Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
"Yeah. Couldn't leave them. They are the ones with names. The others are just rocks, but these ones are the ones I couldn’t live without."
He shifts against me, his chest rumbling, laying a kiss on my cheek, the roughness of his beard reminding me of the redness he leaves behind on my inner thighs. “Lay it on me. I want to know all their names.”
“Really?” I turn to see him raise his eyebrows.
“A good Daddy knows all the names of his baby’s friends. Now, tell me.”
I spend the next few minutes running down the details of each rock and their names, and why I named them what I did. Jack acts like I’m telling him the world’s greatest secrets, and the truth is no one has ever made me feel this special except my dad.
After, once he’s set me up with my pole, his in his hands, he nods toward the picture-perfect surroundings.
"Most dangerous thing about fishing isn't the hooks, it’s the water," he explains, voice deepening into that instructional tone that makes my spine tingle. He points downstream. "Don't go beyond that big pine where the bank narrows. Spring runoff makes the banks muddy."
I nod, stomach tightening at his command. Not from defiance but from the thrill of how naturally he expects to be obeyed.
The creek cuts through the forest like a silver ribbon, sunlight fracturing across its surface in diamond patterns. The air smells of pine sap and wet earth, cleaner than any air I've breathed before. Birds call overhead—names I don't know yet, but Jack probably does. A fish jumps upstream, the splash drawing both our gazes before it disappears back into the current.
Jack shows me how to cast, his body curved around mine, arms encircling me like living brackets. His chest presses against my back, the heat of him burning through my thin t-shirt. His breath stirs the hair at my nape, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. He smells like woodsmoke and pine, with that underlying male scent that makes my stomach tighten every time I catch it.
"Feel the pulse of the line," he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. "Gentle. Patient."
Neither adjective describes what's happening between my legs as his massive body surrounds mine. Or what's happening against my lower back, where the unmistakable ridge of his hardness presses against me.
"You're not listening," he rumbles, amusement darkening his voice. "My little girl have something else on her mind?”
"No," I lie, cheeks heating. "I'm concentrating."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "I feel your heartbeat. Racing like a trapped rabbit."
His teeth graze my earlobe.
I shift slightly, wiggling myself against his erection. "So, was this a…problem you’ve always had? A constant state of…thickness?”
His grip tightens on my waist, fingertips digging into my hip bones. "Nope. Only when you’re around. I’ve resigned myself to having a hard-on for the rest of my life."
The rest of his life.
The casual way he says it—like we have a future beyond next week, beyond next month—catches me off guard. My breath hitches, and I feel him go still behind me, sensing the shift.
"That scare you?" he asks, voice dropping lower. Not a challenge, but a genuine question.
I swallow hard. "No.” I answer, but the truth is much more complicated.
Am I scared? Yes. I’ve fallen down into a deep hole with Jack and if he decides that play time is over, I already know my heart will never recover.
His chin comes to rest on top of my head, his chest expanding against my back with a deep breath.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and those two words light up my nervous system like a Christmas tree. He steps back, rummaging for something in the wooden tackle box a few feet away.
He told me he built it himself when he was only ten. Made from scraps he found behind his father's woodshop. I asked about his father and his demeanor changed.
"He was a mean drunk," Jack said. "Cheated on our mom. Hit her once. Only once." His voice turned dark and heavy. "Me and my brothers made sure of that."
I left it alone after that. I don’t want to push, and sometimes, less is more.
I focus on the fishing, the water, the way sunlight filters through the pines. The day stretches lazy and warm around us.
That's when I see them—gleaming just beneath the water's surface, twenty feet downstream. The distinctive honeycomb pattern of Petoskey stones, partially buried in the riverbed where the bank cuts sharply away.
Jack is busy re-baiting his hook, crouched down, his back to me. I want to surprise him, bring back a perfect Petoskey, which for me is like giving someone a diamond or a new truck. Neither of which are even close to my budget, so a free rock might not seem like much, but to me, it’s precious.
I lower my rod to the grass and edge away, keeping my footsteps quiet on the soft earth. The bank narrows as I approach the stones, mud giving way to a sloping gravel incline. I crouch carefully, extending my arm toward the submerged treasures.