CHAPTER FOUR
Charlotte
I was hiding in my office again. My refuge for the last few days. Even my routine had changed. I arrived earlier than I ever had before, hurried through the pre-morning routine and run like a scared rabbit into its den.
Away from the big, bad predator.
Because all I could think about was him. Crew. And that moment when we’d been so close I could have counted his eyelashes. When I’d almost—almost—kissed him.
Or maybe he’d almost kissed me.
God, I didn’t even know anymore.
What I did know was that the tension between us was getting worse. Every look lasted a beat too long. Every accidental touch sent sparks racing through me. Every time we were in the same room, the air felt charged, electric, like something was about to snap.
And I was going insane.
I rubbed my temples, trying to focus on the numbers in front of me. Purchase order for pine lumber. Standard stuff. Routine.
Except my brain kept circling back to the way Crew had looked at me.
How his jaw had clenched when I got close.
How his hands had fisted at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
How I’d seen the bulge in his jeans, impossible to miss, proof that whatever this was between us wasn’t one-sided.
Did he feel it too? This pull between us that seemed to get stronger every day?
Or was I imagining things because I was so desperately attracted to him I couldn’t think straight? I’d lain awake last night, my hand between my thighs, imagining those rough hands on my body, that gruff voice in my ear telling me all the filthy things he wanted to do to me.
I jumped when my walkie-talkie crackled to life on my desk.
“Boss, you got a minute?” Dale’s voice came through. “I need you to take a look at the Mitchell order before we do the final cut.”
I grabbed the walkie. “Be right there.”
The main floor was busy, the usual hum of machinery and voices filling the space. I made my way to the specialty section. That the fact that Crew worked in this section had nothing to do with the way my heart was racing. Or the dampness I could feel between my thighs.
Liar.
And there he was. Bent over a piece of oak paneling, his concentration absolute.
Even from across the space, I could see the sawdust caught in his dark hair, the way his forearms flexed as he worked.
He’d rolled up his sleeves again, and I found myself staring at those arms—thick with muscle, dusted with dark hair, strong enough to lift me, to pin me down, to hold me exactly where he wanted me while he took what we both needed.
Crew looked up as I approached, and our eyes met. The impact was physical. Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly, making me ache. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us charged with everything we weren’t saying.
Then Dale cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
“Mitchell wanted quarter-sawn oak with this specific grain pattern,” Dale explained, gesturing to the paneling. “It took us two days to find the right pieces, but I think we nailed it.”
I moved closer to examine the work, trying to ignore the way my skin heated when I got near Crew. The paneling was beautiful—smooth, perfectly finished, the grain catching the light.
“This is gorgeous,” I said, running my hand over the wood. The smooth surface made me think of skin, of touching Crew, of feeling those hard planes under my palms.
If I didn’t stop having these thoughts, I was going to have to ask Santa for a very personal toy.
“Crew did most of it,” Dale said. “The man’s got a gift.”
I glanced at Crew, who was watching me. His eyes were dark and hungry looking. He was, tracking the movement of my hand on the wood like he was imagining the same thing I had been. Me. Touching him. “The craftsmanship is impressive.”
The walkie-talkie on Dale’s belt crackled. “Dale, you there? I need you to check something on the main saw.”
Dale sighed, grabbing the walkie. He looked between Crew and me, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “You two can handle the final measurements, right?”
“Dale—” I started, but he was already walking away.
And then I was alone with Crew.
Again.
The silence stretched between us, thick with tension. Thick with want. I could feel it pressing against my skin. I moved to get a better angle on the paneling, trying to focus on the work instead of on how good Crew smelled or how badly I wanted to touch him.
But the floor near the workbench was cluttered with wood scraps and tools, and my boot caught on something.
I stumbled forward with a gasp, already bracing for impact.
Strong hands caught me—one arm banding around my waist, the other gripping my elbow—pulling me upright and against a wall of solid muscle.
Again.
Except this time, I wasn’t pressed against his side. This time, I was flush against his chest, his arm locked around my waist, my hands splayed against his flannel shirt. I could feel the rapid thud of his heart under my palms, matching the frantic beat of my own.
“You okay?” His voice was strained.
I tilted my head back to look up at him and almost forgot how to breathe. We were so close I could see the silver threading through his beard and feel the faint whisper of his breath on my lips.
“Yeah,” I managed. “I’m okay.”
But neither of us moved. His arm stayed locked around my waist, his other hand still cupping my elbow.
“You need to stop doing that.” His voice was almost guttural and the depth made something inside me start to unfurl.
“Doing what? Tripping?”
“Making me catch you.” His thumb traced a slow circle on my waist through my shirt. The touch burned, sending sparks racing through my nervous system, making me throb. “Because one of these times, I’m not going to want to let go.”
Heat flooded through me at his words, at the dark promise in his eyes. My nipples tightened painfully, my core clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. “You can let me go now,” I whispered, even as everything in me was screaming for him to hold on tighter.
His jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to my mouth. I watched his control fracture. “Maybe I can’t.”
And then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was dark and deep and hungry—like he’d been holding back for days and finally snapped.
His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me harder against him as his mouth moved over mine with a desperation that stole my breath.
His tongue demanded entry, and I gave it, opening for him, letting him taste and claim and consume.
His tongue slid against mine in a way that made my knees go weak.
God, he tasted good. And his beard scratched deliciously against my skin, rough and perfect and exactly what I’d been fantasizing about.
He groaned—a deep, primal sound—and walked me backward until my back hit the wall. Then his body was pressed fully against mine, all hard muscle and solid strength, and I could feel every inch of him.
Including how hard he was.
He was huge. Thick and long, pressed against my belly, proof of exactly how much he wanted me. Liquid heat flooded between my thighs as I imagined what it would feel like to have him inside me, stretching me, filling me completely.
The kiss went deeper, hotter, more desperate. His hand in my hair tightened, angling my head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand slid from my back to my hip, gripping me through my jeans in a way that made me arch into him.
This wasn’t a sweet first kiss. This was need and want and tension finally exploding.
This was his tongue tangling with mine, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip.
This was raw, carnal, filthy—everything I’d imagined and more.
This was him taking what he wanted, what we both needed, with no apologies and no restraint.
And I loved every second of it.
His mouth left mine to blaze a trail down my jaw, my neck, and I gasped when his teeth grazed my pulse point. When his tongue soothed the spot before his beard scrapped across it again.
“Crew,” I breathed, my head falling back against the wall. My hips rolled against him, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache building inside me.
He made another one of those feral sounds and lifted one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist. I whimpered into his mouth as the thick length of him pressed right where I needed it most. He ground his body against mine and I felt another wave of moisture soak through my panties.
His mouth found mine again, the kiss turning almost frantic. One of his hands slid up my side, his thumb brushing dangerously close to my breast, and I arched into the touch, desperate for more. Desperate for him to cup me, to squeeze, to pinch my nipples through my bra until I cried out.
How had this escalated so fast? One minute I was tripping, and now my leg was wrapped around him, his hands were everywhere, and I was making sounds I’d never made in my life.
Desperate, needy sounds. Whimpers and moans that I couldn’t control and that betrayed exactly how much I wanted this, wanted him.
And I didn’t care. I didn’t care that we were in the middle of my sawmill where anyone could walk in. All I cared about was the way his body felt pressed against mine and the taste of him on my tongue. All I wanted was him, finally inside me.
“God, Charlotte,” he groaned against my mouth, his hips pressing harder against mine. The ridge of his cock ground against my clit through our jeans, and I nearly came from that alone, the friction perfect and maddening and not nearly enough.
The sound of heavy footsteps—work boots on concrete—barely registered before a voice called out. “Hey, boss, did you approve the—holy shit!”
We sprang apart. Or tried to. Since my leg was wrapped around Crew’s waist and his hand was gripping my thigh, it took a second for us to untangle. My body protested the loss, aching and empty and desperate for him to come back, to finish what we’d started.