9. Tess
Nothing has ever felt as good as my brother’s best friend pinning me against this boulder and stroking two thick fingers inside me. Seriously: nothing. Because as Ash looms above, so strong and tall and broad, blocking out the stars with his muscled bulk, I swear it feels so good a tear slips from my eye.
All of it: his hands on me. His kiss; his muttered curses; the way he groans like he’s in pain when I clamp down on his fingers. His soap and musk scent. It all winds me tighter and tighter until I’m quivering in his hold, hardly believing this is happening. It’s all too good to be true.
This man is a mountain in his own right, so at home in this landscape, and I’m claiming this territory as my own, damn it. Planting an imaginary flag right in the center of his rugged chest.
Mine.
“That feel good?” Ash tests out different angles and pressures as he touches me, clearly working from theory rather than practice. But you know what? I love that. Love that I’m the first woman he’s ever touched like this; love that we’re sharing this new experience together.
Makes me want to preen and flick my hair, bragging to the world that he chose me. Makes me want to rake his chest with my fingernails, marking him with reddened stripes.
Besides, it’s working. Man, it’s really working. Without any prior moves, it’s like Ash is learning the specific, personalized moves to make me cry out, and no other. He’s tailor made for me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says now, breath hot and muggy against my ear. He’s devolving into primal urges; getting rougher and growly. “The first time I laid eyes on you, I was done. Outside Flint’s, remember? Christ, I wanted you so badly already. Would’ve sold my soul for a single kiss.”
Ash shoves his fingers deeper and I cry out, toes curling.
“I still would, Tess. I’d crawl over broken glass if it meant touching your hair. I’d risk life and limb for a single minute inside you.”
His words, his heat, the wet, rhythmic plunge of his fingers—they all chase me higher and higher until I’m clutching at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his rock-hard muscle, so desperate for some relief that my teeth ache.
“Are you gonna come for me?” Two thick fingers twist inside me, rubbing against the most sensitive spots. “Will you show me how that feels? Let me hear the little sounds you make. Come on, angel.”
Can’t speak to say yes. Can’t do anything except give a jerky nod, eyelids fluttering, and gasp as Ash touches me mercilessly, working me into a whimpering heap.
God.
So. Good.
“Show me,” he says, low voice ringing with command, and I’m helpless to deny his direct order. My pussy clamps down on Ash’s fingers, and my skin flashes hot, and I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming. Blood rushes in my ears as I swirl into the abyss.
“There she is.” Ash keeps stroking, keeps pumping. Stares at me in the darkness with moonlight reflecting in his eyes as I fall apart, shuddering with pleasure. Even in the gloom, he looks awed. “There you are. So fucking beautiful, Tess.”
Beautiful? I feel wrecked.
As sensation comes back into my limbs, as my awareness sharpens once again and I notice the cold breeze and sleepy churring of birds in the branches, I don’t feel like some goddess. Mostly, I feel sticky. Self consciousness rises in a belated tide.
I should return the favor. I want to return the favor.
Jeez, I’ve thought so many times about getting my hands on this man.
But before I can reach for his belt, Ash sets me down like something precious, so gentle and respectful, then rebuttons my shorts and straightens my clothes like those sleepy birds might judge me for looking rumpled.
Oookay. Guess this was a one-way event.
“Was that…”
My question dies away on my tongue. What am I even asking? What do I want to know?
Was that worth risking my older brother’s delicate happiness? Was it everything Ash has waited decades for? Was it hot? Was it fun? Did I do anything weird? Why doesn’t he want me to touch him back?
“Thanks,” I grit out instead, patting Ash’s huge, sculpted arm. He shoots me that crooked smile in the moonlight and my chest throbs in response. “But, uh. We should get going before Rowan sends out a search party for you. Besides, it’s freaking cold already and it’s only gonna get colder.”
Before the words fully leave my mouth, Ash snatches up the borrowed blanket and drapes it around my shoulders once more. He brushes off a few dried pine needles that cling to the fabric, surprisingly delicate with those baseball mitt hands.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he says valiantly, taking my elbow to guide me back in the direction of the trail. My legs are like jelly, wobbling with every step, and the sticky, swollen mess in my underwear makes me blush crimson from head to toe. “You say the word and this shirt is yours.”
It’s not quite what I had in mind, but I can’t deny it’s a sweet offer.
Besides—my stomach cramps at the thought—I’d love something to remember Ash by.
* * *
Flint’s is busy for my shift the next day, and there’s a weird energy in the air. Folks keep slamming their glasses down on the tables too loud or bursting out in manic laughter, making their neighbors jump. It’s so hot all the windows are open, but we can’t seem to draw in a breeze.
Jana has the rental listings open on her phone but we barely get a spare minute to scroll them, and meanwhile the bikers are in, smoking and drinking in the yard in eye line of their shiny bikes.
A few pups whine whenever I walk past their owner’s tables in the summer heat, like they’re out of sorts. It’s not just the customers. I’m off today too, ever since I woke up first thing with a terrible itch under my skin.
I bounced out of bed like a toy on a spring, immediately wide awake and agitated, replaying last night over and over in my mind.
Part of me had hoped that last night’s encounter with Ash would tide me over, like some kind of vaccine inoculating me against needing any more from the gentle giant. Instead, I’m jonesing like an addict who needs another fix. I’m not suddenly immune to wanting him—in fact, now I know how it feels to be with him, this craving is a thousand times worse.
Yeah. I’ve screwed up bad.
“This is nuts,” Jana mutters after an especially rowdy group of customers walks away with their drinks, shoving each other and laughing as beer drips on the floor. “Is it a full moon tonight or something?”
“Not sure.” When I try to picture the night sky last night, all I see is Ash’s shadowed face and the hungry glint in his eyes. Fanning myself, I peer out at the busy bar. “But something’s up.”
And maybe that’s why I’m crawling out of my skin right now. Not because of Ash and what we did last night; not because I’m ready to tear out my hair and scream if he doesn’t get his hands on me again.
Because of the lunar cycle.
Yeah. Sure. Why not? Sounds legit to me.
But full moon or not, by the time my shift is over, I can’t stand this tension for another minute. Sure, I spent the last six hours lecturing myself in my head, going over all the reasons Ash and I need to keep our distance—but as soon as I step foot outside, my tired legs carry me toward the mountain instead of further into town.
Swatting midges away and squinting into the golden evening light, I stride up the mountain trail at record speed, my body humming with the need to go faster, faster.
Ash.
What if he left already? What if last night is really all I’ll ever get with him? What if I’m alone in this non-stop craving, this desperate need for more?
I couldn’t bear that.
Walking fast is the only thing that half blocks out those jangling thoughts—fast enough to get a stitch in my side, thighs burning and arms swinging, as my polo shirt sticks to my sweaty back. My breaths come in short gasps, and my head swims in the heat, and by the time I reach Rowan and Evie’s cabin, I’m redder than a raspberry.
“Rowan,” I call out, leaning hard against the deck railing and squinting through the shadowed windows. My chest heaves, and I swallow a few times before calling out again. “Evie. Ash. Anybody home?”
This is the most visits I’ve ever paid to this cabin in the span of a few short days. At this rate, I’m gonna wear a deep groove along the mountain trail, eroding the path with my sneakers alone.
A rhythmic thud drifts around from the side of the cabin, and I push myself away from the rail with a groan. Chopping logs is one of Rowan’s favorite coping strategies—whenever things get tricky and he needs to burn off some Big Feelings, my brother chops a whole stack of logs. Half the time he ends up selling them in town to local businesses and tourists for some extra cash, because otherwise he and Evie would never get through their stash. They don’t need the money, but at this point Rowan is the official Starlight Ridge log guy, and he’s a lot more mentally healthy for it.
Hey, don’t get me wrong: chopping logs definitely beats hiding away in the hills as a local cryptid like he did before, but that rhythmic thud of the ax always makes me kinda nervous. Is he okay?
Did he somehow find out about what Ash and I did last night?
Does he hate me already?
I clear my throat, suck in another deep breath, and tug my polo shirt straight—then set off around the cabin to face my fate.