The couch creaked beneath us, the old springs protesting every move. Sweat prickled at my skin. Ford smelled like cedar and clean sweat, and I couldn’t get enough of it. My heartbeat hammered in my ears.
He let me set the pace, never taking over, just meeting me every time I slammed down onto him. The power, the control, was electric. I rolled my hips, finding the spot that made us both lose our breath.
He started to lose control, thrusting up in time with me, his fingers digging into my hips, bruising but in a way that made me feel alive, cherished.
“I’m gonna—” he started, but I cut him off with a kiss.
“Do it,” I whispered. “Come inside me.”
His whole body went tense. He shuddered, groaning low in his chest, and I followed a second later, my own orgasm rolling over me like a wave.
I collapsed against his chest, both of us panting and sticky and spent.
We stayed like that, tangled together on the wrecked old couch, the world outside fading to nothing.
After a minute, he ran his hand up my back, slow and tender. “Are you okay?”
I smiled, kissed his neck. “I’ve never been better.”
He chuckled, pulling me closer. “You’re amazing,” he said, voice muffled in my hair.
I nuzzled into him, breathing him in. The scent, the feel, the taste of him—all of it was mine now. No one else’s.
For the first time in years, I wanted more.
I wanted everything.
I buried my face in his neck and held on, not afraid to take up space, not afraid to be greedy.
Ford let me, strong and steady, his arms around me like a promise.
Twenty-Two
Ford
At Chickadee, I’d gotten used to the rhythm of sanding down floorboards—move, bend, sand, wipe, repeat. My knees were shot, and my lower back was screaming, but the house was finally starting to feel like close to home.
The rest of the world faded when I worked. I could lose hours like this. It was better than therapy, cheaper than a shrink, and gave me the illusion of progress even when everything else in my life was frozen at “pending.” By the time the sun hit the west-facing windows, the place was hazy with sawdust and light, each particle floating in the late-afternoon sun like a fat, lazy snowflake.
I was elbow-deep in a battle with a warped board by the foyer when I heard the creak of the font door. Chickadee’s doors had never fit quite right, so anyone coming in sounded like a bear on a trampoline. I stood, brushed my hands on my jeans, and waited.
It was Walker, of course. He never knocked when he was young, so I didn’t expect it to be different now. He just entered, whistling a tune that was a little out of key.
He paused in the doorway of the living room, then grinned at me like he’d just caught me jerking off in a confessional. “You gonna say hello, or just stare at me like I’m a strippergram?”
I wiped sweat from my forehead. “Depends. Are you a strippergram?”
He shrugged, fake-modest. “Never say never. But today I’m here for business. Important business.” He stepped into the light, his boots tracking a line of fine sawdust behind him. “You busy, Ford?”
I gestured at the sander, which looked like it might give up the ghost at any second. “You could say that.”
He squatted beside me, inspecting my progress like a proud shop teacher. “You’ve done a hell of a job.”
“I’m working on it.”
He snorted, then turned serious. “You got plans tonight?”
I arched a brow. “Why?”
