Master of the Mountain

over her head, securing the cuffs tightly enough that her breasts would arch up. Of teasing those soft pink nipples until she… Like hell. Shy, modest Rebecca indulge in kink? Not gonna happen.

And although he might play at vanilla sex a time or two, he wanted more. Needed more. And could easily get more. A competent Dom rarely lacked for partners. Yet he couldn't help but wonder what Rebecca's whimpers would sound like if he tied her down and teased her until she begged for release.

He scowled. She'd better stay away from him. If she didn't, he'd teach her things the swingers had never thought of.

* * * * *

Rebecca showered and dressed, wrinkling her nose at having to put on yesterday's clothing. Matt had better have that blonde…person gone by after breakfast or she'd pound the door in.

Coffee. She needed coffee before her brain would work. And she definitely needed caffeine before she thought about last night and this morning. Matthew. Logan. Sex.

Need coffee…

She walked down the stairs and checked the lodge. Someone-probably Logan-had built the fire up, and the warmth radiated through the room. Only three people remained, twined together on the biggest couch. The man lifted his head at the sound of Rebecca's soft footsteps, then shook the women on top of him. “You two are supposed to make breakfast, remember?”

“Hell with that. I'm sleeping in,” one woman said.

“If I try to cook, I'll puke, dammit,” the other woman whined. “Why did you let me drink so much last night?”

“Like I could stop you?” The man's head dropped back onto the arm of the couch. Sighs, grumbles, and then silence.

Shaking her head, Rebecca headed for the kitchen. Empty. She started the coffeemaker, leaning on the counter for support until she could coax a cupful out, then burned her mouth on the first few gulps. As the caffeine began to work, it seemed as if the world brightened from muted tones to the full spectrum of life as her brain sparked to life. No matter what historians claimed, BC really stood for “Before Coffee.”

After drinking another cup, she surveyed the possibilities for breakfast. The fridge held pounds of bacon, cartons of eggs, and butter. Potatoes in a bin. Flour and salt in a cupboard. She hadn't cooked for more than two people since her job during college, but no one forgot how to scramble eggs, and it gave her something useful to do.

And something to take her mind off last night. The memory of Logan's solid body seemed imprinted on hers. She scrubbed the potatoes and remembered how he'd pressed her into the mattress and kissed her, his cock jutting against her stomach. Would she have let him take her if he'd tried?

Her thighs pressed together over a suddenly throbbing clit. Why hadn't she been braver? Or less brave? If she'd been adamant about her refusal, he wouldn't have pushed, and she wouldn't feel so… sleazy and very embarrassed. And hot.

Dammit, why couldn't she have gotten interested in a swinger or two instead? They were not nearly as scary. What he'd done to her…pinning her arms down. The way he'd talked and watched her. She blew out a breath. Very exciting and very frightening in a way.

Finger fucked. What a term. And that was just what he'd done. Her insides quivered at the memory of his callused finger slick with her own wetness, sliding through her folds, pushing deep inside her. She had never come like that in her life. Ever. “Stop,” she'd told him, and “Oh, not quite yet,” he'd answered and just kept doing what he wanted with her body.

Matt's constant asking what she wanted in bed had annoyed her. Logan didn't ask, and her body loved it. That was absolutely the most frightening thing about this whole matter. She'd never considered herself a needy woman or a pushover, but she sure acted that way with him. So where did that leave her?

The sex…okay, totally awesome. The man…gorgeous. The possible consequences…not to be borne. No more messing around with Logan. If she wanted to explore kinky sex, she should practice on one of the good-looking swingers. One of the very available swingers.

She set the potato down in the sink and stared out the window at the surrounding forest. They were available, she repeated to herself. Available and all too willing to screw any woman in the place. Knowing that pretty much killed any attraction for her. With a huff of a laugh, she picked up the potato and resumed scrubbing. Monogamous “R” me.

Shaking her head, she remembered the fantasy she'd had before agreeing to try this weekend. Now that she thought about it, her fantasy hadn't included a multitude of men, but just one. Some man would come into her room. Maybe she would hesitate, and he'd grab her, pin her to the mattress, force her to cooperate. She scowled. That sounded like her morning with Logan. So what did that say about her?

Don't want to swing; do want to be pushed around? She bit her lip. Talk about politically incorrect, especially for a feminist like her.

As she grated potatoes, she considered her options for the rest of the weekend and came to one conclusion. Matt would simply have to take her home. She couldn't tolerate staying another night, watching Matt messing around, and dodging the other men. She'd made a mistake. Big-time.

Her lips curved. But this morning made up for a lot, even if it left her unsettled. And damned confused. He'd restrained her hands; why should that make her so hot?

Home. Time to go home, Rebecca. A twinge of guilt ran through her. Such a long drive. By the time Matt had taken her home and returned back here, the day would be gone.

Nevertheless.

She put the potatoes on to fry and whipped up some drop biscuits before putting the bacon in the oven. She smiled as the fragrance filled the room.

Serena and Greg wandered into the kitchen, looking fairly cheerful.

“I'm starving,” Greg said, shoving his wire-rims up on his nose. “I thought there'd be food by now. Weren't Ginger and Amy supposed to cook today?”

“They're a bit under the weather,” Rebecca said lightly. “And I'm an early riser.” She tucked the biscuits in the hot oven with a satisfaction that she hadn't felt in a long time. Cooking just for herself never seemed worth the bother.

After flipping the hash browns, she started cracking eggs. As she counted in her head, she heard something scratch at the back door and then a low whine. The eggshell shattered in her hand.

Greg headed for the back door.

“No!” Rebecca's pulse started to race. “No dogs in the kitchen.” Ever.

“He just sits right there inside the door,” Greg said. “He always gets to come in and-”

“Absolutely not.” Rebecca glared at him until he gave up.

“How do you know how much to make?” Serena asked. “I've never cooked breakfast for more than four before.”

Rebecca wiped off her hand, then poured in some milk. “I worked my way through college cooking in a fraternity. The frat mom grew up on a ranch in Texas, so I learned country cooking.” Thank you, Maybelle. She seasoned the eggs and then frowned. “Did I see cheese in the fridge?”

A second later, a block of cheese appeared on the counter. “Thank-” Her voice stuck in her throat as her eyes took in the hand holding the cheese. Dark tan, scars along the knuckles. Powerful and strong. She knew how easily those hands could pin a woman to the bed. Her stomach fluttered as if host to a wayward bird. “Thank you.” Hauling in a bracing breath, she looked up.

His cheek creased, and his eyes crinkled. “You're welcome, sugar. It smells good.”

Surely the heat in her face came from the oven.

Logan ran a finger down her cheek, moving closer until his chest brushed against her breasts. Her nipples tightened almost painfully as if they remembered his touch. As if they ached for more.

Bending down, he murmured, “Those pink cheeks, little rebel, make me wonder what you're thinking