Måns Elemander had A Plan. A researched and well-thought-out one, devised to help him avoid getting lost while foraging for mushrooms in an unfamiliar forest. But his cell phone battery didn’t get the memo, died unexpectedly, and thwarted The Plan, leaving Måns with a basket full of mushrooms, but no idea where to go. Until the sounds of someone chopping wood reaches him.
Måns follows the sound and finds a quaint cabin ... and its owner, Viggo Moberg. Viggo is kind, understanding of the situation, and willing to help. He’s also smoking hot and their connection is instant, threatening to ignite and burn down the woods. Will the sparks burn fast and fizzle out, or will the attraction grow roots, just like the trees in the forest?
“Oh, God,” I whisper. I somehow got lost in the forest and managed to meet the hottest guy on the whole goddamned planet, who is also kind and generous? What did I do to deserve this?
I make sure I have all my things and that they are in order and ready to go. Then I take a detour to the kitchen and fill a glass with water. It’s wonderfully refreshing, and I drink it slowly, savoring it.
When I turn to walk out the door, I spot someone else outside. A guy, quite a bit younger than Viggo by the looks of him, maybe in his late twenties.
I frown. When did he get here? I didn’t hear a car. Was I that focused on my host that I missed an approaching vehicle? Being this inattentive is something that definitely will see me eaten by bears if the Internet was wrong about the bear population in this part of the country.
The visiting guy steps close to Viggo. Closer than two straight guys would stand in polite society.
“Figures,” I grumble under my breath. Of course, a nice guy like Viggo is taken. I can’t even be happy he’s obviously into guys when he’s unavailable.
Oh well. That’s life.
I put on my backpack, pick up the overflowing mushroom basket, and step outside.
The newcomer is standing even closer to Viggo now, one hand resting on Viggo’s chest. But Viggo’s narrowed eyes and scrunched up forehead tells me he’s not all that happy about it.
The sound of the door closing behind me catches Viggo’s attention, and his face brightens. “There you are,” he says and backs away from the guy’s touch, then jogs to meet me as I descend the few steps from the porch.
When he reaches me, he flings his arm around my neck, whispers, “I’m sorry,” and I don’t even have the time to ask “for what?” before he kisses me.
He kisses me.
His lips are soft and so is his beard, surprisingly. His fingers caress my neck and when I look into his eyes, they are pleading with me, so I wrap my arm around his waist, press myself against him like I have all the right in the world, and open my mouth to let him in.
His tongue nudges mine and send sparks of electricity into my bloodstream. I let my eyelids fall closed and tighten my grip on his waist. His free hand lands on my waist as he deepens the kiss, making me lose my grip on the basket full of mushrooms that falls to the ground with a hearty thud, and I lay my now unoccupied hand on his hip. His tongue caresses mine, lighting my body on fire with every stroke. His scent -- hard work and pine trees -- surrounds me and drugs me.
He hums into my mouth as my hand finds its way up his back until I’m resting on his muscular shoulder. Another swipe of his tongue makes my hard dick pulse and I’m ecstatic to feel his corresponding bulge pressing against mine.
A loud “What the hell?” interrupts our much unexpected make-out session and forces us apart. I can’t help the whimper in protest that escapes me.
“What are you doing, Viggo?” The guy’s voice is loud and is answered by a distant, annoyed-sounding caw from a crow.
Viggo pulls away but doesn’t turn around immediately. Are you okay? he mouths.
Yes, I mouth back.
What just happened?
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