The rhythm of Jack’s life had shifted.
Not slowed. Not disrupted. Just… evolved.
Vivienne had carved her place into the cabin like she belonged there—because she did. She’d taken over the garden beds outside, started reorganizing Jack’s kitchen with that quiet command only a woman who’s been thoroughly claimed can do. She cooked barefoot. Walked around in his flannels and nothing else. Kissed him with ownership in her eyes.
Arielle was different—sweet and eager, a playful contrast to Vivienne’s slow-burning seduction. She’d started helping Jack in the workshop. Sweeping up sawdust. Asking questions. Wearing nothing but a tank top and short cotton shorts that rode up when she bent over.
Jack let them both stay.
Let them orbit him like twin moons.
But that didn’t mean the rest of the world stopped knocking.
The town folk—especially the women—were respectful of boundaries. Sort of.
They’d learned something quickly over the past few weeks: Vivienne was rarely home on Tuesdays and Fridays—those were her “market days.” Trips into the valley, errands, supply runs, lunch with the other women in town.
And somehow, without anyone saying it outright, those days became… available.
Visitors started showing up again. Soft knocks. Lingering stares at the farmers market. Notes slipped into Jack’s hand with a time and a need.
They never overstayed. Never made demands.
Because everyone knew—
Jack was the therapist.
He didn’t take appointments. He didn’t offer apologies.
He fixed you. And you said thank you.
Annette arrived just after noon. A soft-spoken woman in her early 40s, recently widowed, wearing a summer dress and a brave smile. She brought muffins. Said they were “still warm.”
Jack opened the door, shirtless, arms dusted with sawdust.
Annette’s breath caught.
“Come in,” Jack said.
She walked past him. Eyes darting around the cabin. Her hands trembled slightly.
Jack took the muffins. Set them down.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked, voice low and grounding.
“I just…” She exhaled. “I feel invisible, Jack. He’s been gone a year. And I’m just… alone.”
Jack didn’t speak. He stepped closer, placed a hand on her waist, fingers firm.
“You’re not invisible.”
She gasped.
And then Jack kissed her—slowly, fully, letting her melt into it.
They didn’t make it to the bed.
Jack laid her down on the rug by the fire, kissed the breath back into her lungs, spread her thighs and worshipped her like she hadn’t been touched in years. She cried when she came—twice—clutching his shoulders like she was drowning.
When he filled her, deep and slow, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Jack kissed her temple.
“You’re welcome, Annette.”
She left with flushed cheeks and legs trembling, whispering something about bringing more muffins next week.
It was early evening when the knock came. Jack was alone. Arielle was napping on the porch swing. Vivienne was out with the mayor’s wife, helping plan the Harvest Ball.
It was Mason. Young. Mid-20s. Nervous. Recently married. Wife out of town.
“Can I come in?” he asked. His voice barely above a whisper.
Jack stepped aside.
Mason had never been with a man. Not fully. But Jack knew that look. That quiet hunger. That curiosity laced with shame.
They didn’t talk much.
Jack poured whiskey. Sat beside him. Let the silence grow comfortable.
Then, when Mason’s eyes dropped to Jack’s forearm, then his chest, then lower—
Jack leaned in. Brushed his fingers down the boy’s cheek.
“You’re safe here,” he said.
Mason nodded.
Jack unbuckled his jeans. Took the boy’s trembling hand. Wrapped it around his cock. Mason gasped—but didn’t pull away.
It wasn’t fast.
It wasn’t crude.
It was instructional. Gentle dominance.
Jack undressed him slowly. Laid him back on the couch. Worshipped every inch of him with tongue and hand until Mason was shaking, moaning, coming undone.
When Jack finally slid inside him—deep, slow, claiming—Mason sobbed.
He left an hour later. Silent. Changed.
And Jack didn’t say a word. Just handed him back his shirt.
When Vivienne returned later that evening, she brought flowers and wine. Arielle lit candles. The three of them ate dinner on the back porch, overlooking the trees, the sun bleeding gold into the hills.
Vivienne leaned her head on Jack’s shoulder. Arielle curled her fingers around his thigh under the table.
“You okay, love?” Vivienne asked softly.
Jack nodded. “Long day.”
She smirked. “You help someone again?”
He kissed the top of her head.
Vivienne didn’t ask who. She never did.
Because she knew. Jack was more than her lover. More than the man who fucked her brains out against the tree line. He was a healer. A release valve for all the pressure the town didn’t know how to handle.
And she had no intention of getting in the way.
Instead, she leaned in and whispered, “Want a reward?”
Jack raised an eyebrow.
She turned to Arielle.
“You up for it, sweetheart?”
Arielle’s cheeks flushed. “Always.”
They undressed together in the candlelight. Jack sat on the big leather chair by the fire—naked, hard, watching like a king. Vivienne and Arielle knelt before him, side by side, kissing one another before taking turns wrapping their lips around his cock.
Vivienne was slow. Worshipful.
Arielle was eager. Messy. Sloppy with want.
Jack growled. Let them switch. Tangle. Moan into each other’s mouths while they shared him.
He let them please him until his body tensed—then pulled away. Lifted Vivienne into his lap. Pushed deep inside her as Arielle straddled his face.
They came together—Vivienne riding him, Arielle crying out above, the three of them shuddering in tangled heat.
When it was over, Jack held them both.
One in each arm.
And the mountain was quiet again. For Now…
Jack’s Page