On the Mountain

by Riley Hart

My hands fumbled with the handle, but I managed to open the door, unclick the seat belt, and then I ran. A car swerved so it didn’t hit me. More horns. More noise. My name. I got lost in the crowd. Home. I just needed to find the mountain and get home.

This man was dangerous. One look at him was all it took to know that. The wildness radiated off him like heat from a furnace.

I still felt like an earthquake had met up with a hurricane inside my chest, and it took everything in me not to wreck my own things, not to throw and hit and rip up everything in sight.

My feelings were always so big, so overwhelming that I struggled not to lose myself to it, not to let them overtake me because what was the damn point in fighting so hard?

I felt something inside me stir. I wanted him. Wanted to fuck him and possess him, which made me hate him—and hate myself even more.

Who would miss me if I was gone? Why did it matter if I took care of myself when there was nothing grounding me to this life? I shook those thoughts from my head, if only because my mom would have hated them.

There were bears out here, there had to be, yet there I was, walking around with food and also being food.

I liked the way he smelled—like sweat, sugar, and maybe a little bit of fear. Part of my brain knew him fearing me shouldn’t turn me on, but I figured there was always something about me that wasn’t normal.

A growl escaped my lips despite how hard I tried to hold it down. I knew what he was doing—he was trying to make me feel a connection to him so I didn’t kill him, but what the little lamb didn’t know was that I had no plans to hurt him.

“Great. You’re a homophobe? Leave it to me to get kidnapped by a homophobic mountain man who doesn’t speak. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood. What was I thinking, trying to bring you food? That was you stalking me the whole time, wasn’t it?” Tell him. Tell him you’re not homophobic and you’re not going to kill him.

I didn’t want to touch him again. I wanted to touch him everywhere.

My hands twitched, and I forced myself to return to my chair, eyes open all night, taking in every angle of him, every dip and valley, the way he breathed and mumbled soft sounds. Maybe I was more like Chosen than I thought, because part of me wanted to keep him here and never let him leave.

While I was pretty steady now, my mood swings could be a lot—okay one day and then unable to pull myself out of bed the next, and when I did struggle, my mood swings were often cycling rapidly, so I was all over the place, and people around me had no idea what to expect. Mental illness was a bitch. I took medication for it, but it had plagued me for most of my life. People had judged me for it, walked away from me because of it, looked at me like I was broken because of it.

He’d left me alone. What was he doing? Seconds later, he came out with a pair of crutches that would have been really fucking convenient to have earlier. “Oh, now you bring these out?”

I could smell Cyrus in my home, smell his sugar and musk on my couch, and I’d sat there, sniffing the cushion while jerking off, but it didn’t take the edge off.

I had never wanted inside someone as much as I wanted inside him.

His smell was all wrong. His skin felt all wrong. I wished for the gentle hint of sugar, pictured big gray eyes that held a world of sadness, the way his mouth parted slightly when he slept…

Voice low, mouth close to his lips, I forced out, “Get in. The fucking. Truck.” Cyrus stilled against me, before a tremble ran the length of his body. I inhaled a deep breath, taking in the scent of him. The sweetness that was Cyrus and the fear, wrapped up in desire, was a heady combination that made my cock throb. “Now.”

He could strangle me if he wanted and no one would know. He could fuck me to death while choking me and no one would miss me. He wouldn’t, yet knowing he could made me fly even higher.

He was too skinny, his skin too pale, but to me, he was beautiful, like this thing I shouldn’t touch but couldn’t keep my hands off, and one time, when I plucked him from the shelf, I would drop him and break him. I knew that, but I also knew I would keep taking him down over and over again because I didn’t have it in me not to. I was too addicted to him, too obsessed with him.

Had I left teeth prints there? Would he let me do it again? Because I wanted my mark on him.

Being around a large group of people didn’t make anyone less alone. This would always be my home. I would always belong to this mountain.

“I’m sorry, Crow. I know you’re not used to this…and you told me you’re trying. I have a lot of issues. Relationships with people are hard for me to navigate. I can get a bit up and down, take things too personally, but I shouldn’t put my struggles on you.”

He was…beautiful. The way his spine arched so he was at the right height for me. His flawless skin. I wanted to mark him everywhere, needed my scent all over him again, his body marked from my mouth. The need to rut into him, to spill my load deep inside him where it belonged, grew with each passing second.

My gaze darted to his hand when he reached out, plucked my boxer briefs from the mattress, brought them to his face, and inhaled. It snapped whatever control I had left in me, made my brain waves change.

Mine. Yes, he did feel as if he belonged to me, didn’t he?

I would call and quit my job. I’d lose my apartment and all the things there—I didn’t have enough money to pay the rent and utilities while I spent the next few months on a mountain. With a man I hardly knew. It was a terrible decision. It sounded glorious.

It was okay to fuck because that’s what men did, but the need I felt for Cyrus would have been a sin because we weren’t supposed to put anyone or anything over our love and devotion to Chosen and God. I slept with Cyrus.

“Garlic bread?” “Are you really eating spaghetti if you don’t have garlic bread?”

“We can watch shows on your computer.” “I don’t…do that.” I’d tried a few times, but they were strange and the people annoyed me.

“Taylor is my girl.” He did a shimmy thing that made my dick harden. You’re my boy, flittered through my head, and I didn’t shut down the thoughts.

He choked on me, gaze telling me he needed more. My hand fisted in his hair, and I gave it to him. Was there anything in this world I wouldn’t give this man? I didn’t think there was.

“I know what you meant. I was joking. I can take care of myself, though. I’ve been doing it most of my life.” “Yes, but now you’re mine,” he said simply, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“For someone who’s been alone for over ten years, you sure do know how to use your heart better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“What if I don’t ever leave? If you don’t make me, I won’t.” “Yes, you will, little lamb. Everyone wants to leave. Even my mother wanted to leave. And after…when I came back…they were all gone.”

I knew that was my mental illness talking. It wanted me to think everything was always my fault, that no one would ever stick around, that the loneliness would last forever. My meds helped a lot. I couldn’t function without them, but they didn’t make everything perfect.

Would Cyrus even last the winter? Would I have to make the dangerous trip down the mountain to take him home? You wouldn’t have to take him home. You could refuse. You could keep him here.

“If you’ll let me, I’ll hold you and touch you every damn day.”

“I want to kiss you, Crow, but I won’t. One day I hope you’ll let me, but if not, that’s okay too.”