep-roughened, slightly confused. "Where are you? I woke up and you were gone."
She could barely process the words. Jack's tongue was back on her ass, pushing inside her, stretching her, while his thumb rubbed her clit in tight, brutal circles.
"I—I went for a run."
"You didn't leave a note."
"I know. I'm sorry. I just—"
Her voice broke off as Jack pushed his tongue deeper. She bit her lip. Hard.
"I just needed some air," she managed.
"You okay? You sound weird."
"I'm fine. I'm fine. Just—" She took a shaky breath. "Just running. Makes me breathless."
Jack's tongue moved faster. In and out. In and out. Fucking her with his mouth while his thumb worked her clit.
"Anyway," Craig said, "I was thinking we could get coffee before checkout. There's a place in town with those pastries you like."
"That sounds—" She swallowed a gasp. "That sounds nice."
"You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" Jack's tongue curled inside her, and she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from screaming. "I'm fine. I'll meet you. At the lodge. Give me—" Another push of his tongue, deeper, harder. "Give me twenty minutes."
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too."
She heard the click of the call ending. Jack pulled the phone from her hand and tossed it onto the moss.
"Good girl," he murmured.
And then he went back to work.
His tongue fucked her ass with single-minded determination. Fast. Raw. Filthy. His thumb kept strumming her clit, kept pushing her closer, kept building that pressure deep in her belly.
Blake's whole body was shaking.
She could feel it coming—something bigger than before. Something she'd never felt before. A pressure that built and built and built, cresting higher, white-hot, until—
"Daddy," she gasped.
She didn't know where the word had come from. Didn't know why it had slipped out.
But Jack groaned.
"Fuck yes," he growled against her skin. "Say it again."
"Daddy—"
And then she was coming. Harder than she'd ever come in her life. A hot gush of fluid flooded her thighs, soaking Jack's chin, dripping onto the moss beneath them. Her legs gave out. Her vision went white. She screamed—a raw, broken sob that echoed through the trees.
Jack held her hips, keeping her upright, his mouth still on her, working her through it until she couldn't take any more.
Then he pulled back.
She heard him stand. Heard the wet sound of him wiping his face.
She collapsed onto the log, her legs too weak to hold her, her heart pounding so hard she thought she might die.
Jack walked around to face her.
His cheeks were slick. His eyes were dark. He looked at her like he'd never seen anything more beautiful.
"You owe me for that," he said.
Blake couldn't speak.
"You owe me," he repeated, "and I intend to collect."
She pulled up her pants with trembling hands. She didn't look at him. Couldn't.
"Blake."
She stopped.
"I'll see you tonight."
She didn't answer.
She just turned and ran.
She ran back through the trees, back toward the lodge, back toward Craig. Her husband's voice still echoed in her ear—Love you too—and Jack's taste was still on her skin, and her body was still shaking from the force of what he'd done to her.
She had no idea how she was going to face Craig.
She had no idea how she was going to survive the rest of the weekend.
But one thing was certain.
Jack Linden had her.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to be free.