CHAPTER 5 #2
"Right now?" His eyes held mine, intense and searching. "What happens when you leave."
The air between us shifted, got heavy with all the things we weren't saying. I should have made a joke. Should have deflected. Should have done anything other than say what came out of my mouth next.
"What if I don't want to leave?"
His breath caught. Just slightly, but I saw it. "Maverick—"
"I know, I know. I've been here less than forty-eight hours. I don't know you. You don't know me. This is crazy." I set down my mug before I dropped it. "But I can't stop thinking about how being here feels different. How you feel different."
"Different how?"
"Like..." I struggled to put it into words. "Like maybe I've been running because I didn't know what I was looking for. And now I'm here and I'm thinking maybe I found it."
Clark set down his own mug and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You're not thinking clearly. You're stranded, you're grateful for the help, you're—"
"I know what I'm feeling," I interrupted. God, when had I gotten brave? "And I know what I saw. The way you looked at me when I said—when I called you—"
I couldn't finish. Couldn't say it out loud.
But he knew.
"You can't just say things like that," Clark said, his voice rough. "You can't look at me like that and say you don't want to leave and expect me to—"
"To what?"
He stood up abruptly, running a hand over his face. "To keep my distance. To do the right thing."
I stood too, my heart pounding. "What if I don't want you to do the right thing?"
"Maverick." My name was a warning. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then tell me." I took a step closer. "Tell me what I'm asking for."
He was looking at me like I was dangerous. Like I was something he wanted but was trying to resist. "You're asking me to cross a line I shouldn't cross. To want something I have no business wanting."
"Why shouldn't you want it?"
"Because you're twenty-six and stranded and vulnerable, and I'm—"
"Forty-three and attractive and the first person in years who's made me want to stop moving for a little bit?" I finished. "Yeah. I know."
We were standing too close now. Close enough that I could see his chest rising and falling, could see the muscle in his jaw ticking, could see the war happening behind his eyes.
"This isn't smart," he said quietly.
"Probably not."
"You'll leave when the roads clear."
"Maybe."
"Maybe," he repeated, what might have been pain crossing his face. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Good," I said, and I was smiling too, reckless and stupid and unable to stop. "Because you've been killing me since the second I saw you with that axe."
He made a sound—half laugh, half groan. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He cut himself off, his hand coming up like he was going to touch my face, then stopping himself.
I wanted him to touch me so badly it hurt.
"Because what?" I asked, my voice coming out quieter than I meant.
"Because if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to do something we're not ready for."
My pulse was racing. "What if I'm ready?"
"You're not."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm barely ready," he said roughly. "And I've been thinking about this since yesterday."
The admission hung between us, electric and dangerous.
"Tell me what to do," I said, and I didn't mean it the way it came out. Or maybe I did. "Tell me if I should go back to the cabin. Tell me if this is a bad idea. Tell me—"
"Stop." One word. A command.
I stopped.
He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't read—want and restraint and what might have been pain.
And then he moved.
Two steps and he was in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell pine and woodsmoke and him.
"I can't tell you what to do with this," he said, his voice rough and low. "With us. You have to decide that for yourself."
"But—"
"No." His hand came up, and I thought he was going to stop himself again, pull back like he always did.
But this time he didn't.
His palm cupped my cheek, warm and slightly rough, and I stopped breathing.
"I won't be someone you blame later," he continued, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "I won't be someone who pushed you into something you weren't ready for."
I leaned into his touch without thinking, and his eyes darkened.
"But I need you to understand something," he said, and his other hand came up to frame my face, tilting it up so I couldn't look away. "I'm not sending you back to that cabin because I don't want you."
"No?" My voice came out barely a whisper.
"No." He leaned down, close enough that our foreheads almost touched, close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips.
"I'm sending you back because when I have you—and I will have you, make no mistake about that—you're going to be sure.
You're going to know exactly what you're asking for. And you're going to beg me for it."
Oh god.
I swayed slightly, my hands coming up to grip his wrists for balance. A sound escaped me—not quite a whimper, not quite a moan—and his grip on my face tightened slightly.
"Yes, Sir."
The words came out without thought, but this time I meant them. This time I knew what I was offering.
"Two more days," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "Two more days and then we'll see. So you think about that, Maverick. You think about whether you want this. Whether you want me."
"I already—"
"Think about it," he interrupted, firm but not unkind. Then he stepped back, his hands falling away, leaving me cold and dizzy and aching.
I stared at him, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
"Okay," I said quietly. "Okay."
He nodded, but he didn't move yet. Just stood there, looking at me like he was memorizing my face. Like he was barely holding himself back.
"You should go back to the cabin," he said finally. "Get some rest. I'll bring dinner around six."
"Clark—"
"Six o'clock, Maverick." His jaw was tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for me again.
It was a dismissal, gentle but clear. But this time, it felt different. Not like rejection. Like promise.
I grabbed my coat from the hook by the door, my hands shaking slightly as I pulled it on. When I turned back, he was still standing in the same spot, watching me with those eyes that made me feel stripped bare.
"Thank you," I said. "For the tour. And the hot chocolate. And for..." I gestured vaguely between us, not sure how to put it into words. "For this."
"Go," he said roughly. "Before I change my mind about sending you away."
I went.
But at the door, I paused and looked back at him one more time. "Two more days?"
His eyes burned. "Two more days."
I left, closing the door quietly behind me.
The walk back to the cabin felt longer than it was. My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and I couldn't stop replaying everything.
When I got back to the cabin, I tried to distract myself with work. Opened my laptop, pulled up the logo project that was due next week. But I couldn't focus. Instead, I found myself browsing camera websites again. More looking at professional equipment I'd never let myself buy.
If I had a real camera, I could capture this place properly. The way the morning light had hit Clark's face during the tour. The texture of the tree bark under my palm. The way his breath had looked in the cold air.
The way he'd looked at me like I was something he wanted but was forcing himself to resist.
I bookmarked a few cameras, telling myself it was just research. Just... someday thinking.
Someday when I stopped moving long enough to justify the expense.
Someday when I had a reason to stay somewhere and really see it.
The way his hands had felt on my face. The roughness of his palms. The heat in his eyes. His voice dropping low and promising things that made my whole body ache.
I'd never wanted anything more in my life.
I built up the fire and sat on the edge of the bed, touching my face where his hands had been. I could still feel the phantom warmth of his touch, could still see the way he'd looked at me—like I was something he wanted to devour but was forcing himself to savor.
When I have you—and I will have you, make no mistake about that—you're going to be sure.
The memory of his voice, low and rough with promise, sent heat straight through me. I lay back on the bed, one hand still pressed to my cheek where he'd touched me, the other sliding down to my aching cock.
Two more days. Just two more days and then—
My hand was halfway to my belt when I stopped.
Wait.
Then what? I'd go to him desperate and needy, having spent the last forty-eight hours getting myself off to fantasies of him? That wasn't what he wanted. That wasn't what this was about.
He wanted me to think. To be sure. To come to him with intention, not just physical need.
And I was sure. God, I was so sure it hurt.
But if I was going to do this—if I was going to tell him yes on Saturday—I wanted it to mean something. I wanted to be present for every second of it. I wanted to give him everything, including this waiting, this wanting, this choice to save it all for him.
I pulled my hand away and sat up, breathing hard.
Two more days. I could wait two more days.
Because when I went to Clark on Saturday, I wasn't just going to beg him for it like he'd promised.
I was going to mean it.