Chapter 20
T hat night, I end up in Cayden's bed again, where he does wicked things to me with his tongue. I get to have him in my mouth for the first time, and then we make love soft and slow.
Come morning, he heads off to the old saw mill to get some things done there, with a promise to meet me in Deandre's workshop later. I have a delicious breakfast of pancakes and bacon and gentle kisses from Adam, and then I'm bundling up and heading out into the cold.
But when I push open the door to the garage that's been converted into a woodworking shop, it's gloriously warm. No—it's hot .
Or at least the view certainly is.
Deandre is bent over a lathe, a look of intense concentration on his face. He's wearing safety glasses and loose jeans and work boots and nothing else , and I nearly swallow my tongue.
Holy shit, the guy is ripped. His midnight black skin gleams beneath the overhead lights, a fine sheen of sweat making it shine.
As he works the block of wood through the machine, his muscles bulge.
He has to bend to see what he's doing, he's so huge.
I might have imagined that a guy of his size would be a bull in a china shop, but he's graceful, attending to delicate details.
He's beautiful, is what he is. Everything in me longs to touch.
I'm pretty sure that would be welcome, but I'm here to help, so I attempt to shake off my fog of lust.
With the sound of the machine, he doesn't seem to have noticed my presence. I cross the room, trying to put myself in his sightline if he should happen to look up.
When I'm about a half dozen feet away, I pause, raising my voice to be heard.
"Looking good." Nominally, I'm talking about the chair spindle he's creating, but as he lifts his head to meet my gaze and smirks, I'm pretty sure he knows that the wood isn't the only thing I'm appreciating.
"Glad you think so." He bends to his work again for a moment, getting to a stopping point, I guess, then turns off the machine and straightens to his full, impressive height. "Morning, girlie. Was hoping you'd show up."
"I told you I would."
"That you did."
We stand there in heated silence for a moment.
Without the noise of the machine, I take in other details, like the crackle of a wood stove burning in the corner, filling the space with heat.
A set of speakers is set beside him. The music was barely audible a moment before, but it's clear as can be now.
I lick my lips. Apparently, Deandre likes to listen to sexy R Cayden wasn't lying when he said Deandre was an artist. I appreciate the curves and twists of the wood, the shapes he created with his own two hands, and they're just like him.
Sturdy and strong, delicate and graceful—all at the same time.
I'm nearing the end of the stack he gave me when the lathe shuts off. I don't think anything of it until he says, "Hey, girlie."
"Yeah?"
"You said you done some carving before?"
"Uh-huh."
"Want to learn how to do some more?"
"Sure."
I set aside what I was working on and move to join him on the other side of the room.
He has a few chair backs set aside. A couple of them are already finished, intricate, smooth scroll work etched into each one.
It's nothing at all like the choppy woodcut blocks I used to make in my printmaking days. A prickle of doubt makes me frown.
"I don't know if I can do anything as fancy as all that."
"Bet you can. C'mere. I'll show you how."
He plants his big body in an old, repurposed work chair. Beside him are laid out a variety of tools, some of which I recognize. I stand there, expecting a demonstration, but then he reaches for me.
"Come on. Can't see from that far away."
Oh. Jeez, he's strong. He pulls me into my lap, and my brain goes fuzzy with static for a second. I feel tiny held in his embrace like this. His bare skin pours off heat, and the rise and fall of his muscular chest is a force against my spine. His breath washes across my ear, and I shudder.
"Here." He pulls at my thighs, getting me to straddle his lap, and it's basically reverse cowgirl, except with all of my clothes and half of his still on. The position makes me more stable, right until he hauls me back against him.
I can't help the moan that falls out of me. He's not even completely hard, but the ridge of his cock presses into my ass when we're like this. He's enormous, and God, I want it.
"Deandre…"
"Shh. Focus."
And then, Lord help us all, he picks up a piece of wood and a tool.
What follows is the sexiest, most torturous woodworking lesson in the history of mankind.
There's something so soothing about his presence, though.
As he instructs me on the kind of carving he does, my mind goes glass smooth.
I'm a throbbing mass of need and want, but I'm also an attuned student, absorbing his tutelage, ready to do as he asks of me.
Submissive, honestly. Without so much as a whip or a chain or a rough word in sight.
Under his direction, I pick up a piece of my own.
He keeps his hands on mine, and together, we create something from a hunk of bare wood, and satisfaction boils in my breast. It's been so long since I've made something with my hands, and it feels good.
Almost as good as the heat of his body encompassing mine, as the warmth of his praise washing over me, as the increasingly huge bulge of his cock beneath me.
"Got it, girlie?"
I nod.
He hands me another piece of wood. A quiet stillness falls over me. I focus intently on the task at hand. He murmurs quite encouragement, and I go to work.
The low thrum of arousal becomes part of the labor of creation, and hell, I don't think I'm ever going to be able to so much as smell wood shavings without getting instantly, achingly wet ever again.
It only gets worse now that he's not holding my hands.
His broad palms settle first on my thighs.
They're grounding as they run up and down my legs.
Then they start to creep higher, curling closer to my center.
Before long, he's brushing the crease where my thighs meet my cunt through my jeans with every pass, and I pulse.
My vision goes hazy, but that focus he demanded of me remains.
"Good, baby girl. That's real, real good."
Oh, God, that simple praise shoots to my pussy. My clit throbs, and my head spins.
Then he starts shifting higher with his touch. He caresses my sides, palms my hips. His fingertips trace just beneath my breasts, and my breathing stutters.
He still doesn't cross any lines, though—not while I'm working. He doesn't touch any of the places I desperately want him to, and this is foreplay. This is the hottest fucking thing I've ever done.
Finally, I look up, and the design is finished. I breathe in a lungful of fresh air. "Oh."
I did it.
But I'm still waiting for approval. A moment passes and then another, and then Deandre takes the carving from my hands. His fingers brush mine, and it's crushingly erotic.
He turns the piece of wood over a couple of times, and I feel like I'm hanging in mid air.
Until finally he sets it down.
"It's perfect. Absolutely perfect, little girl. Knew you could do it."
"I didn't."
"I know. That's why I had to teach you how. You believe me now?"
I nod, fervent. I believe everything he says. Every word.
"Good. So good, baby girl."
His praise lights me up like I'm aglow.
And then his hands are on me again. He just dives right in, planting them on my hips, pulling me back against him.
His voice is gruff when he asks, "Now. You ready for me to show you something else?"