The air was thick with the scent of pine, smoke, and sweat. The firepit in the clearing behind the old Elk Ridge Tavern roared tall, crackling and spitting embers into the starlit sky. Cars and trucks were parked haphazardly around the field, tailgates down, coolers popped open, and the sound of country rock thumped low from a few Bluetooth speakers scattered near the fire.

Jack Johnson leaned against his truck, arms crossed over his chest, beer in one hand, eyes flicking lazily over the growing crowd. He wore a black thermal shirt tight against his thick, veined arms and wide chest, dark jeans that hugged his muscular thighs, and boots still dusted with sawdust from the afternoon’s work. His scent—woodsmoke, cedar, and raw male musk—hung in the cool air like a drug.

He didn’t come to the bonfire to hunt.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t feed.

Word had gotten around that Jack was back in town. And now the whole damn county seemed to be out here tonight—laughing, drinking, and stealing glances at the broad-shouldered lumberjack who moved with the quiet confidence of a man who’d already made several of their fantasies come true.

They came in waves.

The first to approach was Tanya, the pretty redhead who ran the local bakery. Mid-30s, curvy, sweet on the outside but with eyes that said she hadn’t forgotten what happened last summer behind her shop when Jack stopped in for “extra honey.” She wore tight denim overalls, no bra, the outline of her nipples peeking through her thin tank. She giggled when he complimented her cinnamon buns, and when he leaned down to whisper something about how good they tasted fresh from the oven, she shivered.

“Later,” she whispered. “Behind the woodshed.”

Jack gave her a wink. “You bring the frosting.”

Next was Eli, a quiet mechanic in his late 20s. Lean, wiry, with black grease under his nails and a not-so-secret crush on Jack ever since high school. He showed up in a flannel half-unbuttoned and tight jeans that did little to hide the bulge pressing forward when Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Still lifting under the hood?” Jack asked, voice low.

Eli swallowed hard. “Trying to keep up with you, Johnson.”

Jack leaned closer, their boots nearly touching. “You’ll have to come by the cabin soon. I’ve got something that needs a real good tune-up.”

Eli turned red and practically ran.

But the night was just warming up.

By 10 p.m., the fire was blazing, and Jack was surrounded.

Amber, a voluptuous MILF in a sundress with a slit up to her thigh, sat beside him on a log and kept “accidentally” brushing her thigh against his. She smelled like lilac and bourbon and had a wedding ring she didn’t even bother to hide.

“I heard you’ve been busy, Jack,” she purred, tilting her wine toward him. “Saving marriages one stroke at a time.”

Jack chuckled, resting a warm, heavy palm on her bare knee. “I’m just doing community service.”

She bit her lip. “Then maybe I should book an appointment.”

Not far off, her husband watched. At first, he scowled. But when Jack met his eyes and offered a slow, knowing smile, something shifted. The husband didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Just stood there, beer in hand, watching his wife blush under Jack’s touch.

And then came the real moment.

Around midnight, the music dropped, replaced by the lazy strum of a guitar, someone playing acoustic while couples slow danced in the flickering firelight. Jack had just stepped away toward the tree line, taking a leak, when he heard a soft voice behind him.

“You always had the best ass in the county.”

He turned—Lena. His old high school flame. Blonde, tan, her body thick in all the right ways, lips glossy and legs long under a leather mini skirt that barely covered the curve of her ass. She sauntered up, boots crunching leaves, a slow smile tugging at her mouth.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Jack said.

“I didn’t think you’d still be this damn hot.”

She pressed a hand to his chest. Jack caught her wrist, slowly guided it down the ridges of his abs. Her breath caught.

“I’ve missed this,” she whispered. “Missed you.”

Jack didn’t waste time. He pressed her back against a tree, kissing her hard, deep, the kind of kiss that said years hadn’t changed a damn thing. She moaned into his mouth, nails raking down his back.

In seconds, her skirt was up, panties pulled to the side, and Jack’s thick fingers sliding between her soaked folds. She gasped, clutching at his arms.

“God—Jack…”

“I remember this pussy,” he growled, sinking to his knees. “Still sweet.”

She choked on a moan as he buried his face between her legs, tongue working her like he had a decade ago, like no one since had come close. Her thighs trembled, back arching against the bark, hips grinding into his face until she shattered with a cry into the night.

But Jack wasn’t done.

He stood, undid his jeans, and drove into her in one powerful thrust.

She gasped—half pain, half ecstasy—and wrapped her legs around him. Jack fucked her against that tree like she owed him something, deep and brutal, one hand gripping her ass, the other tangled in her hair. She clawed at his back, cried his name, begged for more.

And when she came again—shaking, soaked, ruined—Jack growled low in his throat and finished inside her, holding her tight as her body collapsed against his.

Back at the fire, no one asked where they went.

But they saw Lena later—hair wild, lipstick gone, walking bowlegged and smiling like a woman freshly devoured.

And Jack?

He returned to his spot like a king, sipping from his beer, shirt now off, chest glistening with sweat and scratches. People stared. Whispered.

But no one dared approach just yet.

Not until Mason, the quiet schoolteacher with the sculpted jaw and secret tattoos under his button-down, offered Jack a drink and sat down beside him. The look they shared said only one thing:

Tonight wasn’t over.

And no one at the bonfire was off limits.


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