7. Imogen
IMOGEN
I practically float across camp toward the climbing demonstration area.
My interview this morning went even better than I'd hoped—the spa manager loved me, said the glowing reviews from the Timber Run staff had sealed the deal, and offered me the position on the spot.
I’ll have to give them all a proper thank you.
But more importantly, I get to stay.
And build something here with Brady.
The thought of him makes my skin tingle with memories of last night…the way he kissed me and held me like I was the most precious thing in the world, the sounds he made when I took him apart with my hands, the reverent way he worshipped my body with his mouth.
I'm getting wet just thinking about it.
I find a spot near the demonstration platform where Brady's setting up his climbing gear. He's all business—checking his harness, testing his ropes, adjusting his helmet. But when he spots me in the crowd, his entire face lights up with a smile that makes my heart skip.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Connor's voice booms across the assembled group of guests, "prepare to witness Brady Tanaka, our resident high-rigger, show you why he's considered one of the best climbers in the business."
Brady scales the massive tree with fluid grace, his movements smooth and steady. I watch, mesmerized, as he navigates the branches with the confidence that comes with years of experience.
When he reaches a particularly challenging section near the top, he glances down to make sure I'm watching before attempting a complex maneuver that has the crowd gasping in appreciation.
He's clearly performing for me, taking more risks than necessary, climbing higher than usual.
Show-off.
That's when it happens.
His foot slips on a wet branch, and he catches himself awkwardly, his thigh slamming against a thick limb. Even from the ground, I know that had to hurt.
He’s definitely favoring his left leg now.
By the time he rappels down, his jaw is tight with obvious pain and something else—embarrassment, frustration, maybe even shame, if I know him well enough.
"That was incredible!" one of the guests gushes as Brady unclips his harness. "How long have you been climbing?"
"Too long, apparently," he mutters, avoiding my eyes.
The crowd disperses, praising his skill, but I can see the way he's holding himself, the careful way he's moving. More concerning is the look on his face—like he's just confirmed his worst fears about himself.
"Brady," I approach him carefully. "Come to my cabin. Let me look at that thigh."
"I'm fine." His voice is clipped, distant. "Just need to ice it."
"You're not fine. You're hurt, and you're being stubborn about it."
He finally meets my eyes, and what I see there breaks my heart. "I'm forty-three years old, Imogen. I just nearly fell out of a tree because I was showing off for a woman young enough to be my?—"
"Don't you start with that," I interrupt. "You slipped on a wet branch. It happens to climbers half your age."
"Does it?" His laugh is bitter. "Because right now it feels like my body's betraying me. Maybe I am too old to be taking these kinds of risks."
"Brady—"
"You should be with someone who doesn't need to prove he's still capable of doing his job.”
I stare at him, anger and hurt warring in my chest. "Is that really what you think? That I care about you because of some misguided hero worship?"
He doesn't answer, just starts limping toward his cabin.
"Fine," I call after him. "But when you're done feeling sorry for yourself, I'll be in my cabin."
An hour later, I can't take it anymore. If Brady won't come to me, I'll go to him.
I march across camp to his cabin and knock firmly on the door. “Open up, Brady.”
There’s a few moments of silence then: "Please go away, Imogen."
"No way. I’m not called ‘The Five-Foot-Three Menace’ for nothing." I try the handle and find it unlocked. “I'm coming in.”
His cabin is sparse but comfortable, all clean lines and rugged simplicity. Brady's sitting on the edge of his bed, in just boxers, pressing an ice pack to his thigh, his face a mask of stubborn misery.
"You shouldn't be here," he says without looking up.
"Too bad." I close the door behind me and go over to him. "Want to tell me what this is really about?"
"I told you. I'm too old for this. Too old for you."
"I’m not buying that." I sit down on the floor in front of him.
His jaw tightens, and he looks away from me. “Well yeah. I’m old, Imogen. Today proved it. I’ll keep slowing down, aching more?—”
I sigh. “Nope. There’s more. Tell me.”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not climbing. It’s part of me. How can I give all of myself to you, when I’m losing everything I know.”
“Hold up,” I say, crawling over to him. “You’re just getting older. You can still climb, you just need to take better care of yourself in order to do it. I have news for you. You’re going to be climbing for decades.”
“It doesn’t feel like that right now.”
“Hmm…well, maybe you should start getting more massages. From a very specific therapist, of course.”
He smiles at that.
"But I think we need to focus on why you're so convinced you're not enough as you are that you're willing to throw away what we’re building?”
He looks up at me then, his midnight blue eyes filled with pain. "Imogen, you're beautiful, successful, full of life. You could have?—"
"I want you." The words come out fierce and uncompromising.
"Not some theoretical perfect man, not someone younger or more reckless.
You, Brady Tanaka. With your magnificent mind, your incredible skill, your gentle hands, and yes, your forty-three-year-old body that drives me absolutely insane with lust."
He stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, watching his eyes widen.
"I see a man who's lived long enough to know exactly what he wants." My bra joins the shirt on the floor. "Who's patient enough to learn my body instead of just using it."
His breathing grows ragged as I continue undressing, my shorts and panties pooling at my feet.
"And I see someone who's smart enough to recognize love when it finds him." I stand naked before him, vulnerable but unashamed. "The question is, will you take it?"
For a long moment, he just stares at me, his expression cycling through disbelief, wonder, and something that looks like hope.
"Imogen," he breathes.
"Show me that you want this,” I whisper. “That you want me ."
Something breaks in his expression, and he surges to his feet, pulling me to him as he kisses me with wild hunger. I taste his fear and his longing, his doubt and his desire, and I pour everything I have into kissing him back to show him I’m not going anywhere.
"I love you," he gasps against my lips. "Christ, I love you so much it makes me crazy…in good and bad ways, as you’ve witnessed."
"I love you too." I start pushing down his boxers, needing to feel skin against skin. "So stop being scared and let me love you properly."
When he's naked, I push him gently back onto the bed, mindful of his injured thigh.
"I need you," I murmur, straddling his hips carefully. "All of you."
I start with his thigh, my hands gentle as I massage around the area. He hisses at first, then relaxes as my touch eases the tension.
"Better?" I ask.
"Everything's better when you touch me," he admits, his voice rough with emotion.
I lean down to kiss him, slow and deep, as my hands continue their exploration. He's already hard beneath me, his cock hot and thick against my belly.
"I want to feel every inch of you inside me," I whisper against his lips.
His hands stroke up my back, fingers tracing the curve of my spine. "I don't have any—I mean, I'm not prepared for?—"
"I'm on birth control," I assure him, then smile.
“You have to tell me what to do,” he says.
“Just…love me, baby.” I rise up on my knees, positioning myself over him, and slowly sink down onto his thick length. We both groan at the sensation—he's big, and thick, filling me completely.
"Jesus," he breathes, his hands gripping my hips as I take him deeper. "You feel spectacular."
"So do you."
His first thrust is clumsy, all nervous strength. So I adjust the angle and start moving, rolling my hips in slow circles that have him panting beneath me. "God, Brady, I could come at any moment you feel so good inside me."
His responses are pure instinct…the way his hips buck up to meet mine, the sounds he makes when I clench around him, the adoring way he touches every inch of skin he can reach.
"I've never felt anything like this," he gasps as I pick up the pace, riding him with increasing urgency.
"Neither have I," I admit, because it's true. Sex has never felt this right, this perfect.
When I feel my climax building, I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest as I move faster. The new angle has him hitting that delicious spot inside me with every thrust.
His rhythm steadies as his confidence builds—deep, aching rocking movements that have me on edge.
"Come with me," I plead, feeling my body coiling tight. "I want to feel you come inside me."
That breaks his control completely. His hands grip my hips, helping me move as we chase our release together.
My orgasm hits me, white-hot and endless. “Brady!” I cry out.
“My god, Imogen,” He follows immediately, his body arching beneath mine as he pumps me full of liquid heat.
We collapse together, breathing hard, hearts racing.
"Imogen..." he starts, then trails off, trying to find the words. “You make me better in so many ways.”
"You’re perfect the way you are. I fell in love with the man you are right now," I finish, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. "Even the part that’s a stubborn ass sometimes."
He laughs, holding me close while his fingers scratch patterns on my back.
"I got the job," I tell him eventually.
His hand stills. "The spa position?"
"Mm-hmm. I start next month." I lift my head to look at him. "You okay with me staying?”
The smile that spreads across his face is adorable. "I want you to stay more than I've ever wanted anything."
"Good." I settle back against his chest, content. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
"Even when I'm an old man who falls out of trees?"
“You won’t be falling out of trees, so hush.” I chuckle and trace one of his tattoos with my fingertip. "Your grandfather was right, you know. About the body telling stories."
"Yeah?"
"Yours tells the story of a man who's dedicated to a full life, loving deeply, and creating new chapters." I press a kiss over his heart. "And I want to be part of those new chapters."
His arms tighten around me. "All of them?"
"All of them," I confirm. "Starting right now."
As the afternoon light fades outside his window, we make love again—slower this time, savoring every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment.
And when we're finally spent, wrapped around each other, I know I've found something special with this lumbersnack.
Not just great sex or professional fulfillment, but a true partnership.
The kind where two people complement each other's strengths and shore up each other's weaknesses.
The kind where age becomes an asset rather than an obstacle, where experience trumps youth, and where love grows deeper with understanding.
Brady's breathing evens out as he drifts toward sleep, and I smile against his chest.
Tomorrow I'll start planning my move to Montana.
But tonight, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be…in the arms of a man who's finally learned that aging doesn't mean losing anything.
It means gaining the wisdom to recognize when the best things in life climb right into your lap.