Today is going to be a hot one too. Which is just perfect for what I have in store ahead of me.
Racer trots out behind me, stretches long and low, then sits at the top of the steps watching the trees like he’s on guard duty.
I start with the basics—neck rolls, shoulder circles, cat-cow on the deck boards. Then down into a deep lunge, feeling the stretch in my hips. My body’s still warm from sleep, muscles loose, but there’s one part of me that’s not cooperating.
Morning wood.
Thick, insistent, tenting the front of the flannel like it’s got somewhere to be.
“Jeez,” I grumble. “Behave.”
I grit my teeth and adjust myself. Doesn’t help much.
And then I remember the dream.
Flashes of it hit me like stills from a movie I shouldn’t have watched…
Taron on his knees in front of me, looking up with those wide eyes, lips parted. My hand in his hair, guiding him. The little whimper he made when I told him to open wider. The way his tongue felt—hot, tentative, then eager. His cheeks hollowing. The soft, needy sounds he made when I hit the back of his throat.
I groan low in my chest and drop into another stretch, trying to shake it off.
Racer tilts his head, ears perked.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Laugh it up, mutt. Good thing he’s not sticking around. Few more days and he’ll be gone. Back to whatever urban hellhole he crawled out of. Then maybe my dick will remember who’s in charge.”
Racer huffs like he doesn’t believe me and lets out a bark that almost sounds like he’s being sarcastic.
I finish the routine—downward dog, warrior pose, a few slow push-ups that make my shoulders burn in the best way. And my erection finally starts to behave.Mostly.
Inside, I pour coffee into my favorite chipped mug… World’s Grumpiest Lumberjack, Trask’s idea of a joke Christmas gift. I add a splash of cream because I’m not acompletesavage, and stand at the kitchen window looking out over the trees.
The forest is waking up.
Birds calling.
Mist still clinging low between the trunks.
Somewhere out there, aged trees are waiting for me to decide their fate.
I’ve got a big one on the schedule today—old-growth hemlock that’s been leaning too far over the trail for the last two seasons. Trask marked it last month. I’ve been putting it off because it’s a full-day job. Heavy cuts, careful wedging, rope work to keep it from barber-chaining. One mistake and it could take out half the ridge.
I’m looking forward to it.
Nothing clears the head like the roar of a chainsaw and the smell of fresh-cut wood.
I drain the coffee, rinse the mug, pull on yesterday’s jeans and a thermal shirt. Laces up the work boots. Grab the pack… water, first-aid kit, extra chain, file, wedges, radio.
Racer’s already at the door, tail wagging hard enough to bruise shins.
“Ready, boy?”
He barks once—sharp, excited. He’s ready alright.
I shoulder the pack, step out into the cool morning, and head for the tree line.
The boy from last night?
He’s already fading.