Fighting with the Hot Lumberjack Daddy Read online

  Fighting with the Hot Lumberjack Daddy

  LUMBERJACKS DADDIES OF SWEET PINE CITY SERIES

  PENNY SNOAK

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY PENNY SNOAK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gloria

  I sigh with relief as I pull the last weed from the row and toss it onto the tarp. There are six identical tarps every fifty yards or so, each filled with weeds, trimmings, and the occasional defective soybean plant. Each tarp represents a full day of work for me and with this last row complete, I can finally take a half day off before turning my attention to the vegetable garden, which after a week of neglect is sure to present me with its own share of problems.

  I stand and stretch before tying the tarp closed. The waste management company will pick the tarps up tomorrow and grind the plant matter into mulch that farmers like myself will buy to fertilize their soil. Not a bad racket, getting paid to pick up and recycle the weeds, then getting paid again to deliver the ground weeds back to the same farmers.

  “I should just sell this damn place and work for them,” I grouch.

  I don’t mean it, of course. This farm is my family’s legacy. My great-great-grandfather founded it in 1924 as a corn farm. They sold to groceries and general stores but most of their money came from selling to the local ranches for use as livestock feed. Recognizing this, my great-grandfather switched to soybeans—cheaper to grow than corn—and sold them exclusively as feed.

  That worked like a charm and for fifty years, our farm hummed along without any problems. By the time my grandfather retired, the farm was earning well into seven figures in revenue and employed over two dozen farmhands.

  Then the recession hit, and ranchers began abandoning locally-grown feed for cheaper imported feed that was lower in quality but also much lower in price. Within five years, my parents were forced to lay off the entire staff and sell most of the land so that our six-thousand-acre farm is now just over eighty acres, and the staff consists of yours truly.

  My parents wanted to sell the land and move us to the city, but I convinced them to sell to me. I wasn’t about to give up on my family’s legacy just because of a financial crisis. They resisted for months but finally relented on the condition they give me the farm instead of selling it. I convinced them to consider it a loan and now, five years later, I’ll finally make enough profit to begin paying back that loan.

  Three hundred dollars.

  Yep. If my math is correct, after paying all of my bills and setting aside money for living expenses until the next harvest, I’ll be able to send my parents a whopping three hundred dollars.

  Damn, I need a shower.

  I head inside and turn the water on so it’ll warm up as I undress. Before I step into the shower, I stare at my exhausted, dirt-covered reflection and sigh. I give my reflection a thumbs-up and say ironically, “You’re a catch, Glory-girl. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

  The nickname and the affirmation come from my grandfather. He caught me crying over a boy in middle school and after I tearfully announced that I was ugly and no one would ever love me, he gave me the usual spiel about how I shouldn’t talk down to myself and that boy didn’t know what he was missing. He finished with that phrase, and I’ve carried it with me all my life.

  I owe him a debt of gratitude. I no longer see myself as ugly. I’m definitely not a wasp-waisted, skinny-girl fashion model type but I appreciate my curves and generous hips and bust and if I had a choice, I’d keep things that way rather than starving myself into nothing.

  Not that my body confidence helps me at all. I had sex with my high school boyfriend three times before my parents decided to move away and left me with a farm that has taken all of my free time for the past ten years. In those ten years, the closest I’ve come to having sex is my daily sessions with my shower head.

  I allow the warm water to cascade over my skin and relax me for a while as I slowly wash the dirt and sweat and exhaustion of the weeding away. For several minutes, I don’t fantasize about anything, content to bask in the softness of the water and the rejuvenating feeling of being clean again.

  It’s only once I’m clean that the fantasy returns. It’s an old one, dating all the way back to before I even lost my virginity. I am alone, lying naked on a bed with my arms above my head and my legs widespread. A moment later, in walks The Man. I’ve never bothered to give him a name, but I can picture him as clearly as I can picture myself. He is tall and powerfully built, not like a dehydrated bodybuilder but with the hard muscles of a man who’s spent his life working hard. He has dark hair and dark, brooding eyes, and a full beard that complements his mountain man physique.

  I lift the showerhead off of its hook and let it travel slowly down my body, imagining The Man’s hands exploring me while I lie willing and ready underneath him. “Oh, Daddy,” I whisper as the showerhead moves over my breasts and the streams of water flick at each nipple like a tongue.

  The Daddy thing is relatively new. Since I have no prospects for male companionship, I have to resort to online resources to fuel my fantasy. I stumbled on DDlg about a year ago and found myself immediately turned on by the idea of behaving like an innocent little girl dedicated to pleasing her rough, strong Daddy. It meshes perfectly with my fantasy of The Man as a strong, dominant figure and me as the submissive recipient of his attentions.

  I lower the showerhead slowly down my navel and whine softly as my clit begins to tingle in anticipation of the release I will soon feel. When the showerhead finally reaches my pussy, I gasp as my clit immediately begins to pulse in a preview of the orgasm to come.

  Then I gasp again but this time not from stimulation. I gasp because just as I’m about to begin the slow, delicious process of bringing myself to orgasm, I hear a loud crash outside the window, then a horrible scraping sound.

  I turn the shower off and wrap my towel around myself, then put my slippers on and head outside.

  As soon as I step outside, I stop and stare in shock.

  The fence that separates my property from the road has been completely sheared away. Resting in its place is the culprit—a large, eighteen-wheel logging truck sits atop the fence, canted sideways with its load straining against the ties.

  Standing in front of the truck is none other than the subject and object of my fantasy come to life.

  The Man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Trey

  Dammit.

  Dammit to Hell.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  Swearing to myself as I sit at a twenty-degree angle in the driver’s seat isn’t going to help, so I open the driver’s side door and carefully slide to the ground. I step to the front of the truck and give myself a few yards of distance in case the truck decides to tip anymore. A quick inspection assures me the truck won’t tip, at least not immediately and the ties holding the lumber to the flatbed are holding strong. I’ll have to remember to thank Randy for his usual exceptional work loading the truck.

  I sigh and swear again, out loud this time, “Dammit.”

  Of course, the first time I drive a rig since taking over the company three years ago ends in an accident complete with property damage twenty-five miles from my destination. I can just see the looks my other drivers will give each other when they hear the boss wrecked his rig on the side of the flattest portion of the highway.

  I hear an angry voice behind me shout, “What the hell?” and turn to see the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s tall, with straw-blonde hair, a delicious, curvy body with full breasts and a perfect ass, and beautiful, piercing eyes that at the moment flash with anger as they regard the damage to her property.

  She’s also naked.

  Well, she’s wearing a towel but it’s clear there’s nothing underneath the towel.

  I guess I can consider that a silver lining.

  “Are you serious?” she shouts. “What the hell happened?”

  I’m so stunned by the sight of her that I don’t respond right away and she has to approach within a few feet and scream, “Hello? Did you hit your head when you crashed?” before my brain decides to start working again.

  I say, “I’m so sorry about this. I looked down for a second to check my navigation and when I looked up, it was too late for me to react.”

  “So you were negligent?” she snaps.

  It galls me to my core to admit that she’s right, but I can’t pretend otherwise as badly as I want to. I sigh and say, “Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ll cover all of the damages, of course—”

  “What the hell are you doing driving trucks if you can’t keep your damned eyes on the road?” she shouts. “You just tore up two hundred yards of fencing and if your truck decides to let go of the logs it’s carrying, you’re gonna bury half my crop!”

  That’s a rather extreme exaggeration since the farm looks to be at least eighty acres and an entire load of logs would only cover a fraction of one but I’m not really in a position to argue with her right now, so I only say, “Ma’am, you have every right to be upset. Like I said, I’ll pay—”

  “Don’t ‘Ma’am’ me!” she shrieks.
“Get your piece of shit off of my property and get ready to lose your job because the first phone call I’m going to make is to your shipping company so I can tell them their loser of a driver just caused thousands of dollars of damage to my farm.”

  I take a breath and try to steady my emotions, which at the moment are struggling to decide between humiliation at the accident, frustration at her sharp tongue, and desire for her body. “Ma’am, I am the owner of the lumber company and I will pay—”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you own the truck,” she interrupts. “Try finding work with any shipper in the country when they look at your record and see this on the front fucking page!”

  Now I’m irritated. I can understand her frustration but I’ve now spent five minutes trying to make her understand that I’ll make this right and all she seems to want to do is swear and yell at me. I try to keep my voice professional but some of my own annoyance definitely shines through when I say, “If you’ll stop shouting at me for one second—”

  “I’ll shout at you as much as I want, asshole! You just broke my fence!”

  She approaches me as she says this, and now she stands just inches from my face. I can smell the soft floral scent of her shampoo and can almost feel the smoothness of her skin. My body begins to respond and that only adds to my irritation. Now I need to deal with a pissed-off farmer, a stranded rig, and a boner?

  I lose all control of my voice and say, “Ma’am, if you could just listen for one minute—”

  “Don’t call me, ma’am!”

  “Fine,” I snap. “Miss, if you could just listen for one moment, I will explain to you that I am the owner of the lumber company, not a subcontracted driver. I admit full responsibility for the accident and will pay to have my rig towed off of your property and your fence repaired, along with any damage that may have occurred to your crop. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll call my guys and have them send a recovery rig and another driver to recover the vehicle, and then you and I can discuss repairing your fence.”

  When I call her miss, she recoils as though slapped and when I’m done speaking, she hisses, “Miss? Miss?”

  I can see the outburst before it comes and try to recover by saying, “I apologize. Perhaps you can tell me your name and I’ll stop calling you—”

  Too late.

  “You stupid, arrogant, patronizing, clumsy, incompetent asshole! How dare you talk to me like that? Just because I’m a girl, you think you can condescend to me like I’m nothing more than a child? Do you know what I’d like to do to you right now?”

  I sigh and lift my hands in surrender. Clearly, I won’t be able to avoid a full tongue-lashing. “What?” I ask, resignedly.

  “This,” she says, shrugging off the towel and kissing me hard.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gloria

  What in God’s name am I doing?

  This man just crashed his truck into my fence. He came within inches of destroying part of my crop and if he had kept his eyes down a few seconds longer, he could have destroyed my house!

  And now I’m what? Kissing him?

  Actually, I’m not kissing him anymore. I did, for exactly as long as it took me to get his belt off and pull his pants and boxers down to his ankles.

  I guess you could call what I’m doing the kissing. I am using my mouth.

  Okay, so now I’m sucking this guy’s cock seconds after threatening to take his livelihood away.

  In my defense, I can’t take his livelihood away since he already agreed to pay for the damage and in my defense, he’s the living, breathing embodiment of the fantasy man I’ve dreamed about ever since I hit puberty and also in my defense, I haven’t had sex since I faked an orgasm for my high school boyfriend the week before graduation.

  Oh, who the hell am I kidding? If I was getting laid every day and twice on Sundays, I’d still be on my knees right now. This man, whoever he is, is by far the sexiest man I’ve ever seen and he could be actively torching my crops and I'd still be pushing him into my throat.

  Or trying to, at least. In addition to being the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, his cock is also far bigger than any I’ve ever seen, even the ones on the porn websites I occasionally visit when fantasy and a showerhead aren’t enough for me. I can only get him an inch or so down my throat before I have to pull up, gasping and shuddering around his cock.

  He picks me up and sets me in the driver’s seat so I lean back with my legs wrapped around his shoulder and before I can react, he closes his mouth around my pussy and I am ruined for showerheads forever.

  “Oh God, Daddy!” I cry out as his mouth explores me expertly, his lips gently pushing mine apart while his tongue flicks and slides over the most sensitive parts of me, sending fireworks of pleasure through me that causes me to gasp and moan.

  He growls over my pussy as he eats me out and sounds almost like a predator, claiming victory in a hunt. The vibrations that cause and the sexiness of thinking of him as a predator and me his helpless prey bring my climax rushing to completion and I cry out, “Oh God, I’m gonna—”

  I don’t finish that thought because right when I cum, he stands and slams his cock into me and all the breath is driven from my lungs and my thighs clamp around him and my stomach tenses and tenses and tenses and tenses and oh, holy fuck am I cumming hard.

  When I can speak again, all I can manage is “Daddy, yes!” before I once more have to hold on for dear life as the orgasm continues to rage through me.

  It hits me for the first time that I’m doing this on the side of a major shipping highway right in front of my house where anyone could see me and recognize me. Instead of turning me off, the taboo nature of the coupling turns me on even more, and my orgasm redoubles in strength.

  “Oh, Daddy!” I cry as my body shudders and stiffens around him. I try to compose myself but my body is no longer mine to control. It belongs entirely to this powerful, aggressive, sexy man and I will stay in this truck and cum until I pass out if that’s what he wants from me.

  He pulls out and steps back and though my body trembles uncontrollably, I immediately drop to my knees. “Cum in my mouth, Daddy,” I say just before I wrap my lips around his throbbing member.

  It might just be the adrenaline or it might be the afterglow of the insanely powerful orgasm I’ve just had but I have less trouble fitting him in my throat than before and I feel my lips press against the base of his shaft each time I go down.

  I lift my hand to caress his balls and when I feel them retract upwards, I cry out over his cock and increase the pace so I’m essentially fucking him with my mouth. A few seconds later, he cries out and I feel his cock pulse inside me.

  I feel the strangest sense of victory and grip his ass tightly so he can’t pull out. I keep sucking and swallowing crazily, staring straight up into his eyes and moaning desperately, even after he’s finished cumming and I’ve swallowed everything he has to give me.

  He stays hard and finally snarls and pulls me off of him with brute force. Before I have time to react, he spins me around and bends me over. I grab the driver’s seat of the truck to steady myself, then scream as he slams into me from behind and every nerve ending in my body wakes up again.

  “Oh, Daddy, yes!” I scream. “Oh my God, yes! You’re gonna make me cum again, Daddy!”

  “Cum, little girl,” he growls.

  That command makes the orgasm I experience so intense that all of my frustration disappears. I don’t care that my family’s farm is failing. I don’t care that I work over eighty backbreaking hours a week to try to delay that failure. I don’t care that he’s crashed his truck into my fence and I don’t care that this is the first time in ten years I’ve felt an actual cock.

  It feels like he reaches inside of me and stimulates every nerve ending in my body so instead of one orgasm, I have millions of orgasms that pulse and ripple around each other. I am aware that I am screaming and flailing and beating at the chair with my arms and that my legs are shaking like violin strings under me but I feel none of it because the only thing I can feel is the vibrations in my clit that send shocks of pleasure through my body and the deep, hard pulsing of my vagina over his thick, hard, perfect, dream come true of a cock.