October 2026 – Listen Here

The Woodsman had made his intentions abundantly clear throughout the week. He checked in repeatedly, confirming our arrangements, making certain the hour still suited me, and making no secret of how much he was looking forward to seeing me. His enthusiasm was becoming quite infectious.

There was an endearing earnestness to it, especially coming from a man of such imposing stature, whose broad shoulders and formidable hands suggested he was better acquainted with felling ancient timber than fussing over the arrangements for an evening’s rendezvous.

Multiple times on the appointed day, he inquired whether I had eaten.

Now, admittedly, I was being crafty in my replies, responding to the question asked without volunteering information that might invite further interrogation. Had I eaten?

“Yes. Please don’t bring me food. I’m good.”

A fiber bar and a bar of cheese constituted nourishment, did they not?

The clever part of me had found the loophole. He had neglected to inquire what I had consumed, or at what hour.

Unfortunately, there was a far less amusing truth beneath my clever evasion. Depression had made a wretched business of my appetite, and that day I could hardly summon an interest in food. I knew I ought to eat more. I also knew that admitting how poorly I’d managed would invite concern, and I had no desire to spend our evening being fussed over.

I wanted his company, his wondrous cock, and the opportunity to forget, for a few precious hours, how dreadfully sad I had been feeling.

Unfortunately, the Woodsman was not so easily dissuaded.

He insisted upon bringing supper, and so, despite my protests, the gentleman arrived bearing McDonald’s. The determined man had evidently decided that feeding me was a matter deserving his personal attention.

Upon his arrival, and a few mind-numbing kisses later, he murmured something about eating while the food was still hot.

A reasonable proposition, of course. Sensible, practical, and unobjectionable.

Except that I objected.

To my own astonishment, my lower lip began to protrude in a most unbecoming pout. I’d been looking forward to his arrival all week, and now that he stood before me, all masculine presence and that intoxicating fragrance of woodsmoke and ancient forests, I didn’t want to wait. I didn’t want to share his attention with a paper bag of rapidly cooling hamburgers.

The Woodsman regarded me for a moment, and there was a change in his expression that made my stomach flutter.

Then those sinewed arms gathered me against him.

One hand settled behind my head, his fingers weaving into my hair, while the other found its way around my waist, drawing me closer. When had it slipped there? I barely had an opportunity to wonder before his mouth claimed mine again with such unabashed affection that whatever sensible thoughts I might have maintained promptly deserted me, along with my ability to remain standing.

I yielded against him as he guided me backward onto the couch, his arms surrounding me, the fragrance of woodland smoke lingering upon his skin. Somewhere in the midst of those intoxicating kisses, a twinge of guilt managed to intrude. His supper was getting cold, and I really ought to have the decency to let the poor man eat.

Somewhere against my lips, he murmured that perhaps dessert ought to come first and I couldn’t help but grin.

Right answer.

The Woodsman, bless his incorrigible heart, appeared in no direct haste to return to his rapidly chilling dinner. Instead, he knelt beside the couch, his gaze traveling over me with an appreciation that made me forget, for a moment, the reasonable argument I had been preparing in favor of supper. His hands followed, tracing the silhouette of my dress before gathering its long hem, and I found myself holding my breath beneath that thoroughly captivating attention.

A thumb stroked the fabric over my throbbing pussy, my hips arching before I could summon even the pretense of restraint. I was so ready. I had intended my delicate sapphire lingerie to be a surprise for later, an intricate confection designed to accentuate as much as it concealed. Yet here was the Woodsman.

I felt his breath along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and my need pulsed to the surface. Whatever protest I might have offered dissolved into a sigh. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the intoxicating intimacy of the moment, and soon found myself clutching the cushions, quite torn between wishing he would hurry and hoping he never would.

At last, the Woodsman pushed the satin into the crease of my leg. One long lick and I was lost. The tip of his tongue swirled my pearl, just a hello, and I found myself gasping, torn between protesting his leisurely pace and drawing him deeper. He lapped and sucked at my apex as though I were ice cream on the hottest August day. Every startled breath appeared to encourage him, and the more I reached for him, the more thoroughly he appeared to enjoy my increasingly dissolute loss of composure.

What had begun as a stolen moment upon the couch became an extended indulgence that left me breathless, astonished, and increasingly indifferent to the fate of his supper. Indeed, judging by his expression when he finally looked up at me, the Woodsman appeared to consider the evening’s change of menu an excellent decision. I couldn’t help smiling at the absurdity of it all, at the unabashed enthusiasm with which he had devoted himself to my enjoyment, and at the peculiar happiness of being wanted so wholeheartedly. For the first time in days, I felt the oppressive fog begin to recede. I could enjoy an evening without organizing, managing, or carrying anyone else’s troubles… not even my own.

Before I could give much thought to what had just transpired, the Woodsman gathered me into his arms.

I attempted to argue, even squirming a bit in his embrace, although my legs were still unsteady from his amorous attention. Surely that had been enough to satisfy me, if only for a moment? Besides, letting the poor man eat was the appropriate thing to do, even if my objections suffered from a regrettable lack of conviction.

He held me as though I weighed no more than a bundle of silk, drawing my legs around his waist and securing me against the breadth of his chest. When had he removed his shirt? My arms found their way around his neck, and for a moment I could do nothing but stare at him.

Good heavens, the size of this man.

At five feet and one inch, I have long been accustomed to looking upward at gentlemen, but there was an uncommon fascination in suddenly finding myself at his height, my petite frame gathered against him with such astonishing ease.

He began walking toward my bedroom, unhurried, as though carrying me down the hallway were the most natural occupation imaginable. There was none of the impatience I might have expected from a gentleman eager to reach his destination. His broad chest was beneath my palms, his arms secure around me, and I found myself increasingly enchanted by the novelty of being carried through my own home.

My Inner Goddess was torn between demanding that he make haste and luxuriating in the prolonged journey.

Not once did his breath falter or his grip require adjustment. I was accustomed to making my own way through life, quite literally and otherwise, and there was a certain intoxicating freedom in surrendering the journey to this magnificent man.

For once, I wasn’t concerned with where I was going. I was far too occupied enjoying how I got there.

Once inside my bedroom, he lowered me onto the bed, and I slipped the long black dress I had so carefully chosen over my head and into his waiting hands. And there it was, my ambitious arrangement of sapphire silk and straps, finally revealed in all its complicated glory. I had spent an absurd amount of time arranging the infernal things, ensuring that every delicate crossing lay against my skin just so, every ribbon followed its intended curve, and the overall effect justified the considerable inconvenience of getting into it.

After a weekend away, I wanted this. I had loved bringing everyone together, the companionship, the laughter, and the memories we’d made. Yet somewhere amid all that affection, I had become painfully aware of a loneliness I couldn’t quite shake. I adored my friends and delighted in their happiness, but witnessing the easy affection between couples had reminded me of an intimacy I missed more than I cared to admit.

I had grown well-practiced in living independently, making my own happiness and arranging my life without depending upon anyone else’s presence. And I was proud of that. Yet there were evenings when the independence I treasured did very little to comfort the woman beneath it.

Tonight, however, a gentleman had come specifically to see me. And heaven help me, I had chosen the sapphire silk with every intention of making certain he was pleased that he had.

The Woodsman surveyed me, and the look that crossed his gallant features made every minute of preparation worthwhile. His eyes traveled over the intricate geometry of the straps, lingering before finding mine again. He nary said a word, but the desire written across his features was unmistakable, and the way he looked at me sent an unexpected flush creeping into my cheeks.

Those calloused hands, which had carried me so effortlessly only moments before, now traced the sapphire ribbons with a tenderness that made my heart flutter. I couldn’t help biting my bottom lip as he took his time. I took a most decidedly smug satisfaction in watching this man become momentarily distracted by the sight of me.

Apparently, he’d admired my handiwork quite enough. His thumbs hooked beneath the straps at my hips, slipping the elaborate confection free before tossing it over his head with the unabashed triumph of a schoolboy opening a coveted Christmas present.

And then he sank to his knees.

All that preparation, dispatched in a matter of moments.

I ought to have been scandalized.

Or at the very least, thoroughly aggrieved that he’d disposed of all my painstaking efforts so swiftly. Instead, I found myself smiling at the boyish enthusiasm of this otherwise reserved man, who had seemed so thoroughly pleased with his present that he couldn’t resist unwrapping it at once.

He buried his face between my thighs for so long that I began to wonder how on earth his poor knees were surviving the experience. His rough fingers tightened around my thighs, pinning me to the edge of the bed as his warm tongue and lips mapped my very soul. My chest rose and fell with increasingly ragged breaths, and the longer he lingered, the further I slipped into a dizzying euphoria, fire racing through my veins. Olympus, help me. By all appearances, he found pleasure in discovering just how thoroughly he could shatter me. My fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him nearer as I writhed upon the bed, scarcely able to decide whether to beg for a moment’s reprieve or plead with him never to stop.

Then he guided me onto all fours, facing away from him. I drew a breath, bracing myself for what I expected to be a brutal thrust. But I didn’t care. And heaven help me, I wanted it. There was a vulnerability in that position, a sharp awareness of how exposed I was, that sent a nervous thrill through me. I tried to relax, willing the tension from my core, though my breathing remained uneven as his hands settled upon my hips.

But the Woodsman had other intentions.

Instead of the head of his cock grazing my folds, he bent behind me and surprised me with a gesture I could never have prophesied. His hands gripped my buttocks on either side, pulling my cheeks apart…and… his face disappeared between them! I let out a startled yelp, instinctively pulling away.

He couldn’t!! He definitely shouldn’t!!

The Woodsman wrapped his fingers around my right hip bone, yanking me back toward him, while his other hand encircled my left thigh, fingertips yearning towards my pearl, and in moments I was soaring and splintering all at the same time, completely lost as I was “forced” into a most glorious orgasm after rolling orgasm.

I remember the tenderness of that first thrust; beneath it simmered the unmistakable force of his primal masculinity. Fully sheathed within, he held himself still for several breaths, allowing my pussy to soften and adjust to his length, attuned to my breathing and every change in my expression. And then came the glorious, brutal cadence with which he worked my body, heeding my cries, my breathing, my convulsions, the way I pressed back my entire body, asking, begging for more.

Every adjustment was guided by some incomparable understanding of my reactions, as though he could anticipate what I wanted before I had even found the words for it. One moment his pace was measured, the next more feral and urgent, yet he never lost sight of me. Even when his hand settled around my throat, there was no fear, only a profound peace because he knew how far to take me and he knew when to stop. A glance, the smallest change in my expression, was enough to make him pause and check on me. The Woodsman understood how to listen, even when my words were nothing but moans and cries.

Yet beneath all that enjoyment, my mind was still struggling.

My body wasn’t responding quite as I expected. I could not find the key to my flood, usually overabundant, but despite my best efforts, it eluded me. Worse, the more I concentrated on achieving what I wanted, the farther away it slipped. Frustration crept in, followed by that stubborn determination to make my body cooperate through sheer force of will.

I was in charge of my body, not the other way around!

I focused my mind, angling my hips just so as I rode him. Yes, my orgasms were there, but… I wanted to soak his hips, drench him in my pleasure, to soar in the stratosphere with my Inner Goddess.

The Woodsman noticed.

He paused, holding me still, his thumb caressing my cheek as he studied my expression. He knew I had been struggling with depression, knew how heavily the past weeks had weighed upon me, and tenderly he reminded me that my mind and body could not always be persuaded to follow separate instructions. And, he added with characteristic practicality, I might (beyond a doubt) be dehydrated.

I frowned because I knew he was right.

And still, stubborn creature that I am, I wanted to prove otherwise. With my palms resting upon his broad chest, I tried once more to coax my body into cooperating, chasing that elusive feeling and determined to overcome the frustration creeping into my thoughts.

But he cupped my face between his hands.

“You’re okay,” he whispered.

Oh, gods. I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay at all. That was part of the problem.

He said it again, with such uncomplicated certainty that I could hardly bear to hear it. There was no admonishment, no disappointment, no suggestion that I had failed him. His thumb brushed my cheek as he looked up at me, as though there were nothing whatsoever wrong with the woman before him. And that was more than I could manage.

The sobs came before I could suppress them again.

Not the graceful sort of tears one might encounter in a Victorian romance, either. These were dreadful, inelegant sobs, accompanied by a thoroughly unladylike amount of wet sniffling. I buried my face in my hands, my hair falling in a riot around me like a disordered veil, and cried with an abandon that astonished even me.

The Woodsman could have chided me. Could have shifted me off him and left the room. Could have walked away altogether. But he did none of those things. Instead, his solid arms wrapped around me, gathering me against the refuge of his chest.

One hand traveled over my back while the other moved through my hair, and he murmured reassurances and words of endearment as I wept against him. He did not ask me to explain what had happened, nor did he attempt to persuade me that there was no reason to cry. He plainly held me, encouraging me to breathe whenever the sobs threatened to carry me away again.

I don’t know how long we remained that way, nor do I remember when I moved onto the bed, curling into a fetal position with my sobs showing no sign of abating. I couldn’t even claim it had been ages since I’d last cried. My pillow would have called me a liar, having witnessed the very same spectacle less than twenty-four hours earlier.

What I do remember is the Woodsman returning with the considerate offering of toilet paper because, naturally, I had managed to run out of tissues and hadn’t found the time to replace them.

Inwardly, I was mortified by my inability to hold myself together. There I was, attempting to present myself as an alluring creature of the evening, only to find myself sniveling against a gentleman whose chest still glistened with the evidence of my emotional collapse.

And still, he stayed.

My tears showed no sign of stopping. He curled around me, drawing me against him and continuing to murmur that I should breathe, that I was all right, and that there was no reason to be embarrassed. Eventually, the sobs subsided, leaving me exhausted and bewildered by the whole affair.

Still holding me close, he brushed the remaining tears from my cheeks with his thumb and told me I was beautiful.

I regarded him skeptically through bleary eyes.

Beautiful? With swollen eyes, a blotchy face, and a nose that had developed an alarming resemblance to a sea lion’s? How could he possibly say that?

Yet there was no teasing in his expression, no qualification attached to the compliment. He regarded me with the same unmistakable affection he had shown when I stood before him in sapphire silk.

I didn’t know what to do with that. I shook my head and buried my swollen face against his heart.

At some point, he settled behind me, his arm wrapped around my waist as we lay together. An occasional hiccup still interrupted my breathing, an unwelcome reminder of my earlier collapse, but the worst of the sadness had passed, at least for the moment.

And in spite of everything, my Inner Goddess began to stir once more. Curled against his firm body, I became increasingly aware of the warmth of his naked body curled around mine, the weight of his arm resting between my breasts, and the faint tickle of his breath against my neck. His fingers moved idly against my skin, and I found myself leaning into his embrace, reluctant to put even an inch of distance between us. Heaven help me, after having cried so abysmally upon his chest, it was quite mind-boggling to find my Inner Goddess rising and spreading her wings once more.

I closed my eyes, drew a steadying breath, and allowed myself to enjoy being held. Gradually, my thoughts wandered back to the hedonism of our shared evening and a mischievous smile crept across my face. My Inner Goddess replayed how delicious it had felt to be filled and stretched by him, and I began to wriggle against him, undulating in invitation again. My grin widened when I felt his cock twitch and swell against my lower back, his breath quickening against my cheek. He hooked a finger beneath my chin, turning my face toward his over my left shoulder to drown in his kisses. I met his lips with renewed enthusiasm as he began plunging into me. The last of my embarrassment gave way to the simple happiness of being filled by him again. And somehow, amid all that passion, an occasional lingering hiccup still managed to make its presence known.

We shifted positions, our breathing mingling with the music and the steady whir of the fans. Beyond my bedroom, the rest of the evening might as well have ceased to exist. Occasionally, we reminded each other that we really ought to eat. Yet every attempt to leave the bed seemed to end in another lingering kiss, another thrust, and another orgasm thoroughly convincing us to postpone supper a while longer.

We did eventually eat. Well, perhaps eat is a generous description of my participation. I nibbled, more to appease the Woodsman than out of any genuine interest in food. My appetite was still nowhere to be found despite the evening’s rigorous activities. The Woodsman, however, wasn’t having any of it, and his determination to see me eat took such a ridiculous turn that I was laughing before I could even begin to protest.

The silly man actually started making choo-choo noises, holding a chicken nugget toward my mouth as though I were a particularly stubborn toddler who needed coaxing through supper.

I lifted my head from his lap and stared at him before bursting into giggles. The audacity of this man! I snatched the nugget from his fingers, protesting that I was capable of feeding myself, thank you very much. But the Woodsman was undeterred. He continued his ridiculous campaign, alternating between chicken nuggets, French fries, and even the occasional bite of his own hamburger, watching with unmistakable satisfaction whenever I took another bite.

He was plainly unhappy with my eating habits, and although my reluctant attempts to eat a respectable portion of supper mollified him somewhat, I suspected he remained unconvinced that I had eaten nearly enough. He was… probably correct.

My body and mind felt strangely light and heavy at once. I was exhausted, craving touch, and still carrying the weight of emotions I hadn’t expected to confront that evening. Yet there was such comfort in resting my head upon his lap while he ate, enjoying the simple luxury of being there without anywhere else I was supposed to be.

At some point, he reached for the oversized blanket draped over the arm of the couch and drew it around me, arranging it until I was completely cocooned beneath its weight. I hadn’t asked him to do it. In truth, I was so disconnected from my own physical needs that I hadn’t even realized how much I wanted it. He had merely noticed, another of those small, thoughtful gestures that seemed to come so naturally to him.

When he finished eating, he curled behind me, fitting himself around my smaller frame. I turned in his arms until my cheek rested against his bare chest, listening to the steady measure of his heart while candlelight flickered around us. We talked for a while, the remains of our long-neglected supper nearby, and for once I wasn’t concerned with keeping the conversation going or making certain someone else was enjoying themselves.

I can’t remember every subject we discussed, only that occasionally our conversation wandered into more melancholy territory. Whenever it did, one of us would reach for the other. A kiss would interrupt a thought, another would follow, and before long we’d become thoroughly distracted from whatever we’d been talking about.

There was an intimacy to those moments that reached far beyond the physical. Even when we were thoroughly lost in one another, the Woodsman continued speaking to me, offering words of affirmation with such sincerity that they battered against defenses I had spent years maintaining.

In his deep voice, he told me I was strong. Capable. He called me beautiful, sexy, desirable, and offered a dozen other lovely assurances I seldom knew how to receive. It was almost as though he had made it his personal mission to remind me of the woman he saw whenever he looked at me, hoping that perhaps, somewhere along the way, I might begin to recognize her myself.

I heard him, and there was no mistaking his sincerity, no reason to question whether he meant what he said. Yet somewhere between hearing those lovely declarations and accepting them as truths about myself, his words were fighting an uphill battle.

Sometimes I could only press my lips together and shake my head, unwilling to contradict him but equally incapable of agreeing. Other times, I drew him into another kiss, finding it infinitely easier to lose myself in his affection than to confront how thoroughly I’d lost sight of the woman he was describing.

Surely those rose-colored glasses of his were doing an unprecedented amount of work.

And still, he kept telling me.

The house had grown quiet, the candles flickering around us as sleepiness began to settle over me. I’m not quite sure what prompted me to ask. Perhaps it was the late hour, or the simple comfort of lying there together. It was certainly a possibility we had touched upon in conversation before, though only in passing, and I hadn’t given any indication that I intended to extend such an invitation that evening. Yet there I was, lying against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, when I found myself gathering the courage to use my voice.

I asked if he would like to spend the night with me.

The words emerged far more timidly than I intended, a tone above a whisper.

Oh, dear heavens. He hadn’t heard me.

Having finally found the courage to ask, I was now obliged to repeat the invitation, this time with sufficient volume for the gentleman to actually understand what I was offering. My Inner Goddess rubbed her temples in annoyance.

And he wanted to.

Very much.

Yet instead of accepting at once, the Woodsman expressed concern about my schedule the following morning. He knew I had work, and he wanted to be certain his staying wouldn’t interfere with my responsibilities. My trifling heart appreciated his thoughtfulness, since I was already mentally calculating precisely how much time I would have to get ready.

So I gave him the exact outline.

I would be up at 6:00 a.m., and I absolutely, positively had to be out the door AT 7:00 a.m. There was no room for negotiation on that notable point. I could not be late for work under any circumstances, and I wanted to be certain the gentleman understood just how seriously I meant it.

The Woodsman listened and solemnly agreed.

I breathed a sigh of relief, although a small part of me remained apprehensive. I had invited him into a part of my life I didn’t ordinarily share, and now that the invitation had been extended and accepted, I found myself both wonderfully pleased and a bit nervous about what the morning might bring.

Our evening continued in a most scandalously indulgent fashion, and I could fill entire pages attempting to describe the cataclysmic heights to which the Woodsman carried me there upon my living room couch. Good heavens, that poor piece of furniture had witnessed more hedonism in a single evening than it had any right to endure!

And how we eventually found our way back to the bedroom remains something of a mystery, for neither of us appeared particularly inclined to exercise restraint. One kiss became another, affection surrendered to lust, and lust, having thoroughly exhausted its welcome, somehow found its way back into the most wonderful affection. Again and again, we lost ourselves in one another, until I was breathless, gloriously disheveled, and quite convinced that the gentleman was determined to make a thorough mockery of my intentions to get any sleep.

Gods, there were moments when my very soul soared. I was so caught up in him, in the intoxicating closeness we shared, that I could scarcely reconcile the woman in his arms with the one who had struggled to find a reason to smile only hours before. Not because my troubles had vanished, but because, for those precious hours, they were no longer the only things I could feel.

Then, at last, came the moment that undid the frustration I’d carried all evening. Withdrawing from me and kneeling over my body, his sinews taut and muscles straining, I gushed over my fingers as I watched him pour his release over my flesh, all my pent-up frustration with my body finally free and soaking into the waterproof blanket.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or unceremoniously collapse into the sodden bed. After spending so many hours at odds with my own body, I was almost giddy with relief that it had finally answered me.

For all the riotous indulgences the Woodsman bestowed upon me that night, it was in the shower where I felt truly worshiped. More than that, I felt seen.

Joining me in my snow-white shower, the Woodsman took my sponge, worked the fragrant soap into a generous lather, and began washing me with a concentration I might have expected him to reserve for something infinitely more complicated than bathing a woman.

Nothing about it was theatrical, nothing calculated to impress me. He sincerely cared for me as though it were the most natural thing imaginable, taking his time as he swept the bubbles over my skin, between my fingers and along my legs, tending to places I hardly gave a second thought when bathing myself.

I stood beneath the running water and watched him, wondering how such an ordinary act could feel so profoundly personal. There was a peculiar vulnerability in allowing another person to perform a task I had managed well on my own for forty years, and an even greater strangeness in realizing that he genuinely wanted to do it.

It reminded me of the ancient custom of washing another person’s feet, an act of service offered not out of obligation, but as an expression of care. A way of saying that no part of someone was beneath your attention. Yet the Woodsman wasn’t making a grand gesture or attempting to teach me a lesson. He was merely washing me, and perhaps that was why it reached places inside me that all his compliments had struggled to find.

He was concerned about getting my hair wet, which I found endearing. Although I had pulled the long sapphire strands back into a knot, I explained that I didn’t mind if they got damp. He remained mindful of them all the same, keeping an eye on the spray as he worked. Then he noticed the temperature of the water and frowned down at me, questioning why it wasn’t warmer.

Unable to lie, I admitted that I had turned it down because I hadn’t wanted him to burn.

Well, that earned me a most disapproving look.

Reaching around me, he promptly adjusted the temperature, and as the welcome lava poured over my body, I could have sworn the coals of my weary heart began to glow again.

I may have been willing to stand beneath lukewarm water for his sake, but the Woodsman was having absolutely none of that nonsense. There was a wonderful irony in being gently scolded for attempting to look after the very man who had spent the evening looking after me. Apparently, he had no intention of allowing me to sacrifice my own comfort, especially when I had taken it upon myself to decide, without so much as consulting him, that his mattered more.

And then this gentle giant knelt in my bathtub.

He took my foot into his hands and began washing it, entirely unconcerned by my immediate protests that I could manage well on my own. There was absolutely nothing wrong with my ability to wash my own feet, thank you very much! But my objections fell upon deaf ears. He merely continued, supporting my foot upon his thigh as he worked the sponge across it, attending to my heel, the arch, and between my toes with the same consideration he had given the rest of me.

I looked down at him, this broad-shouldered man kneeling on the floor of my bathtub, and felt a strange ache in my chest. He wasn’t doing it because I was helpless. Yet here he was, kneeling before me, attending to a task I had never imagined a gentleman would willingly undertake.

There was no embarrassment in his manner, no suggestion that the task was beneath him. Nor did he make a performance out of his actions. My feet were simply another part of me, and therefore deserving of the same care as my hands or anywhere else.

I did not know what to make of him. This was the second time he had washed me, and I remained thoroughly bewildered by the experience. I had spent years cultivating a fiercely guarded independence, learning to anticipate my own requirements and attend to them long before there was ever a reason to ask another person for assistance. There was solidness in knowing I could manage my life without depending upon anyone else’s promises.

And yet, here I stood, watching this great, capable gentleman kneeling at my feet, performing a task I would never asked him to undertake. He wasn’t trying to prove that I required looking after, nor did he seem remotely concerned with whether I could manage it myself.

He wanted to do it anyway.

Standing there, allowing another person to attend to me, was proving far more difficult than I would ever have imagined. And yet, for all my protests, I made no genuine attempt to stop him.

Perhaps that bewildered me most of all.

Having finished washing my body, he rose to his full height, towering over me as he turned the sponge to its gentler side. One of his great hands came up to cradle my cheek and jaw, while the other brought the sponge to my face. He began at my forehead, moving across my temple, beneath my eye, over my nose, along my cheek and jaw, before returning once more to my forehead.

I closed my eyes.

What followed caught me completely unprepared. His hand supported my face as he worked, careful around my eyes, following the contours of my features with a tenderness I had never experienced in quite this way. I felt the warm water trickling down my neck, the sponge gliding across my skin, and the reassuring weight of his hand beneath my jaw. I wasn’t being admired or kissed or desired in that moment. I was being cared for with all sincerity and without any expectation that I should offer him anything in return.

Then he repeated the process on the other side, giving my face the same consideration he had bestowed upon every inch of me. When he was satisfied, he cupped clean water in his great hands and gently rinsed my face, making certain the last traces of soap were gone.

And that was when I began to cry again.

I couldn’t help it. The tears came before I could even begin to understand why, and I found myself falling against his chest, sobbing beneath the steaming water as he gathered me into his arms.

No one had ever washed my face before.

Not in all my memory.

I searched through the years, trying to recall even one occasion. Surely when I was ill? During childbirth? There had been a cold compress here and there, certainly, but nothing like this. No illness to tend, no fever to soothe, no select reason at all.

He had washed my face with such care and affection, and without the slightest concern for whether I believed myself deserving of it.

It was such a small thing, wasn’t it? A mindless task I performed every morning and evening without giving the matter much thought. He hadn’t asked permission to fuss over me, hadn’t hesitated or treated the gesture as though it required explanation. There was no tally for which I would later have to account, answer, and pay. He had merely taken my face into his hands and cared for me.

But… why?

Why would he care so much?

There I stood, without a trace of makeup remaining, save for the tiniest line of waterproof eyeliner that had evidently decided to fight for its life. My hair was damp, loose sapphire strands plastered to my temples and neck, my eyes bloodshot from crying. And there I was, sobbing against a man who had already witnessed more of my sadness that evening than I had ever intended to share.

Yet I didn’t mind him seeing me that way.

That surprised me, too.

I had no desire to hide my face or turn away until I looked more presentable. He had already seen me in alluring lingerie, sprawled across my bed, giggling over chicken nuggets, and sobbing against his chest. Now he was holding me beneath the shower, my eyeliner making its final valiant stand, and there was no carefully arranged version of myself left to present to him.

There was only me, stripped of every adornment and artifice, with all the unlovely evidence of my sadness laid bare before him.

And he was still there.

His attention didn’t falter when it came time to dry off, either. He continued caring for me as though there were nothing unusual about a gentleman taking such pains over a woman.

Gods. He was so much nicer to me than I was to myself.

And I still cannot find the words to explain what that did to my heart.

Part of me wanted to pull away, to protest, to slip from his reach and return to the reassuring business of taking care of myself. That, at least, I understood. I knew how to be capable, how to manage, how to make certain nobody ever had to trouble themselves on my behalf.

But another part of me wanted to remain right where I was, beneath his hands, allowing the unfamiliar experience of being cherished to settle somewhere deeper than my thoughts could reach.

So I leaned into his touch, accepted what he offered, and allowed myself, for one brief breath, to be the person someone else was looking after.

I didn’t understand why he wanted to give me so much of himself that evening, nor could I reconcile his generosity with the uncharitable opinions I had formed of myself.

I only knew how very much it meant to me.

And then, without the slightest ceremony, the Woodsman gathered all the wet bedding and carried it off to the wash. He made certain the door was locked, turned off the lights, and attended to those final household details I would ordinarily have managed myself before retiring.

There was no discussion about what needed doing, and surely, having never spent an evening in my home before, he couldn’t possibly have known my routines. Yet he moved through those last responsibilities without once asking me what came next. He candidly saw what needed doing and did it.

Then he slipped beneath the covers, curling up behind me until his larger frame cocooned my drowsy body, the fabric of his boxers brushing against my bottom.

It had been ninety-nine days since I had slept beside a man.

Ninety-nine days since I had shared my bed, since I had felt another person’s breathing against my skin as the evening gave way to sleep. And now that I had invited him into that space, my heart began to thunder with an anxiety I hadn’t quite anticipated. I felt the familiar burn of heartburn creeping into my chest as my mind began its dreadful procession of questions.

What if I had my nightmares? What if I woke him? What if my bed wasn’t comfortable enough? What if he wanted his own bed after all? What if he was only staying because he was being nice to me, and I had mistaken his kindness for a genuine desire to be there?

I had wanted him to stay. I had gathered the courage to ask him, and he had accepted. Yet there I was, lying beside the very man who had spent hours spoiling me from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, finding a dozen reasons to worry that I had asked too much.

And then he tucked me a little deeper against his chest and sighed.

The arm resting between my breasts tightened, drawing me nearer, and I felt his breathing gradually settle into a sedate rhythm. I thought he had fallen asleep, but every so often his thumb moved over my sternum, or an absent, soothing caress would tickle my neck. I lay there listening to his heartbeat, feeling the weight of his presence around me, until my thoughts began to lose their sharp edges.

And I slept.

Not without stirring, mind you. I was restless throughout the night, although I couldn’t have said whether it was genuine restlessness or merely the bewilderment of waking to discover a gentleman occupying my bed. After ninety-nine nights alone, the presence of another person was strange enough that I found myself repeatedly becoming aware of him, even in that hazy place between sleeping and waking.

And every time, my body went looking for his.

A part of me wanted every possible inch of us touching. Sometimes I curled against his back, fitting myself along the length of him like a kitten against the back of a timber wolf. At other times, he was behind me, his arm wrapped around my waist and my body tucked against his. I would drift away, stir, and find myself reaching for him again, craving the reassurance of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing, and the unmistakable fact that I was not alone… just for one night.

It embarrassed me a bit, even in the privacy of my own thoughts. I felt childish, perhaps even a trifle ridiculous, for wanting so much physical contact. Needy, in a way I especially disliked admitting to myself. There was a desperation for human connection beneath it that I couldn’t quite ignore, and I wondered what it said about me that I longed to be held so closely, even while sleeping.

But not once did he push me away.

He never made me feel as though I was crowding him, that I was too much, or that he wished for more space. Whether I curled around his back or nestled against his chest, he welcomed me without question.

There were even moments when I woke to find him pulling the blankets over me, tucking them beneath my knee or drawing them up over my shoulder to make certain I wasn’t cold. Sometimes I was barely awake enough to understand what he was doing before I felt the covers being arranged around me and his body settling near mine again.

My mind and soul took careful note of all of this.

My alarm came far too soon, and yet, in another respect, just in time. It was twenty minutes past five, leaving me forty glorious minutes before I absolutely had to begin getting ready. And I had plans for every single one of them.

The Woodsman lay upon his back, still asleep, and I moved as carefully as I could through the darkness before settling astride his hips. I had every intention of making excellent use of those precious minutes, but the moment I found myself surrounded by his strength and the comforting familiarity of his body, my ambitions faltered.

Instead, I sprawled across his chest.

He immediately wrapped his arms around me, drawing me close enough that I could feel his heartbeat beneath my own. I breathed in the intoxicating musk of his skin, the scent of sleep and the lingering memory of the previous night’s indulgences, and for a while I did nothing more than lie there, soaking up the extraordinary comfort of being held.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

Gods, I could have fallen asleep again.

I even chastised myself for not having done more of this during the night. For all my restless attempts to remain in contact with him, there was contentment in lying directly upon his chest, his arms encircling me, with no conversation to maintain and no reason to be anywhere else until six o’clock.

But I had plans, and the clock was certainly not going to indulge me.

I began with kisses along his neck, then his jaw, before brushing my lips against his. The gentleman stirred beneath me, and his increasingly enthusiastic response brought a smile to my face.

Still, those dreadful voices in my head were already offering their unsolicited opinions. Perhaps I ought to let him sleep. What if he hadn’t truly meant it when he’d suggested I could wake him in the flagitious fashion I now intended? Was I being too much again?

I gave him every opportunity to push me away, roll over, and go back to sleep. Yet his response, sleepy though it was, left little doubt that my advances were welcome.

And so, encouraged by his reception, I continued, maneuvering farther up his body until I was perched above him, the tips of his ears brushing my inner thighs. I inhaled and slowly exhaled as he shifted downward to give me a bit more room away from the headboard.

His muffled, eager moan was unmistakable as I steadied myself, lowering my pussy to his waiting lips. I quivered as his beard tickled my skin, but it was his enthusiastic reception that sent a flutter through my stomach, banishing the last of my hesitation.

He wrapped his arms around my hips, his palms braced against my lower back, keeping me securely balanced as he devoured me. My senses burst like falling stars. There, there… there… My Inner Goddess was spiraling, slipping beyond my grasp beneath the twinkling stars and the faint glow of approaching dawn, with the Woodsman’s wicked mouth making a delightful mockery of all my earlier hesitation.

And he didn’t rush. Good heavens, the gentleman was determined to make every second count. His mouth met my pussy with unbridled enthusiasm, his tongue sweeping against my petals before retreating, only to return as I felt myself fracture, my knuckles white against the headboard rail. His mouth was tireless, sending me into wave after wave of euphoria, each one deeper and more demanding than the last. His jaw shifted, tongue delving deeper, the scratch of his beard heightening my sensitivity, my pleasure, my cries of release.

My wings were spread wider than ever.

A distinctly magnificent way to begin a morning.

Craving more and hardly sated, I slid lower, straddling his hips once more.

My morning plans were far from finished. I reached between us, stroking him as I guided him to my apex, wet and glistening from his ministrations. Filled and stretched, I surrendered to another glorious climax.

The first pale suggestion of dawn was creeping into the room. There was no sense of urgency between us despite the approaching hour, and I found myself caught up in the pleasure of being wanted and welcomed, of discovering that his attentiveness had not disappeared with the arrival of morning.

Had it always been like this between us, or was I merely experiencing it differently because, for once, my mind had found a measure of calm?

I wasn’t sure.

During a brief pause, my thighs still shaking and my breath coming in ragged, meagre gasps, the Woodsman admitted that he needed to use the ensuite.

Instantly, I attempted to flee, mortified that I had kept the poor gentleman from attending to such a basic necessity. He, however, had other ideas, catching me before I could escape and drawing me straight back into his arms.

There I was, torn between the lingering excitement of our morning together and my desperate desire to let the man use the bathroom.

Gods, I was trying to be considerate, but he was making a most persuasive argument against leaving the bed.

When he returned, I had discovered my small toy. Far from taking offense, he stretched himself along my side, lavishing kisses and caresses upon each breast in turn. His fingers trailed around my nipple, distracting and amplifying the fever already coursing through my veins. His forefinger and thumb pinched my nipple between them, just on the edge of pain. The fire building within me began to intensify with every vibration. My chest heaved, my thoughts scattered, but the Woodsman was relentless in his aid.

I had hardly begun to recover when the Woodsman was there again, drawing me beneath him. The mattress dipped under his weight, and I clung to his shoulders, wrapping my legs around him. And then he was buried inside, his thick cock destroying my composure, and I abandoned any attempt to muffle my cries.

It was glorious in the darkness of my bedroom. Even without being able to see his expression clearly, I could feel his eyes upon me, watching and cataloging every tremor, every gasp, every utterly unguarded reaction.

Gods, the awareness of being watched made it all the more intoxicating.

Then the alarm rang for the final time.

Even that dreadful interruption failed to persuade us to part immediately. We lingered for a few more precious moments before he helped me rise, despite my considerably theatrical objections.

And there he lay, sprawled across my bed like some magnificent Greek god, looking altogether too tempting for a woman expected to behave like a respectable professional in less than an hour. Gods, the man was distracting. I told him as much, letting my fingertips wander across his chest, tracing the contours of his shoulders before following the lines of his stomach. I was in no hurry to stop admiring him, either. The Woodsman frowned and shook his head at my compliments.

It took an outrageous amount of willpower to tear myself away from that bed. I slipped into my black negligee, its high slits and whispering hem making a rather raffish argument against getting dressed for work.

The Woodsman was off the bed and behind me before I could give the matter another thought.

His hands caught my hips, pushing the hem of my negligee up to my waist as he drew me back against him. The head of his cock grazed my slit, up and down, up and down, wetting himself; I moaned, delighted by this turn of events. He held me fast, pinned between him and my bed as he thrust in. My eyes rolled back, and I clenched my teeth to keep the neighbors from hearing my cries. But he didn’t stop dragging his thick cock through me, and I was melting, caught between the rising waves and my desperate need for him. My fingers clawed the sheets as I forgot about getting ready for work.

Gods.

I wanted to play hooky.

I wanted to remain in that disordered bed with him, letting the entire day pass in a succession of kisses, tangled limbs, and all the splendid distractions we could possibly imagine. Why on earth had I been so adamant about leaving at seven?

Wordlessly, the Woodsman drew me upright. His hand traveled from my throat to my jaw, turning my face over my shoulder until his lips found mine. I leaned back against him, my fingers closing around his wrist as the kiss deepened. His beard grazed my cheek, and his mouth lingered upon mine until I was dangerously close to dragging him straight back into bed with me.

Well.

That settled it.

I was absolutely going to skip work.

Unfortunately, the Woodsman had retained possession of the good sense I had so enthusiastically misplaced.

With a groan, he released me and ushered me toward the ensuite, evidently determined to honor the very schedule I had impressed upon him the night before.

Frustrating man.

I gave him my most indignant look. Quite audaciously, I might add. After all, the Woodsman had spent the better part of the evening and morning making it exceedingly difficult for me to think about anything other than him, and now the wretched gentleman was insisting that I behave like a responsible adult and go to work.

I assumed that was the end of his spoiling, but I was mistaken.

He stretched himself across the foot of my bed, propped his chin upon his hands, and settled into what could not possibly have been a comfortable position, all for the apparent purpose of watching me prepare for the day. He didn’t reach for his phone, didn’t roll over and go back to sleep (which I would have found perfectly acceptable), nor did he occupy himself with messages while waiting for me to finish my morning preparations.

I told him he ought to get a bit more sleep, especially considering how much of the night we’d spent otherwise occupied, but he remained right where he was, his handsome face turned toward me as I moved between the bedroom, closet, and ensuite.

He just watched me, and I blush even now to think of it.

There was a peculiar intimacy in having his undivided attention while performing the mundane rituals of getting ready for work. He had seen me in far more compromising circumstances, yet by all appearances, he was content to lie there, following my movements with those keen eyes of his.

He was being so very good. I, however, was not.

Every time I passed within reach, I found an excuse to catch him in my arms. I pressed myself against him, stealing kisses as I traveled between the bedroom, closet, and ensuite, my body aching with the desire to forsake the entire morning’s preparations. He returned every kiss with twice the ardor, yet never pressed me for more. I was the instigator, the impudent creature who repeatedly abandoned her responsibilities for the sake of one more kiss.

And I may or may not have pranced. There. I’ve confessed it.

I was well aware that he was watching me dress, and I took scabrous satisfaction in showing off my body as I moved about the room. Every garment I put on felt like an unfortunate concession to civilization. More than anything, I wanted him to persuade me to take the lot off again. Or better yet, rip them off completely. Sigh.

Whenever I caught him in my arms, he worried about disturbing my hair or smudging my makeup. I couldn’t have cared less. Let my coworkers wonder about the disordered makeup and the inexplicable lightness in my step. My Inner Goddess knew what she wanted, and she was making her preferences abundantly clear.

As I wove the curling iron through my sapphire hair, my thoughts wandered back to the night before, to the moment when the Woodsman had swept me into his arms.

We had been kissing for several glorious minutes when I became acutely conscious of my weight, suddenly worried that I was asking too much of him. I began attempting to lower myself to the floor, but the gentleman would have none of it. He caught my leg before my feet could find the ground, drew it securely around his waist, and told me to clasp my arms about his neck.

And I did – gods, the virility of that man.

He held me aloft with a low, primal growl, as though supporting me required no greater effort than drawing another breath. His assurance in the way he carried me – such unmistakable brawny strength – I felt wonderfully feminine in his arms. I could still recall the breadth of his shoulders beneath my fingers, the solidity of his chest against mine, and the rather heady realization that I could surrender my weight to him without fear of falling.

With a shift of his hips, he was thrusting inside me with the force of a piston; each movement sent me higher, each descent nearly splitting me in two. My entire body spasmed, and my fingers grappled for purchase around his neck as I clung to him, astonished by the strength of the man holding me aloft.

For feck’s sake! My Inner Goddess could only gape in astonishment as I splintered over and over again in midair.

When he brought me back to the bed, he didn’t stop the rampage until I was left breathless, my fingers knotted in the sheets, my body glistening with bliss and perspiration.

The recollection was enough to make my toes curl all over again. I unwound another sapphire strand from the curling iron, a dash resentful of the professional obligations standing between me and a repetition of the previous night’s escapades.

The Woodsman, however, remained infuriatingly responsible, insisting that I finish getting ready.

I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. How securely they had held me, how one had clutched my throat, his fingers wrapping around with strength but never violence, and how those very same fingers could cup my cheek or brush the tears from my face. I had spent much of the evening admiring them, fascinated by the contradiction of a man so towering, so wonderfully rugged, yet so remarkably attentive to the smallest details of my comfort.

And his attentiveness extended far beyond physical affection. Throughout the evening, he had offered Words of Affirmation with such generosity that I hardly knew what to do with them. He told me I was strong, capable, desirable, a good mother, and a woman worthy of admiration. Not as though he were reciting compliments he imagined a lady might wish to hear, but as though these were truths he genuinely believed and wished, with some part of his heart, that I might believe them too.

Between those words and his affectionate Physical Touch, I might have considered myself thoroughly spoiled.

But the Woodsman was not finished.

Without a word, without being asked or receiving so much as a hint from me, and without any obligation to concern himself with the domestic affairs of a woman whose home he was merely visiting, he began offering Acts of Service. In truth, he had started the evening before, cleaning up from dinner, seeing to the locks, and ensuring the house was secure before we retired.

Yet it was what happened the following morning that quite undid me.

I was putting the finishing touches on my mascara when I turned into the bedroom and discovered the Woodsman making my bed.

My bed!

And beautifully, too! Not merely tossing the comforter over a jumble of rumpled sheets and declaring the task accomplished. No, he was actually making it properly, straightening the covers, adding the docorative pillows, and attending to the room as though it were the most natural occupation for a gentleman on a weekday morning.

Nor was this his first domestic undertaking. He had already seen to the laundry from the night before, straightened the comforter upon the couch, collected all the glasses, and was now gathering the rubbish from the kitchen. He even paused to inquire whether I wished to add the contents of my bedroom wastebasket to what he was taking outside.

I blinked at him.

What?

When had he even noticed the kitchen rubbish?

Naturally, I protested. I was capable of making my own bed, washing my own sheets, and taking out my own rubbish, thank you very much! All such mundane housekeeping. His consideration was appreciated, certainly, but I assured him that the rubbish was hardly a matter of pressing concern.

The Woodsman would hear none of it and carried on with the task, my personal rubbish in tow.

And there were reasons these gestures mattered beyond the obvious convenience of having fewer chores. My babes were returning that evening, and while I had no desire to erase every indication that I had enjoyed the company of a friend, I was conscientious about maintaining a home in which my children would always feel secure and comfortable. Knowing they would return from a long day to a well-ordered home was of paramount importance to me.

His assistance meant one less task for me to race around and manage before I departed, one less responsibility awaiting me when I returned. Yet I had never breathed a word of any of this to him. Why would I? Setting my house to rights was my responsibility, and I had never imagined it should concern a guest.

Not to mention, Acts of Service had never occupied the highest position among the ways I felt most loved and seen. I was accustomed to doing things for myself. Not because I believed others incapable, nor because I harbored some grand ambition to prove my independence, but because there was a wounded part of me that could not bear the thought of becoming a burden. Of inconveniencing another person. Of being regarded as lazy or a problem requiring attention, or accepting a kindness that might one day be presented as a debt I was expected to repay.

And yet here was the Woodsman, moving about my home with such ease, attending to matters I hadn’t even realized he’d noticed. He hadn’t made promises or offered elaborate assurances of how helpful he intended to be. He had merely observed what remained to be done and done it.

I hardly knew what to say, much less how to receive it.

Were there strings attached? Was I expected to reciprocate? Did I owe him now, even in some insignificant way?

To the world, it was only a bed. A few glasses. Some laundry. A bag of rubbish.

And yet, for once, I hadn’t been the one who had to think of everything that morning.

When I was dressed and nearly presentable, he pulled me close and confessed that he had wanted to make me breakfast.

Breakfast?!

Once again, that most eloquent of questions escaped my lips.

“What?”

I could recall only one other occasion, years ago, when a gentleman with whom I wasn’t even romantically involved had taken it upon himself to prepare breakfast for me after a one-time sleepover. But that had been a leisurely Saturday morning, with nowhere in particular to be and no obligations clamoring for my attention.

Breakfast before work? On a weekday? Made by a guest in my home?!

The very notion was unheard of!

The Woodsman explained that he had hesitated because he wasn’t certain how I would feel about someone rummaging through my kitchen without permission.

Well, first of all, I wouldn’t have minded in the slightest. I always wanted my guests to feel at home. And second, he absolutely did not have to do such a thing for me.

And thirdly, I had a fiber bar in my satchel. Easy. Convenient. Sufficient sustenance for a woman with the weight of a financial kingdom upon her shoulders. And, perhaps most importantly, it meant nobody had to go out of their way to take care of me.

Even when camping, I had strategically arrived two hours early so I could have everything unpacked and arranged before the others appeared. Even at the end, I had packed as much as possible the night before, determined to manage the final morning without requiring anyone’s assistance. It wasn’t that my friends wouldn’t have helped me. I knew perfectly well that many of them would have. But I had made an art of having no needs, expressing no wants, and requiring no help whatsoever.

Chin tilted up, my eyes searching his, I quailed a little beneath his unmistakable look of disapproval.

He rolled his eyes and informed me that a fiber bar was hardly a suitable breakfast. Nevertheless, he assured me that he would remember for next time.

Next time?

There was an enchanting presumption tucked into those two words, wasn’t there? Not a declaration, nor some extravagant promise, but the casual suggestion that he could already envision another morning in my company, another opportunity to make certain I was properly fed before being dispatched into the day.

I shook my head and insisted that breakfast was unnecessary. I would not be an imposition.

I sat down to put on my delicate heels, my mind still torn between wanting to crawl back into bed and the impending demands of my day. Unfortunately, the leather was new, and the tiny clasp on my Mary Janes was proving especially troublesome in the dim morning light. I struggled to thread the narrow strap through its fastening, growing increasingly vexed with the entire undertaking.

Heaven have mercy. Without a word, the Woodsman knelt before me. Again!

Before I could muster a respectable objection, he took my foot and rested it upon his thigh, turning it at just the right angle to guide the stubborn strap through its clasp. Those hands, which had occupied so many of my thoughts that morning, were now attending to the tiniest buckle upon my shoe.

When he’d finished the first, he motioned for the other. I protested and attempted to tuck my foot away, assuring him that I was quite capable of managing that one; the first had merely been troublesome. He caught my ankle and looked up at me.

“I know you can do it, but I want to do it.”

After an entire evening and morning of leaving me astonished, the Woodsman had managed to explain himself in a few unassuming words.

And heavens, what was a girl supposed to do with a gentleman like that?

There he knelt, this proud protector of the forests, fastening the delicate strap of my Mary Jane with all the care he might bestow upon a treasured possession. Once satisfied, he gently returned my foot to the floor.

Naturally, I pulled him close for another kiss. My Inner Goddess, the shameless creature, had already set her sights upon the couch. I was wearing a skirt, after all, and she had devised a most improper argument for postponing our departure. For once, I found myself in wholehearted agreement with the hussy.

The Woodsman returned my kiss with equal ardor, but then drew away, gathered my tiny hands into his calloused ones, and helped me to my feet, insisting that it was time to leave.

The wretched man was determined to get me to work! I had stated my boundaries and obligations the night before, when my judgment had been considerably less susceptible to his charms, and he was honoring them despite my increasingly persuasive attempts to lead him astray.

I confess I was a wee bit ashamed of myself for putting him in such a position, particularly when he was respecting the very limits I had established. My Inner Goddess, however, suffered no such pangs of conscience.

The minx.

Without further discussion, he relieved me of my work bags before I had quite finished gathering them, leaving my hands conspicuously empty. Then, with my belongings in his possession, he opened the door and stood aside for me to pass.

I looked at him quizzically. Every time I thought he had exhausted his repertoire of thoughtful gestures, he found another opportunity to spoil me! At this rate, I was in grave danger of becoming accustomed to such treatment, and I wasn’t at all certain what to make of that prospect.

I glanced at the clock.

6:54 a.m.

Six fifty-four!

He wasn’t merely making certain I would be on time. The roguish gentleman had somehow managed to get me ready to leave early.

I hardly knew whether to be impressed by his accomplishment or chagrined by my own libertine attempts to thwart it.

He checked that my door was locked and escorted me to my car, carrying my bags as naturally as he’d carried the laundry and rubbish. When we reached the vehicle, he handed everything over, then caught me in his arms and kissed me so thoroughly that I very nearly forgot the professional obligations awaiting me.

But the Woodsman, having apparently appointed himself guardian of my punctuality, stepped back and reminded me once more that I was beautiful and smart.

Then he turned and walked away, my rubbish in his hand.

I stood watching him go, still puzzled by a gentleman who had spent the better part of twelve hours finding ways to care for me without ever being asked. My mind wandered over the evening and morning we’d shared, lingering upon gestures both grand and inconsequential, each one finding its own place in my recollection.

Even the rubbish.

And at 6:55 a.m., with my shoes fastened, my hands upon the steering wheel, and the memory of his last bruising kiss still lingering upon my lips, I thought of the woman who had gone to bed after ninety-nine nights alone, never imagining what the following morning might hold.

Little did I know how often I would revisit those hours in the days that followed, how the most unexpected details would return to me at the most inconvenient moments, leaving me smiling at my own recollections and wondering what on earth I was to make of that recalcitrant Woodsman.

Until next time, XO. Elsie