Lumber Jacked

By: Jessa James

Chapter One


“I will be so pissed if I die delivering this jerk his groceries,” I muttered to myself as I gripped the joystick and tried to ignore the bouncing of my old floatplane.

That was impossible since the last drop had my stomach relocating in my throat. The sky had turned a nasty dark gray twenty minutes ago, the kind that didn’t bode well for me, the only pilot crazy enough to go out flying in my dad’s twenty year old tin can of an airplane.

I should be on the ground with my face in a textbook, but Jack-ass Simms, the spoiled city slicker, had his groceries delivered every week and I wasn’t going to shirk my job. I was the lucky one—not—who kept him from starving to death. Since he lived out in the bush, nearly two hours from Anchorage by plane, it’s not like he could pop into the city to pick stuff up. There was a small fishing village about thirty minutes drive from his place, but I delivered there, too.

Another rollercoaster dip made the plane shudder and I fought to stay on course.

The man, Jack, or Jack-ass as I thought of him, just oozed money. Old money. Silver-spoon money. I had no idea why he quit the city and came up to Alaska. Most people who came up here did it for one of two reasons. One, they had the wilds in their blood. Jack Simms was handsome and rugged, had muscles to die for, but he didn’t exactly fit in with the rugged lumberjack crowd that frequented the local bars all summer. And since living out in nature wasn’t in his blood, that left option two…the rest of them came up here to hide. From the law. From an ex. Whatever. It didn’t really matter, but I knew how much people out in the bush depended on deliveries like mine. And I wasn’t about to let the man starve. Which meant I got the unlucky job of visiting him once a week.

If I could just look my fill and leave, that would be fine. But as with most people up here, he didn’t get much company. When he did, he liked to come out to the plane, say hi, chat me up for as long as it took me to unload.

Despite long months of weekly conversations, I didn’t know much about him other than the fact he was somewhere over thirty, tall, tan, drop-dead gorgeous and liked S’mores flavored PopTarts. Not that I’d ever admit to him that he was hot as hell. His clothes always fit a little too well to be from the local co-op, even if they were the rugged look that everyone in the area wore. He had one of those Grecian noses with cheekbones that made me want to rub my face on his like a cat. While he was pretty low key about the fact that we were two of the only youngish, single people in the area, I saw how his chocolate brown eyes wandered to my breasts and my ass, when I unloaded his groceries every week.

I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t wander, too. I figured I owed it to women everywhere to check him out, to take careful note of the bulge of his pecs under his flannel shirts, the veins that ran up his forearms, the tanned skin on the back of his neck. His dark, dark brown hair was getting longer each week—he needed a haircut. Either that, or he needed to let my fingers run through the unruly locks. I wanted to tug that hair, wanted to rip that flannel shirt off him. Wanted to climb him like a goddamn tree and have him press me up against the wall of his cabin and fuck me until I couldn’t breathe.

He’d be good, too. I had no doubt he knew just how to get a woman to beg for more.

Yeah, thoughts of him wielding his cock like a weapon were working well to distract myself from the choppy skies that bounced me around my cockpit seat. I shook myself out of my fantasy sex reverie and took a quick glance at the dashboard. The pressure had built around the cockpit, a sign that the turbulence was only going to get worse.

Don’t think about it, just fly, I heard my dad’s voice in my head.

He’d taught me to fly when I was just a kid. Since I was old enough to buckle my own straps I flew with him on his runs when I wasn’t in school, even learned to do my homework in the co-pilot’s seat without getting plane sick. I got my pilot’s license the day I turned eighteen and we had a party at the hangar. Now that he was gone, I’d taken over his routes, his plane, everything. His business became mine. Flying was what I loved and I was really fucking good at it. But these storms were always a bitch. They were rough when one was on the ground. In the air….