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