LS Phoenix's Blog, page 10

Rough Hands, Soft Hearts: Emotional Vulnerability in Lumberjack Heroes

He can split a log with one swing, but can he admit he’s afraid to fall in love?

The best lumberjack romances are the ones that let their heroes be soft. Not weak—soft. Emotionally available in unexpected ways. The kind of man who doesn’t talk much, but shows up at your door when you’re hurting. Who builds you a bench for your porch because he noticed you sit on the step.

This emotional contrast—the gruff exterior and the quietly tender heart—is what makes the trope sing. You don’t need a monologue. You need a look. A gesture. A hand on your back that says I’ve got you.

Shut Me Up - Short Story

A storm, a trail gone wrong, and a grumpy lumberjack who wants nothing to do with the chatty, city-slicker hiker stranded in his woods. Too bad for him—she talks nonstop, flirts shamelessly, and refuses to be intimidated.

When forced proximity turns into one bed and way too much tension, there’s only one way to finally shut her up…

Tropes: Grumpy/Sunshine, Only One Bed, Forced Proximity, Dirty Talk, Lumberjack Romance

Heat Level: 🔥🔥🔥 (Explicit)

Part One

Caught in the Storm

I’m definitely going to die out here. Alone. In the woods. With soggy granola bars and zero cell signal.

But hey, at least my outfit’s cute.

I squint up at the sky, which has gone from moody gray to full-blown apocalypse in under ten minutes. Fat raindrops smack me square in the face like nature’s personal slap.

“Awesome,” I mutter, dragging the sleeve of my not-at-all-waterproof jacket across my forehead. “Love that for me.”

I spin in a slow circle, trying to remember where the trail even was. Everything’s a blur of pine needles and panic. The app said “clearly marked and beginner-friendly.” What it didn’t mention was the part where Mother Nature would open up and yeet my life into a mud pit.

This was supposed to be a peaceful, soul-cleansing hike. One of those “reclaim your power after a bad breakup” moments. Fresh air, personal growth, a few cute shots for my blog. I picked the easiest trail on the app, packed snacks, and wore my new boots. So what if they’re more fashion than function? They’ve got laces. That counts. Right?

But now I’m soaked, lost, and my ankle’s throbbing like hell from when I slipped on a root and face-planted into the mud twenty minutes ago. Oh, and I can barely walk on it.

Thunder cracks overhead, and I flinch. “Okay. Fine. I get it. I’m not a nature girl. Message received.”

My phone’s useless. Just one sad little spinning wheel where the bars should be. I hold it up to the sky like that’ll help. “Please. I just want to live long enough to post an ironic ‘lost in the woods’ selfie.”

Nothing.

“Siri, if I die out here, text my sister that she still owes me twenty bucks.”

 I actually packed a paper map like some kind of pioneer woman, but it’s crumpled in my tote under a wet protein bar and an exploded lip gloss.

I’m just about to give up and cry when a deep, gravelly voice cuts through the trees behind me.

“Are you trying to get eaten by a bear?”

I spin around with a startled yelp, slipping again. My foot sinks into soft mud, and I nearly fall flat on my ass. 

Again.

There, standing a few feet away and half-shadowed by dripping pine branches, is a man built like a walking red flag. Beard, boots, flannel, all soaked through and clinging to a body that definitely does manual labor and probably eats entire elk for lunch. He looks like he was built to survive this forest. I look like I was dropped into it by a misguided reality show producer. A face carved in stone and set to maximum scowl. He looks like he stepped out of a lumberjack fantasy and right into the worst day I’ve ever had.

I blink. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” he says, stepping closer like he owns the whole damn forest. “You’re out here in perfume, wearing lipstick, and shouting at the sky. You may as well ring a damn dinner bell.”

I stare at him. “Okay, cool. Nice to meet you, too, sir.”

Jesus. The look he just shot me. He’s not just grumpy, he’s a full-time subscriber. The man radiates ‘get off my land’ energy and I haven’t even stepped onto it yet.

I cross my arms, then realize one’s caked in mud. Fantastic. Now I’m sassy and filthy. “Wow. You must be a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

“That I believe.”

He rakes his gaze down my body and not in a sexy way, more like a guy assessing fire damage and sighs like my existence is physically painful for him. “You hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I try to step forward, and pain shoots through my ankle. I gasp and wobble, and before I can fully faceplant, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm.

Big. Warm. And rough.

Great. Now my dignity is dead too.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, eyes narrowed. “Which direction were you headed?”

I point vaguely behind me. “I left the parking lot and followed the trail. Pretty sure I was headed that way.”

His expression says I’ve just confirmed every suspicion he’s ever had about people from the city.

I almost feel bad. But also? I’m annoyed. It’s not my fault the trail was designed by liars and storm gods.

“You know,” I huff, “you could try being a little less Judgy McMountain Man. Not all of us were raised by pine trees and emergency flares.”

“You’re about three miles off that trail,” he says flatly, pointing in the opposite direction I was. “Storm’s only getting worse.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got a cabin about a mile from here,” he says, like the idea personally offends him. “Can you walk?”

“Totally.” I lift my chin. “It’s just a little sore.”

I make it four steps before I hiss through my teeth and grab my ankle again. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “for fuck’s sake,” then moves toward me.

Without warning, he bends down, wraps one arm behind my knees and one behind my back, and lifts me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing.

He’s warm, even through the rain, and stupidly solid. I’m too stunned to fight it. His chest is right under my cheek, and I can smell sawdust and smoke and something that makes my brain forget how to work.

“Hey!” I yelp, arms flailing. “I can walk—”

“You really can’t,” he growls, already stomping through the mud with me in his arms. “And I’m not dragging your chatty, rain-soaked ass back to my place while you limp like a newborn deer.”

“Well, when you say it so sweetly…” I blink up at him. “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Grumpzilla in my head?”

His jaw ticks. “Wyatt.”

I grin. “Nice to meet you, Wyatt. I’m Paisley.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, we’re gonna get along great.”

He adjusts me in his arms with a grunt, muttering something under his breath about “city girls and broken ankles.”

I don’t say anything for a while, mostly because my face is currently buried in his chest and it smells like a lumberyard in the best possible way.

After ten minutes of walking in gruff silence, I can’t help myself.

“So… you live out here alone? Like, full time? No internet? No neighbors? No espresso machines?”

He growls low in his throat. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you started up again.”

I grin into his flannel. “What can I say? I process panic through conversation.”

“Well do me a favor and process it quietly.”

“Not how I work, Wyatt.”

He sighs like he regrets every decision that led to this moment. “God help me.”

Part Two

One Cabin, One Bed

By the time we reach his cabin, I’m soaked through, shivering, and deeply questioning every life choice that led me to this exact moment—including but not limited to: trusting hiking apps, buying stylish boots, and opening my mouth in front of Grumpzilla.

Wyatt shoulders the door open and carries me over the threshold, not in a romantic way. More like he’s taking out the trash.

The place is… exactly what I expect. Dark wood walls. A fireplace. Minimal lighting. Antlers on the wall because of course. It smells like pine, cedar, and a man who doesn’t own a single scented candle.

He sets me down gently on a woven rug near the fireplace. “Don’t move.”

“Not planning to.”

He stalks off without another word. I scan the room and take mental notes like I’m about to do a live tour on Instagram. One big open space. Heavy furniture. A battered leather couch. A cast iron stove. A bookshelf with exactly four books. And yep, one bed. Big-ish, but clearly built for one.

“No Wi-Fi, I’m guessing?” I call out.

“Do I look like someone who needs Wi-Fi?”

“Honestly, no. You look like someone who reads survival manuals for fun and makes jerky out of things you personally hunted.”

Silence. Then, “I do make jerky.”

I grin.

He returns with a towel and a plastic bin. “Dry off. Take off anything wet. There’s a bathroom through there.” He points. “Put these on.”

I peer into the bin and laugh. “A flannel and boxers? What do you expect me to do with these?”

“They’re mine.”

“Oh, I figured they were yours. They smell like trees and testosterone. Plus, they look like they’d fit a bear.”

He glares. I smile wider.

I lift one brow, tipping the bin slightly. “You sure you want me walking away in just this?”

His jaw tics. “I’ll risk it, unless you’d rather be naked.”

“Uh-huh.” I turn and start hobbling toward the bathroom. “Careful, mountain man. Keep talking like that and I will make this weird.”

I don’t look back, but I feel him watching.

He mutters something that sounds like “Jesus Christ.”

“Go,” he snaps.

I hobble to the bathroom, which is somehow both rustic and immaculate. When I peel off my clothes, they make a horrifying squish as they hit the floor. I towel off, then slide into the oversized flannel and boxers, rolling the waistband so they don’t fall off. I look like a sexy lumberjack’s lost girlfriend. Hmm… not a terrible thought.

When I step out, Wyatt’s stoking the fire, his massive back to me, muscles flexing under a dry shirt. He glances over his shoulder and freezes.

His gaze skims from my bare legs to the hem of his shirt, then snaps away like I’ve blinded him.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“Nothing.”

“You’re the one who gave me the outfit, Grumpzilla. Don’t act scandalized now.”

He mutters something I don’t catch and tosses another log into the fire like it personally offended him.

I ease down onto the couch and extend my leg with a wince.

“You should elevate that.”

“Can I elevate it on your lap?”

His eyes cut to mine, all steel and warning. “Do you ever shut up?”

I grin. “Nope.”

He exhales hard through his nose and scrubs a hand over his beard. “Jesus.”

“I process trauma with sarcasm, and talking. And apparently flirting with men who look like they could crush me with one hand.”

He turns fully to face me now, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny. And you’re into it.”

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming, thank you.”

He stalks to the kitchen, really just a corner counter and a small fridge, and grabs a water bottle. He tosses it to me. I catch it, barely.

“You should drink. You’re probably dehydrated from being a dumbass.”

“Wow. First aid and insults. Be still, my heart.”

He leans against the counter and stares at me. Long enough that the air shifts. Thickens.

“What?” I ask, voice quieter now.

“You talk too much.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. I’m saying it again because it’s still true.”

“Then why are you looking at me like you want to kiss me?”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not.”

I cock my head. “You kinda are.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re flustered.”

He pushes off the counter and stalks past me toward the fireplace again, clearly done with this conversation.

I smirk to myself. One point for the city girl.

A few minutes later, he returns with a small blanket and a pillow.

“I’ll take the couch.”

“Nope,” I say, shifting on the couch. “You’re not sleeping on the floor. You’re like six-foot-a-million and built like a freight train. You’ll die.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

“Well, since I’m the guest, I should get to pick where I sleep and I say I get the couch, and you get the bed.”

“I’m not putting a half-broken city girl on the couch.”

“Wyatt. I swear to God.”

He stares at me. I stare right back.

Then, without another word, he walks to the bed, yanks back the covers, and tosses the blanket and pillow on top.

“Fine. We’ll share. Stay on your side.”

“Oh, don’t worry, grumpy pants. I wouldn’t dare cross into your sacred flannel-covered man zone.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You like it.”

He doesn’t answer.

I swing my legs off the couch and try to stand, but the second I put weight on my ankle, pain lances up my leg and I hiss through my teeth.

Wyatt’s there in an instant, saying nothing, just moving like it’s instinct.

“You know,” I murmur, arms around his neck, “at this rate, I might fake an injury tomorrow just to get another lift.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He sets me down gently and steps back like he didn’t just touch me at all.

We crawl under the covers on opposite sides. The mattress dips under his weight. It’s warm from the fire and smells faintly of pine, smoke, and him. I lie stiff as a board, staring at the wooden ceiling, listening to the rain tap against the windows.

I shift, letting my knee brush his thigh. Just barely.

His jaw clenches. “Paisley.”

“Yes?”

“Keep your limbs to yourself.”

“Then stop putting your limbs so close to mine.”

He growls low in his throat. “This is why bears eat people.”

“Bears eat people because bears don’t carry snacks.”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“I can hear you thinking over there,” I whisper.

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m just saying. You’re lucky I’m not a serial killer.”

He sighs. “I’ve made peace with it.”

We lie in silence for another minute.

Then I can’t help it. “Your bed’s really comfy.”

“Shut. Up.”

I grin into the pillow.

I don’t know what tomorrow looks like. I don’t know what he looks like when he’s not soaking wet and pissed off.

But I know the way he carried me like I wasn’t a burden. The way his hand lingered on my back when he helped me sit. The way he glanced, just once, at my bare legs sticking out from his flannel shirt.

He may be gruff and closed-off, but I don’t think he’s cold.

I think he’s just been quiet for a really long time.

And tonight, somehow, I’m the noise he let in.

Part Three

Heat, Banter, and Giving In

I’m not asleep. Not even close.

The fire’s down to glowing embers, the rain has softened to a gentle tap, and Wyatt’s body heat is like a full-on furnace radiating across the bed. He’s not touching me, but I can feel him. Hear the slow, steady sound of his breathing. He hasn’t moved once. Meanwhile, I’ve flipped my pillow over five times and tried counting backwards from a hundred. Twice.

I roll onto my side and whisper, “Hey.”

No answer.

“Wyatt.”

Nothing.

“You’re awake.”

“I wasn’t,” he growls.

I smile in the dark. “Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

I grin harder. “You always sleep this tense? Or is it just because you have a half-broken woman in your bed?”

“Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?”

“No, not really. I find it soothing.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s summoning the strength of the forest gods not to throttle me. “Go to sleep, Paisley.”

“I can’t. My ankle hurts. And it’s hot. And you smell really good, which is honestly kind of rude considering how mean you are.”

He shifts under the covers. The mattress creaks. “You done?”

“Not even a little.”

I wait a beat. Two. He doesn’t respond.

So I add, “Your beard probably scratches, huh? Like, when you kiss someone. I bet it’s all rough and hot and bossy—”

Suddenly, he’s there. Flipping me onto my back, caging me in with one arm braced above my head and the other pressed to my hip. His face is inches from mine, and his eyes are wildfire in the dark.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You really don’t shut up.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s a punishment and a payoff, all teeth and heat and years of repressed rage turned into something filthy and needy. I gasp, and he takes full advantage, tongue sweeping into my mouth like he owns it.

One of his hands slides up to cup my jaw. The other stays at my hip, holding me down like he knows I’ll try to push the moment too far. (Spoiler: I totally will.)

When he finally breaks the kiss, I’m breathless. Completely undone.

“Still got something to say?” he rasps.

I blink. “Maybe.”

“Not anymore you don’t.”

He kisses me again. Slower this time, but just as intense. His hand drags down the front of the flannel shirt… his shirt, until it slips open. I suck in a breath as the cool air hits my skin, but his palm follows, warm and rough over my stomach, then higher.

“You wanted my attention, sweetheart,” he growls, mouth brushing my ear. “Now you’re gonna get it.”

I whimper. Actually whimper.

His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, and I arch up into him without thinking.

“You always this noisy?” he asks.

“Yes. And you like it. Why else is your dick pressing against my thigh?”

He chuckles, low and dark. “Yeah. I do.” Then proceeds to grind said dick against me.

His hand slides lower, and I shift, trying to guide him, but he pulls back just enough to make me squirm.

“Patience,” he murmurs. “You want it? You wait for it.”

I’m about to argue when his fingers slide into the waistband of the boxers I borrowed, and just like that, my brain short-circuits. He touches me like he’s mapping new territory, firm and thorough, with none of the hesitation of someone who needs to ask permission. Like I’ve already said yes.

And I have. In every way that matters.

His mouth finds my neck, then my collarbone, biting down gently before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His beard does scratch… and yes, it’s exactly as hot as I imagined.

When I come, I cry out his name, fingers digging into his shoulders, legs shaking under his grip.

But he doesn’t stop.

He flips me easily, settling between my thighs like he was made to fit there, and kisses me until I forget what pain even is. Then he grinds his hips against mine, still clothed, and I reach for him without thinking.

He catches my wrist. “Careful,” he warns. “You start something…”

I slide my hand lower anyway. “I finish it.”

He swears under his breath, yanks his shirt over his head, and everything after that is heat and sweat and growled words I’m going to replay for the rest of my life.

His mouth is on my neck again, beard dragging over my skin like rough velvet. I whimper when his fingers slide lower, teasing me right to the edge, then easing back just to make me squirm.

“Open for me.”

The words are low and growled against my throat, and it sends a full-body shiver down my spine. I do exactly what he says, legs falling open around him, hips lifting in invitation. His hand returns, this time with no hesitation and I gasp, loud and unfiltered, when his fingers finally slide through the slick heat between my thighs again.

He groans. “That’s it. Good girl.”

I whimper again, this time louder, and press my face into his shoulder like I can hide from the way those two words unravel me completely. My body is already on fire, nerve endings sparking under every stroke of his fingers, every brush of his mouth.

“You feel like fucking heaven.”

The sound I make isn’t human. I grab at his shoulders, nails digging in, my back arching completely off the bed as pressure builds low and tight in my belly.

“I warned you,” he mutters, voice dazed and reverent all at once.

His fingers speed up, stroking me with ruthless precision, and I lose the ability to form words. My thighs tremble around them. My breath stutters.

“I—Wyatt—”

“Say my name again.”

He thrusts two fingers deep and curls them just right. I cry out, gasping it like a prayer.

“Wyatt.”

“Louder.”

“Wyatt. Oh my God—”

I come apart with his name on my lips, his fingers buried deep and his body hovering over mine like he’s trying to burn himself into my skin. 

My hips jerk helplessly, thighs clenching tight, his hand never letting up until I’m trembling and panting, completely undone beneath him.

He doesn’t stop.

He pulls his fingers from me with a low curse, kisses me hard, and shifts his weight to press me deeper into the mattress. His mouth is hot and wild, tongue tangling with mine like he’s starving for me. I feel the blunt press of him against my thigh and lift my hips in invitation.

He breaks the kiss, eyes dark and full of fire. “Tell me to stop.”

“I’ll punch you in the face if you do.”

He doesn’t make me wait.

One hard kiss, and then he’s tearing off what little I have left on. His boxers slide down and get tossed somewhere into the shadows. His hand grips my thigh and pulls it up over his hip, opening me to him completely.

I feel the thick press of his cock against me, and instinctively, I reach between us to guide him in, because I’m done waiting.

The moment he sinks into me, I swear the entire cabin shifts on its foundation.

“Fuck,” he groans against my neck, his voice ragged. “You’re so wet. So fucking tight.”

I cry out, clutching at his back, my fingers digging into muscle as he drives in deeper. He starts slow, deliberate, each thrust hitting the perfect angle that makes me see stars behind my eyes.

“You take me so good,” he grits, jaw tight. “So fucking good.”

“Then don’t stop,” I pant, meeting each thrust like my life depends on it.

He does the exact opposite of stopping. He fucks me like he means it. Like he’s claiming something. His hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding me still, like he wants to feel every noise I make vibrate through his palm.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I force my eyes open.

“Say my name again.”

“Wyatt.”

“Louder.”

“Wyatt.”

His rhythm turns rougher. My body breaks apart all over again, blinding heat rips through me, makes me cry out into his mouth when he kisses me through it. My thighs clamp around him, shaking, the pleasure so intense it’s almost unbearable.

“Yeah,” he groans. “That’s it. Come for me, Paisley.”

He follows right after, his whole body tensing, stuttering inside me with a deep, guttural moan. He drops his head to my shoulder, breathing hard, both of us soaked in sweat and panting like we’ve run ten miles uphill.

For a minute, the only sound is the fire cracking and our heartbeats slowly syncing.

Then he rolls us gently, my body coming with his, so I end up sprawled half on top of him, chest to chest, cheek to shoulder. His hand finds my stomach, palm flat and warm, splayed across my skin like he’s not quite ready to let go.

When it’s over, we lie tangled in silence, my leg draped over his, his hand splayed across my stomach like he’s claiming me in sleep. I can feel the rhythm of his breathing, slow and deep, grounding me.

I let the quiet settle.

“You’re finally not talking,” he says into the dark, voice hoarse but teasing.

“Don’t get used to it.”

He huffs a laugh and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “That mouth of yours…”

“Got me exactly what I wanted.”

He doesn’t deny it.

A few minutes pass before I say, “I might come back. For another hike.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth curves into a smirk. “Next time, bring better boots.”

“And don’t make you come looking for me again?”

“Exactly.”

I grin into his chest, smug and satisfied. “Or you could just try shutting me up again.”

His arm tightens around me. “Careful, sunshine. You know how that ends.”

I smile. “I’m counting on it.”

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: July 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Cabin Fever Never Looked So Good: Forced Proximity in the Woods

There’s only one bed. There’s a snowstorm. He’s shirtless. You do the math.

Lumberjack romance thrives on forced proximity. Why? Because these characters tend to isolate. Which means the only way someone gets close—is if they’re stuck together.

Cue:

Storms

Broken-down vehicles

Cabin-sharing arrangements

Unplanned snow-ins

Once inside, things get intimate. The silence, the heat, the tension. You learn someone fast when you’re stuck in a small space with them—and when that someone smells like cedar and cooks eggs in a flannel shirt? Good luck resisting.

When Grump Meets Chaos: Why Lumberjacks Pair Perfectly with Sunshines

He’s silent. She never shuts up. And somehow, it works.

There’s a reason the lumberjack often ends up with a sunshine heroine (or hero): the contrast is pure magic. When a quiet, gruff loner meets someone who brings light, chatter, and emotional disruption—it cracks him open in the best way.

She pushes. He resists. She makes him feel. He pretends not to care.

Until he does.

The joy of this pairing is the slow shift from resistance to surrender. And the moment he smiles for the first time? That’s the payoff readers live for.

The Appeal of the Wilderness Protector

When he’s chopping wood by day and protecting your heart by night… that’s lumberjack energy.

Lumberjack heroes often live on the outskirts—physically and emotionally. They’re self-sufficient, a little wild, sometimes wounded. But they’re also protectors at heart.

These are the men who:

Fix the roof without being asked

Build you a fire and bring the marshmallows

Don’t say much… but always show up

There’s a primal safety in falling for someone who can survive the wild—and keep you warm in it. That quiet strength becomes even sexier when it’s paired with emotional vulnerability. He might not talk about his feelings easily, but you feel them in every action.

Why We Love Lumberjack Romance

It’s more than flannel and firewood—it’s about quiet strength, emotional depth, and the kind of man who can split logs and your emotional walls.

The lumberjack trope might seem rugged on the outside (okay, fine—it is), but what makes it irresistible is what’s underneath: competence, caretaking, and complexity. These characters aren’t just hot—they’re grounded. They live simply, but love deeply. They don’t need a lot of words to make their point, but when they choose you? It’s all in.

We love lumberjack romance because it blends earthy masculinity with emotional intimacy. These men aren’t afraid of hard work. They’re just usually afraid of one thing: getting close. Which makes the slow-burn payoff even better.

Lumberjack stories give us physical chemistry and emotional reward. And let’s be honest—there’s something deeply satisfying about watching a quiet man with rough hands fall head-over-work-boots for someone who challenges him.

Sneak Peek at the Story That’s About to Break All the Rules

What happens when you fall for the boy who broke you—and the man who helped you heal?

A Taste of Gratitude isn’t just a love triangle. It’s a story about grief, forgiveness, unexpected connection—and what happens when your heart refuses to pick a side.

Addie never expected to see Landon again, let alone be forced to work with him. He was the love of her life once—the boy who shattered her when she needed him most. But time hasn’t dulled their chemistry, or the ache that still simmers just under the surface.

And then there’s Caleb. The man who showed up when she didn’t think she deserved more. Gentle. Steady. A little too charming for his own good. He wasn’t supposed to be permanent… but nothing about the way he touches her heart feels temporary anymore.

What do you do when one man sees the girl you were, and the other sees the woman you’ve become?

Here’s a little taste of what’s coming:

“You ever kiss someone and feel like your body remembers it before your mind catches up?”

Landon’s voice is low, wrecked, like he already knows the answer.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

Because Caleb kissed me this morning—and I felt safe.

And Landon just kissed me now—and I felt seen.

And I don’t know what to do with a heart that’s begging me not to let go of either.

This is a story for the ones who’ve loved too hard, lost too much, and still believe that love—messy, complicated, rule-breaking love—is worth risking everything.

Want more? Stick around. We’re just getting started.

Double Take - Short Story

When one kiss leads to two sets of hands…

When Maya moved into her new apartment, she wasn’t expecting a neighbor like Aiden—quiet, thoughtful, and dangerously hot. But eight days later, she finds out he has a twin. And Archer? He’s everything Aiden isn’t: smug, bold, and very, very interested.

What starts with one mistaken kiss turns into something much messier… and a whole lot hotter.

This is Double Take—a short, scorching MFM read where things get complicated, fast.

 

Double Take

Maya

The Third Floor Surprise

The first time I met Aiden, he was shirtless, barefoot, and holding a bottle of wine like he’d just stepped out of my favorite daydream.

“Welcome to the third floor,” he said, offering a smile that should’ve come with a warning label. “I come bearing Thai food and decent Pinot. New tenant tax.”

I should’ve shut the door. I let him in instead.

We sat on my balcony that night, the takeout containers between us and his thigh brushing mine under the blanket. I liked how quiet he was. How he didn’t fill the silence just to hear himself talk. He watched me like he already knew I’d say yes before he asked the question.

He didn’t kiss me, not that night. But his eyes dipped to my mouth every time I laughed, and I couldn’t stop picturing his hands on my skin.

They felt exactly how I hoped, strong, confident, and a little greedy when he finally touched me.

Four days in, he kissed me against my doorframe like he couldn’t wait.

Six days in, I was straddling him on my couch, shirt somewhere across the room, his mouth hot and hungry at my throat.

Eight days in, I saw him in the parking garage.

He was leaning against a car I didn’t recognize, arms crossed, suit jacket slung over one shoulder like a catalog ad come to life. His eyes locked on mine the second I stepped out of the elevator.

And then he walked toward me, fast, confident, like he’d been waiting.

“Aiden,” I started, already smiling.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed me by the waist and kissed me.

Hard.

His mouth was hotter than I remembered. Hungrier. His hands were rougher where they clutched my hips. And when he bit my bottom lip, just enough to make me gasp, I felt it all the way between my thighs.

​​But something was off.

The kiss was different. Still familiar, but not quite right. A shade too sharp. A little too cocky.

I pulled back, breathless. “What the hell?”

That’s when he smiled.

Not Aiden’s sweet, crooked smile. This one was slower. Sharper. Like he was in on a joke I didn’t know the punchline to.

“I’m Archer, Aiden’s brother,” he said, casually wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You must be Maya.”

I stared. Same eyes. Same jaw. A smirk trying to tug at the corner of his mouth. “You’re—”

But not my smirk.

Then he gave me a smile. Slower. Lazier. Meaner.

“Twins,” he finished, with a wink. “Identical, if you hadn’t guessed.”

I froze. “Jesus. You’re twins?”

He disappeared around the corner, smug as hell, while I stood there wondering why it felt just as good kissing him as it did his brother. Or better yet, why it felt just as right?

I spent the rest of the day trying not to think about that kiss. I should have texted Aiden but I didn’t.

Not after that parking garage ambush. Not after that mouthy, smug twin had the nerve to kiss me like he already owned me, then walk away like it was no big deal.

So yeah, when Aiden knocked on my door the next night, wine in hand and wearing that same easy smile, I opened it with my arms crossed.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in like nothing was wrong. “You okay? You didn’t answer my texts.”

I shut the door. Hard. “I ran into your brother yesterday.”

His brow furrowed. “Archer?”

I nodded. “In the parking garage. Walked right up to me like he’d been waiting. Didn’t even say hi, just grabbed me and kissed me.”

Aiden’s expression darkened. “He what?”

“Bit my lip, got handsy, then told me who he was like it was some kind of joke.”

His jaw flexed. “Son of a bitch.”

I cross my arms. “So that’s a thing he does? Kisses your girlfriends for fun?”

“Jesus, Maya—” He steps toward me, voice rough. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

“Not the point.” Well that stings a bit. Maybe I’m not his girlfriend but I was hoping to be.

“No,” he snapped. “It’s not. The point is he had no right.”

I let that hang between us. “He felt like you.”

That stops him cold.

“He kissed like you,” I said, softer now. “Almost. Just… sharper. Meaner.”

Aiden’s jaw clenched. “He’s not me.”

“No,” I said. “But he made me wonder.”

He rakes a hand through his hair and turns away, pacing toward the window. “Fuck. I should’ve warned you.”

“You think?” I repeat, my arms still folded.

He turns. “He does this sometimes. Gets… curious. He’s not usually so bold.”

I laugh, once. “Right. Because ambush-kissing someone in a parking garage is subtle.”

Aiden crosses the room in three long strides. His hands find my waist, gentler than Archer’s, but just as firm and I flinch just a little. “I’m not him, Maya.”

“I know,” I said. But I don’t move.

He leans in, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “You kissed me first. You want me.”

My pulse jumps. “Yeah, well… now I’ve kissed both of you.”

“Not like this.”

His mouth is on mine before I can answer. This time it’s slow. Deep. A kiss that promises more but he doesn't rush to take it. He tastes like Pinot and restraint.

My knees almost give out.

When he pulls back, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me that didn’t feel different.”

It did.

God, it did.

But I’m not going to make it easy for him.

“Should all your kisses come with a DNA test now?” I asked.

He smirked, mouth brushing my jaw. “Want me to prove who I am?”

“Depends what you’re offering.”

He let out a low, rough sound against my neck.

And then we stop pretending this wasn’t going to get messy.

He backs me toward the couch, hands never leaving my waist, mouth skimming along my jaw like he’s starving and I’m the only thing on the menu.

I sink down first, legs parting just enough for him to follow. His body slots against mine like it’s done it a hundred times. Maybe it has. Maybe this is what we’ve been circling since night one on the balcony.

His hand slides under my shirt. Warm. Steady. Like he’s taking his time, like he wants me to feel every inch of this.

I do.

“I don’t share,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down my throat.

“Funny,” I breathe, tipping my head back to give him more room, “because apparently your brother does.”

He growls, a low, possessive sound that makes my core clench and he pulls back just enough to look at me.

“Do you want him?”

I don’t answer right away.

His eyes search mine. “Tell me the truth, Maya.”

“No,” I say, and it’s almost true. “I want you.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into mine again, and this time, there’s nothing slow about it. His hands are under my shirt, tugging it off, and I lift my arms without thinking. Cool air hits my skin, followed by the heat of his mouth, dragging down my neck, over the swell of my breast.

I gasp when his tongue circles my nipple.

“Aiden—”

“Say it again,” he rasps. “Say my name.”

I thread my fingers into his hair, tug just enough to make him look up.

“Aiden.”

His hands slide down my body, settling between my thighs. He doesn’t ask permission. Just slips his fingers into my shorts and groans when he finds me already soaked.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re killing me.”

“Then stop teasing.”

His grin is wicked. “Careful. I bite too.”

I tug his mouth back to mine.

Let him.

His fingers slide through my slickness, teasing before dipping inside, and my hips jerk up without permission. I’m past pride. Past pretending.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t have to. Aiden knows exactly what he’s doing. Every stroke, every curl of his fingers is deliberate.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says against my neck. “You. Spread out for me. Writhing underneath me.”

I arch into him, desperate for more. “Then stop thinking and fuck me already.”

He groans, low and wrecked and pulls his hand away just long enough to shove his jeans down. My shorts go next and I’m naked before I realize it. My legs parted, breath catching as he settles between them.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his wallet. I watch him tear it open with his teeth, roll it on, and line himself up, all without breaking eye contact.

“Last chance to say no,” he says, voice tight.

I wrap my legs around his waist and drag him in.

His name rips out of me the second he sinks inside. Thick. Deep. Perfect.

He stills, forehead pressed to mine. “Jesus. You feel—”

I roll my hips. “Don’t you dare stop now.”

He moves.

Slow at first. Deep, steady strokes that make me whimper. Then faster, harder, until I’m gasping beneath him, nails digging into his back, every thrust hitting exactly where I need it.

“Aiden,” I pant. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“I won’t,” he growls. “Not until you come on my cock.”

And I do.

Shattering around him, legs trembling, voice gone.

He follows with a low, guttural moan, hips slamming forward as he loses control and gives in to it. To me.

To us.

He collapses on top of me, breathless. Sweat-slicked and shaking. For a second, neither of us says anything.

And then—

A knock at the door.

We both freeze.

He pulls back, still inside me, brows pulling together. “You expecting someone?”

The knock comes again, loud and deliberate.

Whoever it is, they’re not shy or hesitant.

I glance at the door, a chill skimming over my skin.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” I say. “But from the sound of that knock someone really wants in.”

Another knock.

Louder and harder this time. Like whoever it is knows they’re interrupting something and doesn’t give a damn.

Aiden pulls out with a hiss and grabs his jeans, muttering a curse as he tugs them on. I scramble for the blanket, wrapping it around myself just in time to hear the third knock.

Aiden yanks open the door.

And there he is.

Archer.

Leaning against the frame like he owns the place. Still in that same fitted suit. Same cocky smirk.

“Took you long enough,” he says, eyes flicking past Aiden to land on me, flushed, barely covered, legs still spread under the blanket.

His smirk deepens. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You are,” Aiden snaps, body tense. “What the hell do you want?”

“I figured we should clear the air.” Archer steps inside without being invited. “And judging by the timing, guess I wasn’t wrong.”

I sit up straighter, pulse thudding in my throat. “How do you even know which apartment—”

“I watched you walk in last night,” he says. “Was curious how long it’d take you to tell him.”

Aiden shuts the door a little too hard. “Get out.”

But Archer doesn’t move. His eyes are still on me. “So. Was I better or worse?”

My breath catches. Aiden stiffens.

“Don’t,” Aiden warns, voice low and dangerous.

Archer holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just wanted to say hi to my future sister-in-law.”

Aiden lunges, but I’m already on my feet.

“Stop,” I snap. “Both of you.”

They freeze.

I look between them, one wild, the other smug. Both impossibly hot. Both staring at me like they want to ruin each other just to have me.

And suddenly I’m not sure I want to stop anything at all.

I hold the blanket tighter around me, not because I’m shy but because the look Archer’s giving me could burn right through it.

“You kissed me without asking,” I say, staring him down.

“You kissed back,” he replies, casually stepping closer. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Aiden’s jaw tenses beside me. “You’re pushing it.”

Archer glances at his brother, then back at me. “Maybe. But I think she wants to be pushed.”

I should shut it down.

Should tell him to leave.

But my body’s still humming from the orgasm Aiden gave me, and silently still tingling from Archer’s bite the day before. And now they’re both standing here, one furious, one smug, both hard in different ways, and all I can think about is what it would feel like to have them both.

“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

Archer grins. “And yet you haven’t told me to get the fuck out.”

My silence stretches. That grin of his widens.

Aiden turns to me, voice tight. “Maya. If you want him to leave just tell me to.”

I meet his eyes. But here’s the problem, I don’t want to.

Instead, I ask, “What are you really doing here, Archer?”

He tilts his head. “I wanted to see what had my brother so strung out. Now I get it.”

He takes another step closer. He’s in my space now, standing right beside Aiden. Same height. Same eyes. But completely different energy.

Aiden’s heat is steady. Archer’s is wild.

And I want both.

I look between them, breath catching.

“You want me to pick,” I say. “Is that it?”

Archer lifts a brow. “No. I want to see if you can.”

Aiden swears under his breath. “He’s playing games.”

Archer shrugs. “Maybe. But if she wants both of us, who’s really winning?”

Silence.

My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. I step forward, between them, close enough to feel the heat rolling off their bodies.

“If I told you both to stay,” I say, voice low, “would you?”

Aiden’s jaw clenches. Archer’s eyes flare.

And neither of them says no.

Aiden doesn’t answer. His jaw’s locked, arms tight at his sides like he’s trying not to lose it. Archer, though, he just smiles. Slow. Satisfied.

He leans in, eyes locked on mine.

“Did Aiden tell you we’ve shared before?”

I freeze. “What?”

Archer’s voice drops to a dangerous purr. “Girls. Moments. Fun.”

“Fuck off,” Aiden snaps, but his voice cracks just enough to tell me it’s not a lie.

My breath catches. “You’ve… done this? Together?”

Aiden looks away. Archer doesn’t.

“We don’t make a habit of it,” he says. “But sometimes…”

“Sometimes it works,” Aiden finishes, voice rough.

My head spins. My body’s already answering for me, every nerve on fire, core clenching at the image forming in my mind. Two mouths. Two sets of hands. Two of them.

I swallow hard. “And you’d do it again?”

They look at each other, something passing between them I don’t understand but I feel it. A shared tension. A shared want.

“If you say the word,” Archer says, stepping in until his chest brushes mine, “we’ll make sure you never forget it.”

Aiden moves behind me, his hand sliding up my bare spine. “But only if you want it.”

I do.

God, I do.

I let the blanket drop.

Archer’s sharp inhale is the last thing I hear before both of them are on me.

Hands. Mouths. Heat.

Aiden’s lips find my neck, his hands cupping my breasts as Archer drops to his knees in front of me, dragging his hands up my thighs with deliberate slowness.

“You sure?” Aiden murmurs at my ear, even as he grinds against my back.

I nod, breathless. “I want both of you.”

Archer looks up at me, dark eyes full of sin. “Then you’ll have us.”

And then he buries his mouth between my thighs while Aiden turns my head and kisses me like he owns me.

I moan into Aiden’s mouth, my fingers sliding into his hair as Archer works me with his tongue, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like he’s trying to see how fast he can make me fall apart.

Aiden pulls back just enough to whisper, “That feel good?”

I can’t even answer. My knees are shaking, body caught between fire and something dangerously close to surrender.

Archer groans against me, the vibration making me cry out.

“Fuck,” Aiden mutters. He steps back and yanks his jeans off completely, the condom from earlier clinging tight and full. He strips it off quickly, tosses it in the trash, then strokes himself once before tearing open a fresh one. Watching me come undone beneath his brother’s mouth.

“Switch,” Aiden says.

Archer doesn’t hesitate. He rises in one fluid motion, mouth glistening, eyes blazing as he peels off his suit jacket. Then the shirt. Button by slow, taunting button.

My breath hitches. I shouldn’t be watching this, shouldn’t want it this badly, but I can’t look away.

He undoes his belt next then his pants. And when he steps out of them, completely bare, my mouth goes dry.

They’re not just twins. They’re identical.

Almost.

Archer’s a little thicker. A little rougher. And when my eyes drop lower, I see the glint of silver near the tip of his cock… pierced. Of course he is. And of course it only makes him more fucking perfect.

He catches me staring and grins. “You ready to find out the difference?”

I nod.

Aiden sinks onto the couch and pulls me into his lap, my back against his chest, my legs spread wide across his thighs. His arms wrap around me, steady and sure, while Archer steps between my legs.

He tears open a condom, rolls it on with practiced ease, and strokes himself once, just enough to make my breath hitch. The piercing is still there, muted now beneath the latex, but I can feel the way my body reacts to the idea of it.

Then his cock presses against my entrance, thick, hot, and perfectly aligned and I suck in a breath.

“You good?” Archer murmurs, his voice rough now, no teasing.

Aiden kisses my neck. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. You sure about this?”

I nod, breathless. “Yes, I want it.”

Then he whispers in my ear, “Let him in. I’ll be right here with you.”

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, giving me time to adjust. The stretch is deep and delicious, my body clenching around him without meaning to.

Behind me, Aiden’s arms tighten.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips brushing my skin. One hand slides up to cup my breast, fingers teasing my nipple until I moan. “Let him in, baby. Just like that.”

Archer groans, his hands gripping my thighs. “Fuck, she’s so tight.”

I can barely breathe. He fills me completely—thick, deep, overwhelming and he hasn't even moved yet.

Aiden’s free hand glides down my stomach, between my legs, and he finds my clit like he already knows every part of me. He circles it slowly, deliberately, while Archer begins to thrust.

It’s overwhelming.

Too much and not enough all at once.

I gasp, hips jerking, caught between Archer’s thick cock and Aiden’s relentless fingers.

“You feel that?” Aiden whispers, nipping at my earlobe. “That’s both of us. You’re taking him so fucking well.”

Archer’s pace quickens, his rhythm syncing with the swirl of Aiden’s fingers until I’m trembling in their arms, my body a live wire.

“I… I’m close—” I choke out, head falling back against Aiden’s shoulder.

“Then come,” Archer growls. “Come with my cock inside you.”

Aiden presses his mouth to my neck, his voice wrecked. “Do it. Let him feel you fall apart.”

I shatter, legs shaking, vision blurring, a cry ripping from my throat as pleasure crashes through me, sharp and blinding.

Archer swears, thrusts once more, twice, and then groans low in his chest as he comes, hips grinding deep as he empties into the condom.

He pulls out slowly, still breathing hard, and steps back, chest heaving, sweat glistening down his neck.

I’m limp in Aiden’s lap, skin buzzing, heart racing.

But Aiden’s still hard.

Still holding me and watching me like he’s nowhere near done.

Archer steps back, still catching his breath, and Aiden doesn’t waste a second.

His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me with ease, strong, controlled, until I’m hovering just above him, my body still trembling from the orgasm I barely recovered from.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “I always fucking will.”

He positions himself at my entrance, the head of his cock nudging against my pussy. I whimper, already aching again.

Then he lowers me.

Slowly.

I sink onto him inch by inch, my body stretching to take him in all over again. He’s thick and hard and so hot it makes my toes curl.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, hands gripping his forearms.

He groans, head falling back for a beat. “Fuck, baby…”

Once I’m seated fully, hips pressed to his, he wraps his arms around me, tight and possessive, then thrusts up once, deep and hard.

I cry out, hips jerking, and he does it again.

This time, there’s no teasing.

No soft warm-up.

He takes me like he owns me, like he’s reclaiming every inch Archer touched, every sound he pulled from my throat.

“You’re mine,” he growls against my throat, his pace relentless now. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp, nails dragging down his back.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Aiden.”

He slams into me harder, one hand tangling in my hair to pull my mouth back to his. His kiss is wild, open-mouthed and filthy, all tongue and teeth and heat.

I ride him harder, chasing another high, thighs straining against his as I grind down, my hands gripping his forearms for leverage.

And Archer’s still watching.

Still naked.

Still hard.

I think my night is only getting started.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Twists, Heartaches & No Easy Choices

Love triangles hurt.

Not because they’re dramatic—but because, when written honestly, they force characters (and readers) to sit with impossible questions.

What does it cost to love two people?

When does it cross a line?

Is it selfish—or is it survival?

The truth is, sometimes choosing one person means silencing a part of yourself. And sometimes trying to hold on to both feels like a betrayal—until you realize the real betrayal would be pretending your heart can be split so neatly.

These stories get messy. Complicated. And beautiful in their wreckage.

Here’s a glimpse into a moment that captures that tension:

“I look at him, and I feel steady. I look at you, and I feel alive. And I don’t know what kind of person that makes me, wanting both.”

He doesn’t speak. He just watches me with something breaking behind his eyes. Something I put there.

“You’re not the kind of person who wants too much,” he says. “You’re the kind of person who’s finally brave enough to admit she needs more than most people are willing to give.”

That’s the heartbeat of a real-stakes triangle. It’s not about indecision—it’s about depth. Growth. The ache of loving honestly in a world that always demands you choose.

Love Triangle - Forget choosing. Keep them BOTH

There’s a moment in some love triangles where everything shifts.

Where it’s no longer just “Who will they choose?”

It becomes: “What if they don’t have to choose at all?”

That’s the sweet spot for MFM romance—the moment the tension between three people doesn’t pull them apart, but draws them closer. One love interest is steady. The other is fire. Together, they balance something that wouldn’t feel complete if you took any one piece away.

And sometimes, it’s not just about her being torn. Sometimes the men don’t hate each other as much as they’re pretending to. Sometimes that spark between them is real—and neither of them knows what to do with it.

That’s when a triangle stops being about rivalry… and starts becoming about possibility.

MFM (especially with a little MM heat) doesn’t work unless every connection feels earned. The physical chemistry matters—but the emotional weight is what makes it believable. These stories work best when there’s deep trust, mutual want, and the understanding that this kind of love breaks the rules—and rebuilds something better in its place.

So, let’s be honest:

Have you ever read a triangle and thought, “Forget choosing. Keep them both.”

And maybe—just maybe—hoped they’d choose each other, too?