MY MOUNTAIN DADDY

I never thought a weekend that was supposed to be about conquering a mountain would end up shattering my entire world.

My older brother, Jake, had planned this trip for months. A three-day climb up Black Ridge with his college buddies and their girlfriends. I only tagged along because my boyfriend, Tyler, begged me to come. “Babe, it’ll be romantic,” he’d said, kissing my neck in that lazy way that used to make me melt. “Just us, the stars, a tent. I’ll keep you warm every night.”

I should have known better.

We arrived at the trailhead Friday afternoon. Six of us total: Jake and his girlfriend Mia, two of Jake’s climbing friends, Tyler, and me. The air was crisp, pine-scented, the kind of cold that bites your cheeks and makes you feel alive. I was excited at first. I’d been training for this, hours on the stairmaster, new boots, expensive gear Tyler insisted we buy. I wanted to prove I could keep up.

The first day was perfect. Steep switchbacks, laughter echoing through the trees, Tyler’s hand in mine as we climbed higher. By dusk we reached the first campsite, a wide ledge with a view that stretched for miles. Golden light spilled over the valley below while we set up tents and built a fire. Tyler pulled me into his lap by the flames, whispering promises about how he was going to fuck me slow under the stars later.

I believed him.

That night in our tent he was eager, clumsy, over too fast. I faked it like always. He rolled over and was snoring within minutes. I lay there staring at the nylon ceiling, thighs sticky, body humming with frustration I’d grown used to ignoring.

Saturday morning we broke camp and pushed higher. The trail narrowed, turned technical. Ropes came out for a short scramble. Tyler was ahead of me, joking with the guys, barely glancing back to check if I was okay. I told myself it was fine. He was excited. We were all tired.

By early afternoon we reached the alpine meadow just below the final summit push, a wide, grassy bowl ringed by jagged peaks. Tomorrow we’d go for the top. Tonight we’d camp here, celebrate.

That’s when everything fell apart.

Tyler said he needed to “take a leak” and wandered off toward the tree line with his phone in hand. He’d been glued to it all day, which was weird because service up here was spotty at best. I didn’t think much of it until ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

I went looking.

I found him behind a cluster of pines, back to me, phone held low. He didn’t hear me approach over the wind.

The screen was lit up with messages. Dozens of them.

I saw her name first, Kayla. Then the photos.

Nudes. Close-ups of tits I didn’t recognize. A video thumbnail of a girl on her knees, mouth open, Tyler’s dick in frame. Captions that made my stomach drop.

“God I love when you choke me with it”  

“She never lets you do this, does she?”  

“Can’t wait to ride you again. Your gf’s pussy must be so boring by now”

And worst of all…his replies.

“Fuck no she doesn’t. She just lays there.”  

“Counting the days till I’m back inside you.”  

“Vanilla as hell. You’re the only one who can actually take it all.”

I made a sound, something between a gasp and a sob. He spun around, face going white.

“Babe..wait, it’s not….”

I didn’t wait.

I ran.

Blindly. Down the trail we’d come up, past startled faces calling my name, tears already freezing on my cheeks. My phone was in my hand, I don’t even remember grabbing it. I needed to call someone, anyone, just to scream.

But there was no signal. Of course there wasn’t.

I kept running, lungs burning, vision blurred. The trail dipped sharply into a rocky gully I didn’t remember from the ascent. Loose gravel shifted under my boots.

I went down hard.

Ankle twisted, palms scraped raw, phone flying from my grip. I heard it clatter against rock and then nothing.

I slid another few feet before strong hands caught me.

“Hey, easy. I’ve got you.”

The voice was deep, calm, steady. Not one of our group.

I looked up through tears and wind-tangled hair.

He was crouched above me on the trail, one arm hooked under mine, holding me upright like I weighed nothing. Mid-forties, maybe older. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a faded gray flannel over a thermal shirt that clung to a chest that looked carved from years of real work. Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples, trimmed beard, eyes the color of storm clouds. Handsome in a way that felt dangerous—sharp jaw, faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind of face that had seen things.

He didn’t smile, but his gaze was kind. Assessing.

“You’re hurt,” he said. Not a question.

I tried to stand and pain shot through my ankle. I hissed, nearly went down again. He tightened his grip.

“Easy. Let me look.”

He lowered me gently to a flat rock, kneeling in front of me. His hands, big, calloused, warm, moved with quiet efficiency. Untied my boot, eased it off, probed my ankle with careful fingers.

“Sprained, not broken. You’ll live, but you’re not walking far on it tonight.”

I realized I was shaking. Not just from cold or pain. From everything.

“My phone…” I choked out.

He glanced down the slope, spotted it wedged between two rocks ten feet below. Without a word he climbed down, retrieved it, and brought it back. The screen was spider-webbed, completely dark.

Dead.

Just like every last feeling I’d had for Tyler.

I started crying in earnest then. Ugly, heaving sobs I couldn’t stop.

The man didn’t flinch. He just sat beside me, close enough that his body blocked the wind, and let me fall apart.

When the worst of it passed, he spoke again.

“I’ve got camp half a mile east. Fire’s going. First aid kit. Hot food. You can clean up, elevate that ankle. Your people will come looking soon enough, but you shouldn’t be out here when the temperature drops.”

I wiped my face with my sleeve. “I…I don’t want to go back.”

He studied me for a long moment. Something in his eyes softened.

“Then you won’t. Not tonight.”

He offered his hand.

I took it.

His name was Cole Reilly.

He’d been solo climbing the ridge for a week, mapping new routes for a guidebook he was writing. Lived in a small town at the base of the range. Came up here to “remember what quiet feels like.”

He helped me stand, took most of my weight against his side. I limped beside him, every step sending sparks of pain up my leg, but his arm around my waist was steady. Solid.

We reached his camp as the sun bled out behind the peaks.

His setup was nothing like ours. One large, high-quality tent—big enough for two people to stand in—pitched on a flat spot overlooking the valley. A small fire crackled in a stone ring. A tarp strung between trees for windbreak. Everything neat, organized. The mark of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

He sat me on a folded camp chair near the fire, propped my foot on a log with his rolled-up jacket as cushion.

“Stay put.”

He disappeared into the tent and came back with a metal basin of steaming water, a clean towel, and a first aid kit that looked military-grade.

Kneeling again, he soaked the towel and gently cleaned the gravel from my scraped palms. His touch was careful but sure. No hesitation. When he moved to my face—wiping away dried tears and dirt—I didn’t pull away.

“You’re in shock,” he said quietly. “Drink this.”

He handed me an enamel mug. Tea, strong and sweet with honey. It burned going down, but warmth spread through my chest.

I watched him work. The way his flannel stretched across his back when he leaned over the fire to stir something in a small pot. The quiet competence in every movement. He wasn’t trying to fill the silence with chatter. He just… took care.

Eventually he brought me a bowl of stew, real food, thick with chunks of meat and vegetables. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I tasted it.

We ate in silence for a while, the only sound the crackle of the fire and wind in the pines.

When I finished, he took the bowl, refilled my tea.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked.

I laughed, bitter. “Not really.”

He nodded like that was fair.

But the words came anyway.

I told him everything. The messages. The photos. The way Tyler had mocked me to her, the girl who apparently did everything I wouldn’t. How he’d never once made me come in two years. How I’d faked it every time because I thought that’s what you did when you loved someone.

I don’t know why I told him. Maybe because it was getting dark and he was a stranger. Maybe because he listened without judgment, gray eyes steady on mine across the fire.

When I finished, my voice raw, he was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, “He’s a boy who doesn’t know what he had. And you deserve someone who does.”

Simple. No pity. Just fact.

Something in my chest unclenched.

The temperature plummeted as night fell. Even with the fire, the cold clawed through my layers.

Cole noticed me shivering.

“You’ll sleep in the tent tonight. I’ll take the bivy outside.”

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s your tent. I can’t…”

“You’re injured. You need to stay warm and keep that ankle elevated. Discussion over.”

His tone left no room for argument.

He helped me inside.

The tent was surprisingly spacious. Thick sleeping pads laid side by side, two sleeping bags zipped together into one large one, practical for solo trips when warmth mattered more than anything else.

He’d already spread an extra foam pad for elevation and placed a small lantern in the corner, casting soft gold light.

“Bathroom’s behind that boulder,” he said. “I’ll help you there and back.”

I nodded, cheeks burning.

He supported me the whole way, patient, impersonal. When we returned he handed me a soft flannel shirt from his pack.

“Yours are damp from sweat. This’ll be more comfortable.”

I hesitated.

“I’ll turn around.”

He did, facing the tent wall, arms crossed.

I peeled off my sweaty base layers, skin prickling in the cold air. Pulled his shirt on. It swallowed me, hanging to mid-thigh, smelling like pine smoke and something warm and masculine that made my stomach flip.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He turned. His gaze flicked over me once, quick, but I caught the way it lingered on my bare legs before he looked away.

He helped me into the sleeping bag, propped my ankle on a rolled jacket.

Then he paused at the tent flap.

“You need anything, you call. I’ll be right outside.”

“Cole?”

He stopped.

“There’s… room. It’s big enough for both of us. And it’s cold.”

I didn’t know why I said it. Or maybe I did.

He was still for a long moment.

Then he nodded once.

“Scoot over.”

He unzipped his boots, shrugged off the outer flannel, climbed in wearing thermals that clung to every line of muscle I’d been trying not to notice.

We lay side by side in the dark, lantern turned low, the sound of wind howling outside.

I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw Tyler’s messages. Felt the old ache of never being enough.

I shifted restlessly.

Cole’s voice came quietly. “You okay?”

“No,” I admitted.

He was silent.

Then: “Come here.”

He opened his arm.

I rolled toward him without thinking, tucking myself against his chest. His arm settled around me, heavy, warm, secure.

I fit perfectly under his chin.

His heartbeat was steady under my cheek. Slow. Strong.

Minutes passed.

His hand moved, slow strokes down my back, over the flannel, soothing.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “Just sleep.”

But my body had other ideas.

Being pressed against him, all hard muscle and heat, lit something low in my belly. Something that had been numb for too long.

I shifted again, thigh brushing his.

He stilled.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was rougher now.

I felt it then, the hard length of him against my hip. Thick. Heavy. Undeniable.

He started to pull away.

I stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Cole.”

He groaned softly. “You’ve had a hell of a day. You don’t want…”

“I do.”

I tilted my face up.

His eyes searched mine in the dim light.

“I know exactly what I want,” I said. “And it’s not him. It never really was.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Deep, hungry, claiming.

His hand slid into my hair, angling my head so he could take my mouth the way he wanted. Tongue stroking mine, tasting, demanding.

I moaned into him, fingers clutching his shirt.

He rolled us carefully, mindful of my ankle, settling between my thighs. The sleeping bag trapped heat around us, turning the air thick and intimate.

His hand slipped under the flannel, rough palm gliding up my bare thigh, over my hip, finding I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard against my lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart.”

Then his fingers were there, parting me, sliding through slick heat I hadn’t even realized was there.

I gasped.

He groaned.

“So wet already.”

One thick finger pushed inside me slow and steady. Then two. Stretching, curling, finding that spot that made my back arch.

No one had ever touched me like this. Like they knew exactly what I needed before I did.

His thumb circled my clit in tight, perfect strokes.

I clutched his shoulders, hips rocking helplessly.

“That’s it,” he growled against my neck. “Take what you need.”

I came hard and fast, crying out into his mouth, walls clenching around his fingers in waves I felt everywhere.

He worked me through it, drawing it out until I was trembling, oversensitive.

Only then did he pull his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean while watching me.

“Taste yourself,” he ordered softly.

He pressed those fingers to my lips.

I opened, sucked, tasting my own desire.

His eyes darkened.

“This is just the beginning,” he said. “Tomorrow I’m going to take my time with you. Show you what your body was made for.”

He tucked me against his chest again, hard cock still pressed against my thigh, ignored.

Fuck, I thought, screaming it inside my head. Who knew a stranger could make me feel this good?