CHAPTER 9
Maverick
I woke up warm.
Not just physically warm—though Clark was definitely contributing to that, one arm slung across my waist, his chest pressed against my back—but warm in a way I couldn't remember feeling before. Safe. Wanted. Home.
I could hear birds outside despite it being December. Everything felt quiet and perfect and I was absolutely terrified to move in case I broke whatever spell had been cast over the last twelve hours.
Last night had been...
I didn't have words for what last night had been.
I'd had sex before. Plenty of it. Good sex, even. But last night hadn't just been sex. It had been giving up control. Giving myself to someone completely and having them take care of me in ways I hadn't known I needed.
And now it was morning and we were still tangled together and he hadn't run and I hadn't run and maybe—maybe—this was real.
Clark stirred behind me, his arm tightening around my waist. "Morning," he mumbled against my shoulder, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." My voice came out quieter than I meant it to.
"You okay?" He was more alert now, propping himself up on one elbow to look at my face. "Talk to me."
"I'm good. Really good." I turned in his arms to face him. There were pillow creases on his cheek and he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "Just... processing."
"Processing what?"
"How good that was. How good I feel." I reached up and smoothed down one particularly rebellious tuft of hair. "I've never felt like that before. During, I mean. The way you—" I cut myself off, face heating.
"The way I what?" His eyes had gone darker, more focused.
"The way you took charge. Made all the decisions.
Told me what to do." The words tumbled out in a rush.
"I didn't have to think about anything except what you were telling me to do, and it was like my brain finally went quiet for the first time in years, and I just—" I made a frustrated sound. "I'm not explaining this right."
"You're explaining it perfectly." He pulled me closer, pressed a kiss to my forehead. "That's what happens when you let yourself surrender. When you trust someone enough to give them control."
"Is it always like that?"
"The intensity? First time in a new dynamic is usually intense. But that feeling of your brain going quiet, of being able to just feel instead of think?" He smiled. "That can happen every time if we do it right."
"I want that." I pressed my face into his chest. "I want more of that."
"Good. Because I want to give you more of that." His hand ran down my spine, warm and possessive. "How do you feel this morning? Physically?"
I did a quick internal check. "A little sore. But in a good way."
"Good sore is acceptable. Anything else? Anything that doesn't feel right?"
"No. I feel perfect." And I did. Relaxed and satisfied and safe in a way that made my throat tight. "Thank you. For last night. For taking care of me."
"Always, baby." He kissed me properly this time, slow and thorough, and I melted into it. When he pulled back, we were both breathing harder. "Shower?"
"Probably a good idea."
"Come on, then."
He climbed out of bed and I followed, admiring the view. The man looked unfairly good naked, all broad shoulders and solid muscle and—
"You're staring," he said without turning around.
"You're worth staring at."
He glanced back at me with a smile that made my stomach flip. "Come here before I decide we don't need that shower after all."
***
The shower was... an experience.
Not sexual, exactly, though there were definitely moments where I thought it might head that direction. But Clark seemed determined to just take care of me—washing my hair with careful hands, soaping my back, making sure I was clean and warm and looked after.
It should have felt weird. I'd never had anyone take care of me like this, not even in previous relationships. But with Clark, it felt natural. Right. Like this was what we were supposed to be doing.
"Turn around," he said, and I obeyed without thinking.
He worked shampoo through my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp, and I made an embarrassing sound of contentment.
"Feel good?" There was amusement in his voice.
"So good. You're really good at this."
"Taking care of you?"
"Yeah." I leaned back into his touch. "I'm not used to it."
"Well, you better get used to it." His hands moved to my shoulders, working at the tension there. "Because I plan to do a lot of it."
By the time we got out of the shower, I was so relaxed I could barely stand. Clark wrapped me in a towel that was probably bigger than my car and rubbed me dry with efficient, caring hands.
"Clothes," he said, swatting my ass lightly when I started to just stand there in a daze. "Go get dressed. I'll make breakfast."
"Can I help?"
"You can help by sitting at the counter and keeping me company." He pulled on jeans and a henley with easy movements. "I want to take care of you this morning, Mav. Let me?"
Something warm unfurled in my chest. "Okay."
***
I pulled on clothes—one of Clark's flannels and my own jeans—and made my way to the kitchen. Clark was already at the stove, and Bear was sprawled in his usual spot by the door, watching everything with hopeful eyes.
"Coffee?" Clark asked without turning around.
"Please."
He poured me a cup, added cream the way I liked it without asking, and set it in front of me. I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and watched him work.
This felt domestic in a way that should have scared me. A week ago, it would have scared me. But now, sitting in the kitchen wearing his flannel and drinking coffee he'd made me while he cooked breakfast, all I felt was content.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, cracking eggs into a pan.
"How good this feels. Being here. With you." I took a sip of coffee. "I keep waiting for the panic to hit, but it's not coming."
"That's because you're where you're supposed to be." He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Your brain knows it even if your anxiety doesn't believe it yet."
"You're very wise for a grumpy tree farmer."
"I'm not grumpy."
"You absolutely are. You were definitely grumpy when I first got here."
"I was suspicious. There's a difference."
"You were grumpy AND suspicious. It was very sexy."
He pointed the spatula at me. "You're a brat."
"Your brat," I said without thinking, then felt my face heat. "I mean—"
"My brat," he agreed, and the possessive way he said it made my stomach flip. "Now eat your breakfast."
He slid a plate piled with scrambled eggs in front of me and I dug in. Everything tasted better when someone else made it. Or maybe everything just tasted better when Clark made it.
"So what's the plan for today?" I asked around a mouthful of eggs.
"I need to spend some time in my workshop. Got a custom order that needs finishing." He sat down next to me with his own plate. "But you're welcome to hang out if you want. Or you could work on your designs, take pictures, whatever you want to do."
"Can I take pictures of you working?" The words came out before I could second-guess them. "I have a website and I think I might work on updating my portfolio. Workshop shots would be really cool and you're—" I gestured vaguely at him. "You know. Very photogenic."
His ears went slightly red. "I don't know about that."
"I do. You're like, unfairly handsome when you're working. All focused and competent with your hands." I was babbling now but couldn't seem to stop. "And the lighting in your workshop could be really fun to play with and I bet I could get some great shots of the process, and—"
"Mav." He put his hand over mine, stopping my rambling. "Yes. You can take pictures."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Just stay out of the way of the saw."
"I promise to maintain a respectful distance from all dangerous tools."
"Good boy." The praise was casual but it still made me light up inside. He noticed—of course he noticed—and smiled. "You like that, don't you? When I call you that."
"Yeah." No point denying it. "It makes me feel... like I'm doing something right."
"You are doing something right." His thumb rubbed across my knuckles. "You're being yourself. That's all you need to do."
***
After breakfast, we headed to Clark's workshop. It was a separate building from the main house—bigger than I'd expected, with high ceilings and windows that let in natural light. The smell of wood and sawdust hit me immediately, and I took a deep breath.
"This place is amazing," I said, looking around. Tools hung in organized rows on the walls, wood was stacked neatly in one corner, and a half-finished piece of furniture sat on a workbench in the center.
"It's where I spend most of my time when I'm not selling trees." Clark moved to the workbench and ran his hand over the wood. "This is a custom bookshelf someone ordered for Christmas. Needs to be done by next week."
"Can I see?"
He showed me the design—a beautiful floor-to-ceiling bookshelf with intricate details carved into the sides. Even half-finished, I could tell it was going to be gorgeous.
"You made this?" I asked, awed. "Just... from scratch?"
"From scratch." He picked up a piece of sandpaper and started working on one of the edges. "My grandfather taught me. Said every man should know how to work with his hands, create something that lasts."
"He sounds like he was a good man."
"He was." Clark's voice went soft. "He's the one who taught me about this place."
"I'm glad he did." I lifted my phone—I'd grabbed it on the way out—and snapped a quick photo of him standing at the workbench, morning light streaming through the windows behind him. "Because you belong here."
He looked up at the sound of the camera shutter. "Are you taking pictures already?"
"Just one. You looked—" I checked the photo on my screen and my breath caught. He looked perfect. Strong and focused and completely in his element. "You looked beautiful."
His ears went red again. "I'm working. You're supposed to be capturing the process, not—"