The summer sun was high over Timber Hollow, pouring golden light over dusty pickup trucks, porch swings, and the faint scent of cedarwood from the sawmill drifting down Main Street. Jack Johnson, all six-foot-five of him, stood outside the hardware store in a fitted black tee that clung to his chest and shoulders like it was afraid to let go. His jeans were worn just right—low on his hips, snug over thighs thick with muscle—and his arms were crossed as he leaned back against the bed of his truck.
He’d just come in for some mineral oil and a fresh box of sandpaper. But as always, he was the one turning heads.
The locals nodded respectfully—some men with subtle envy, some with knowing smirks. The women offered slow, sweet smiles. The older ones? Flushed like schoolgirls. The younger ones? Bolder. Hungrier. Everyone in town knew: Jack wasn’t just the quiet lumberjack who made handcrafted furniture. He was an experience.
Jack noticed them the moment they stepped out of their black SUV—a family clearly not from around here.
The woman was the first to catch his eye.
Tall, lush, with thick brunette hair in a soft updo and a body that turned heads without trying. She wore a low-cut sundress with a cinched waist that framed her hourglass figure perfectly. Her breasts—full and proud—shifted with every step, and the curves of her hips rocked beneath the thin fabric like they had a mind of their own. Her smile was polished, but her eyes lingered when she saw Jack.
Trailing her was her husband—slightly balding, button-up shirt tucked too tight into khakis, his eyes already narrowing as he noticed the way his wife glanced back at Jack.
And then… their daughter.
Slender, fresh-faced, bright-eyed. Her long blond hair bounced with each step, her jean shorts cut high on the thigh and her tank top clinging like it had been washed one too many times. Her lips parted slightly when she looked at Jack—just a flicker—but Jack caught it. And so did her mother.
They were just passing through, staying at the nearby lakeside cabins for the week. Jack could already see how this might unfold.
As the trio approached the door of the hardware store, the woman paused, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice smooth, refined. “You wouldn’t happen to know where we could find someone who does custom woodworking? My husband has a wild idea about a cedar bench.”
Jack straightened from the truck and offered her a grin. “Depends on the bench. And the budget.” His voice was low, warm, and laced with the kind of slow confidence that made people lean in without realizing it.
Her smile deepened. “We’re flexible.”
The husband coughed, stepping in front. “We’re just shopping for now.”
Jack held the man’s gaze with polite calm—domineering without trying. “Of course.”
But behind them, a couple of older locals sitting in rockers out front gave each other a look. One leaned toward the man and said, not unkindly, “Ain’t no use fightin’ it. If she’s talking to Jack Johnson, it’s already halfway done.”
The other laughed. “And if your daughter starts askin’ where the lumber mill is, might be too late.”
The husband bristled. The wife flushed—but not from embarrassment. And the daughter? She smiled at Jack and mouthed a shy hi before slipping inside.
Jack turned his attention back to the wife, who was now studying the veins on his forearm as if they were a map she wanted to follow with her tongue. “I could show you the shop,” he said casually. “I’ve got a few pieces I’m working on—live edge work, custom joints. It’s not far.”
Her husband stepped in again. “We’re good.”
Jack raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to the wife and offered a slow, deliberate look—just long enough to make her swallow.
Inside, Jack caught glimpses of her again in the aisles—lingering just a little too long in plumbing, running her hand over wood finishes like she was touching skin. The daughter trailed behind her, occasionally glancing over her shoulder toward Jack, her cheeks flushed with heat, teeth grazing her bottom lip. It wasn’t innocence—it was curiosity. She’d never seen a man like him. Not up close.
Before they left, the wife made sure to find him again. She handed him a card, fingers brushing his. “We’re in Cabin 4. Lakeside. Just in case you want to talk wood.”
Jack tucked the card into his back pocket. “Might do that.”
The husband glared but said nothing. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he just didn’t want to fight a force of nature.
Because Jack Johnson wasn’t just muscle and charm. He was gravity. And once people got close… they never quite pulled away.
Later On…
Jack’s shop stood just behind his cabin—an open-beamed structure of raw cedar and iron fixtures, its wide double doors thrown open to the early evening air. The scent of freshly cut timber lingered heavy, curling through the breeze like a promise. Inside, the big man worked shirtless under the golden spill of overhead lamps, muscles shifting with each precise motion of the hand planer.
The bench in progress was thick, heavy-grained walnut—live edge, dark as molasses, glinting from the coat of oil Jack had just smoothed across the surface. His jeans hung low on his hips, sawdust clinging to his boots and chest. The radio played low blues guitar in the background, and Jack moved in rhythm—measured, calm, confident.
He didn’t flinch when he heard a car crunch up the gravel path.
He knew she’d be back.
The SUV rolled to a stop, and when the driver’s side door opened, there she was: the brunette from the hardware store. Sunset light caught in her curls as she stepped out, the same sundress clinging to her curves—though this time, the buttons at the top were undone just enough to hint at mischief. In her hand: two tumblers and a bottle of Tennessee whiskey.
“Thought I might take you up on that offer,” she said, walking toward the shop with the smooth grace of a woman who knew she’d be noticed.
Jack leaned on the bench, arms crossed over his broad chest, not even pretending not to look.
“You talkin’ about the bench,” he asked, voice like smoke and oak, “or the wood?”
She smiled—slow, sultry, just a hint dangerous. “Both.”
Jack tilted his head. “Then come on in.”
Inside, the shop glowed warm with lamp light and the rich sheen of worked timber. She poured them both a drink, setting the glasses down on a side table beside a half-finished rocking chair.
“I asked around about you,” she said, handing him a glass. “Seems every woman in town’s got a story.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “All of ‘em true.”
She stepped closer, brushing sawdust from his shoulder like it was an excuse to touch him. “I’ve always liked a man who works with his hands.”
He took a sip, watching her lips wrap around the edge of her glass. Her breasts swelled above the neckline of her dress, nipples just barely pressing through the soft fabric. Her skin flushed with heat—or maybe it was the whiskey.
Jack set his glass down and stepped into her space, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist.
“You came all the way out here for a bench?” he asked.
She didn’t step back.
“I came out here to see what all the fuss was about.”
His hand slid slowly up her arm, his thumb grazing her shoulder, bare and warm.
“Then let’s give you something worth talking about.”
She surged forward, and their mouths met—hot, hungry, filled with need that had simmered too long. Jack kissed her like he planned to ruin her—slow at first, then deeper, one hand gripping the back of her neck while the other found the soft curve of her hip. She melted into him, her body molding to his as he walked her backward toward the heavy slab of the unfinished bench.
“God,” she gasped, her hands scrambling at his belt. “You’re solid everywhere.”
Jack chuckled, low and gravelly. “You haven’t even seen the best part.”
He turned her and bent her over the workbench, pulling her dress up and baring the backs of her thighs. Her panties were lace and thin—and soaked. Jack growled under his breath as he dragged them down her legs.
He didn’t rush. His big hands caressed every inch—hips, thighs, ass—before kneeling behind her and spreading her open.
“You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day,” he muttered, dragging his tongue through her folds.
Her moan echoed off the timber walls.
He devoured her with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, fingers gripping her hips as her legs trembled under the intensity. She begged. She cursed. She clawed at the wood as her orgasm hit hard, shuddering through her like a lightning strike.
Jack stood, unzipping his jeans and freeing himself—thick, pulsing, aching with need. He dragged the tip along her slickness before pushing in, deep and slow, until he bottomed out.
“Jack—oh God—yes—”
He moved with force—powerful thrusts that rocked her forward with each snap of his hips, the bench creaking beneath them. Her moans grew louder, needier, her body arching into him, desperate for more.
And all the while…
They didn’t know.
She was watching.
From the tree line at the edge of the workshop’s open door, hidden in the shadows, stood the daughter..
Now, she stood frozen. Watching. Listening.
Her lips parted, breath shallow, heart pounding. Her wide eyes followed Jack’s every movement—how he took her mother, how her mother responded, completely undone. She pressed her thighs together without meaning to, heat blooming low in her stomach.
The slap of skin on skin. The low growl of Jack’s voice. Her mother’s gasps. The sheer intensity of it all.
It was unlike anything she’d seen—or felt.
Back inside, Jack pulled her mother up, turning her so she sat on the edge of the workbench. He knelt between her legs, kissing her again, deep and thorough.
“You taste like whiskey and sin,” he murmured.
Her hands tangled in his hair. “Then don’t stop until I confess.”
Jack rose again, pushing back into her as her legs wrapped around his waist. Their bodies moved as one—slick, hot, unstoppable. It was raw. It was loud. It was real.
And when they both came—together, pulsing, shuddering in each other’s arms—it felt like a storm breaking.
Outside, in the shadows, the daughter turned and slipped away. Breathless. Stunned. Changed.
She wasn’t sure what she’d seen. Only that now… she wouldn’t be able to unsee it.
And Jack?
He hadn’t even noticed.
But soon… he would.
Jack’s Page