Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
WES
The light in my room had gone soft and gold, slicing through the curtains in thin, lazy stripes. For the first time in a long time, morning didn’t feel like something I had to survive.
It was something I got to keep.
Clara was warm and solid in front of me, back pressed to my chest, her hair a messy curtain against my throat.
My hand rested low on her stomach, fingers splayed over soft skin, the curve of her hip tucked against my pelvis like we’d been made to slot together that way.
Every muscle in my body hummed with the pleasant, used ache of the night before and the quieter, sweeter ache from the day we’d had yesterday—farm, books, her hand in the crook of my arm like it belonged there.
She shifted, a sleepy wiggle that dragged her ass along my already half-hard cock. A little sound left her, not quite a moan, not quite a sigh, and every thought I’d been pretending to have about coffee or logistics evaporated.
“Morning,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, Duchess.” My mouth found the line of her shoulder, pressing a slow kiss there, then another. Her skin tasted like sleep and my soap and something that felt a hell of a lot like hope.
I slid my hand lower, fingers easing between her thighs. Heat met me instantly, slick and ready, like her body had been waiting for mine to catch up. She shivered, hips tipping back into me.
“Wes,” she breathed, already folding into my touch.
I let my cock nudge along the curve of her ass, the angle easier like this, my leg braced just right behind hers.
A few weeks ago, the idea of moving this much in bed would have tied my brain into knots.
This morning, I knew exactly where to plant my good foot, where to sink my weight, how far I could pull her in.
“Tell me if anything’s off,” I murmured against her neck, lining myself up. “If I’m too much. Too deep. Anything.”
“Pretty sure the only problem is not enough,” she said, voice shaky, a smile tucked into it as she reached forward and grabbed a condom from the pile on the nightstand.
I made quick work of getting it on before nestling against her.
Lying side by side I eased into Clara, pushing in slowly as I let the heat of her close around me.
The slow stretch was perfect agony. I adjusted my leg and gripped her hip to keep us steady.
Her quiet gasps matched mine as I bottomed out.
She took me like she had been built for it, fingers clutching at the sheets, little broken sounds catching in her throat.
I kept one arm snug around her waist, holding her back against me, the other braced on the mattress.
My body remembered the groove from the last few nights, muscles learning that it was allowed to want, allowed to move, allowed to take.
“Jesus, Clara,” I rasped, fucking into her in slow, careful strokes that went just a little deeper every time she pushed back. “You feel like . . . hell, you’re fucking perfect.”
Her hand clawed back to grab my hip, nails biting into my skin. “Say that again,” she whispered.
I kissed the hinge of her jaw, breath stuttering. “You heard me,” I said, words rough as gravel. “This”—another thrust, her shuddering around me—“you in my bed, in my arms, taking me like this . . . this feels like home.”
She made a sound that went straight through my chest, half sob, half moan of pleasure.
I lost myself in it for a while—her heat, the sunlight striping our bodies, the quiet creak of the bed and the soft slap of skin as I fucked into her tight little cunt.
Every time she whispered my name, something inside me stitched back together.
When she tightened around me and came, I followed, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in while every nerve in my body lit up and burned clean. The world narrowed to the feel of her, the pulse of her, the way her hand found mine and tangled our fingers as we shook it out together.
Eventually the tremors eased. I slipped out of her and eased onto my back, dragging her with me until she sprawled half across my chest, hair everywhere, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.
Her leg hooked over mine, the weight of her thigh resting over the remains of my leg like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My heart pounded, not from exertion and not from fear—just from the sheer, stupid fact that I got to have this.
That she was here. That I was here.
She’s my girl. This is our morning.
I didn’t say it out loud, because saying it felt like tempting fate. Holding it close felt like the only prayer I’d ever really meant.
Instead, I tipped my head and pressed a slow kiss to her hairline, then another to the crown of her head. “You okay?” I asked quietly. “Not secretly regretting your life choices?”
She huffed a laugh against my chest. “Pretty sure that was the opposite of regret.”
My hand traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder, knuckles skimming over soft skin. The words I didn’t say lined up behind my teeth anyway, stubborn and insistent.
I am completely in love with you.
It sat there, hot and terrifying, so I kept my mouth busy with other things. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?” I said instead, voice low. “I can’t remember what it felt like to wake up and not want you like this.”
Her fingers toyed with the hair on my chest, drawing aimless patterns. “Tragic,” she murmured with a laugh. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
“Yeah,” I said, throat tight. “Guess I am.”
We lay there in the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for anything. Sunlight shifted up the wall. Somewhere downstairs, the heater kicked on with a low hum.
After a while she tipped her chin up, studying my face. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
I dragged my palm down her spine, letting my hand settle at the small of her back. “I was thinking about heading by the restaurant,” I said slowly. “Check out the second-floor framing. Something looked off yesterday when Austin showed me the pics. I want eyes on it.”
Her whole expression lit, pride softening her mouth. “Look at you,” she said, warmth threading through the tease. “Out in the world, terrorizing unsuspecting employees. They’re going to be happy to see you out there.”
The hit of it landed hard in my chest. She wasn’t talking to the guy who once lived on the couch and pretended the stairs didn’t exist. She was talking to the man who ran sites, who climbed ladders, who made decisions that held up walls. The man who brought beautiful buildings to life.
She saw me as the guy I used to be. The man I desperately wanted to be again.
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, trying to sound casual as my heart did a slow lurch. “Somebody’s gotta make sure they don’t cheap out on my beams.”
She smiled against my chest, then pressed a quick kiss there, right over my heart. “They’re lucky to have you,” she said. “I am too.”
That last line sat with me long after she slid out of bed to hunt for my T-shirt and hijack the bathroom.
I watched her move around my room like she belonged in it—her lotion on my dresser, her makeup bag on the bathroom sink, her ringless hand shoving her hair into some kind of ponytail that was going to fall out in an hour.
By the time I was dressed, the decision was made.
I pulled on my work jacket, the one that still smelled faintly of sawdust and cold air, and grabbed my keys from the bowl.
My leg felt steady under me, with any phantom pain a low, manageable buzz.
My hand brushed the fridge where our stupid list of rules hung, the ink a little smudged from hands and time.
This wasn’t just about lumber or framing. It was proof.
Proof I wasn’t just the guy on the couch anymore. Proof I could walk a site again. Proof I could be a man who took care of things, of people, of her.
I squeezed the keys in my fist and glanced once toward the staircase. Upstairs, Clara hummed off-key in the bathroom, and I headed for the door.
I’ve got this.
Cal’s new restaurant looked almost finished from the outside.
My truck tires crunched over packed snow as I pulled in, the cold bright enough to make my teeth ache. I killed the engine, sat for half a second with my hands on the wheel, and then shoved the door open before I could think too hard about it.
The air knifed into my lungs, clean and sharp. I forced my shoulders back and walked across the cleared path like I owned it.
Because I used to. Because I needed to.
The blue barn hulled up against the winter sky, big windows already framed in, fresh siding buttoned up tight.
Through the rolled-back doors, the main floor was a maze of mostly complete walls and defined spaces now—future bar gleaming with new lumber, booth platforms framed out, kitchen rough-ins tucked behind sheets of plastic.
Above it, though, the second floor was still bones and echoes, the skeleton of offices and storage rooms taking shape in raw studs and open joists.
A couple of the guys glanced up from the sawhorses. One of the laborers straightened, lifting a hand. “Hey, boss.”
Heads turned. A few more nods, a couple of quick, surprised looks that they tried to smooth out. I heard my name ripple through the half-built space—shit, he’s here—as nail guns popped in the background.
Austin stepped out from behind a stack of drywall, clipboard in one hand, tape measure hooked at his hip, and a beanie yanked down over his ears.
“You picked a cold-ass day to come play foreman.” He grinned and held out a hand.
Something warm and sharp slid under my ribs. This was who I used to be. Not the guy counting ceiling cracks from a couch groove.
“Somebody’s gotta make sure you idiots aren’t half-assing my plans,” I shot back.
We met in the middle and exchanged a quick handshake before Austin pulled me into a one-armed guy hug that jostled my shoulder more than anything. My leg took the weight without complaint. The phantom pain that had haunted the morning was quiet, a low hum instead of a siren.