Brakkor
We reach the town square before I work up the nerve to say what's been gnawing at me since we left Garron's workshop. The evening has settled into that comfortable quiet that makes words feel heavier, more significant.
"Calla." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. "I need to ask you something."
She stops beside the fountain, lamplight catching the sharp angles of her face. "About Selwyn?"
"No. About dinner."
Her eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across her features.
"The inn serves the same three meals on rotation." I run a hand in my hair, aware that I'm rambling but unable to stop myself. "Mutton stew, roasted chicken that tastes like leather, and something they generously call 'harvest soup' that's mostly water and hope."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That bad?"
"I've been thinking about that meal you made." The admission comes out rougher than I intended. "The bread, the way you actually seasoned the vegetables. Real food."
She studies my face, and I resist the urge to look away from that penetrating gaze.
"Are you asking me to cook for you?"
"I'm asking if you'd let me buy ingredients and... maybe you could show me what actual food tastes like again."
The request hangs between us, more vulnerable than I meant it to be.
I've spent weeks eating tasteless meals, but that's not really what this is about.
It's about the way her kitchen felt—warm, lived-in, real.
It's about wanting to be somewhere that isn't the sterile inn room or the controlled environment of the newspaper office.
"Alright." Her voice carries a note of surprise, as if she's caught herself off guard by agreeing.
"Really?"
"Don't look so shocked. I happen to enjoy cooking for someone who appreciates it."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by nervous energy. "What do you need? I can stop by the market—"
"I have everything we need." She turns toward the residential district, her pace measured. "Come on."
Her cottage sits tucked between two larger homes, its timber frame painted deep green with cream trim. Flowering vines climb the front wall, and warm light spills from windows framed by wooden shutters. It's quintessentially Harvest Hollow—picturesque, welcoming, perfectly maintained.
Inside, the space feels as small as I remember.
The main room combines kitchen and sitting area, with a stone hearth dominating one wall and copper pots hanging from hooks above a well-used wooden counter.
Everything speaks of careful curation—books stacked precisely, cushions arranged just so, not a single item out of place.
"Make yourself comfortable." She gestures toward a pair of chairs near the fireplace.
But comfortable feels impossible in a space this intimate. At the office, there's distance—desks and professional boundaries and the constant possibility of interruption. Here, there's nowhere to retreat.
I perch on the edge of a chair, watching her move through the kitchen with practiced efficiency. She ties an apron around her waist, pulls ingredients from a wooden cabinet, lights the cooking fire with movements that speak of years of routine.
"You can relax, you know." She glances over her shoulder. "I'm not going to poison you."
"Sorry. It's just..." I gesture vaguely at the space around us. "This is different."
"Different how?"
"Personal." The word comes out before I can stop it.
Her hands still for a moment over the cutting board. "Is that a problem?"
"No. It's just... I haven't been in someone's home like this in a long time."
She turns to face me fully, knife forgotten in her hand. "Like what?"
"Like I'm welcome there."
The admission settles between us, heavier than I intended. Her expression softens, something shifting in her dark eyes.
"You are welcome here. And you were welcome last time, too. Nothing's different."
The simple statement hits harder than it should. I've spent months feeling like an outsider everywhere I go—tolerated at best, actively resented at worst. The idea that someone might actually want me in their space feels foreign.
"Thank you."
She holds my gaze for a moment too long, then another moment, and then she’s reaching toward me and pulling me down for a kiss.
The world narrows to the pressure of her mouth against mine, the warmth of her hands gripping my shirt. My hands find her waist almost instinctively, pulling her closer between my legs as I stay seated on the stool. The wooden legs scrape against the floorboards with the force of motion.
“Calla,” I breathe between kisses, the word breaking against her lips. "What are we doing?"
“I don’t know,” she confesses, her voice thick with something I’ve never heard from her before—pure, unfiltered want. “I’ve never… I just…”
I stand, leaning down to capture her mouth again before she can finish the thought. The height difference means she has to tilt her head back, and she does without hesitation, her fingers tangling in my hair.
“Bedroom?” I ask, feeling control slipping through my fingers like water.
“Door,” she pants, nodding toward the narrow hallway.
I pick her up, her weight solid and real against me.
She wraps arms and legs around my frame, kissing my neck as I carry her through the cottage.
The bedroom sits at the end of the hall, sparsely furnished—a carved wooden bed frame, a woven rug on the floor, a single lantern casting long shadows across white sheets.
I lay us both down, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. Her hair has come loose from its bun, dark strands spilling across the pillow.
“Undress me,” she whispers, her eyes finding mine in the low light.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of her blouse, a task made more difficult by the way my hands want to shake.
The fabric parts to reveal the curve of her collarbone, then the soft swell of her breasts.
The sight of her bare skin sends heat rushing through me, my cock already painfully hard against the confines of my trousers.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, the words rasping out of me. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I first saw you in the village square.”
Her breath catches, and for a moment, she looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen—unarmed, unprotected, entirely present.
“Touch me,” she begs.
I cup her breasts with both hands, her nipples hardening against my palms. I lean down to take one in my mouth, tasting salt and skin. My other hand slides down the plane of her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her skirt.
Her pussy is wet, slick with desire, and she arches off the bed when I find her clit with my fingertips.
“Calla, are you sure?” I ask, rubbing slow circles against that sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Yes,” she says, her voice breaking on the word. She fists her hand in my hair again, pulling me up for a deep, desperate kiss. The taste of her mixes with the fading remnants of whatever spices she used in the now abandoned dish she was cooking.
The need for her drowns every rational thought still clinging to my skull.
I stand enough to fumble with the buttons on my trousers, pushing the rough-woven fabric down my hips until my cock springs free, hard and aching for her warmth.
I kick my trousers aside, my shirt following in a heap on the floorboard near the bed.
“I need to—” My voice scratches against my throat.
“Yes,” she cuts me off, understanding already. Her hands reach for my hips, pulling me back to her as I settle between her parted thighs. Her eyes track the movement of my cock as I press myself against her entrance, her lips parted on a shaky breath.
I push into her slowly, the drag of her tight, wet heat around me stealing my air. Her eyes glaze over, a flutter of dark lashes against her cheekbones as her mouth drops open in a silent, breathless gasp.
“Alright?” I rasp, holding still, my own control stretched to its breaking point by the sheer perfection of this moment.
“Don’t stop.” The words are ghostly, breathed out rather than spoken.
I start moving, shallow thrusts that gradually deepen as she opens for me.
The rhythm finds itself, my hips working against hers, the room filling with the soft slap of skin and her ragged breaths.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, blunt pressure through the fabric of my undershirt, which remains half-on, half-forgotten.
On one thrust, I hook my hands under her thigh and lift her leg over my shoulder. The position opens her wider, exposes her more fully to my gaze, and allows me to sink deeper than before. She cries out, a sharp, startled sound that melts into a long, low moan.
“Harder,” she breathes, her head tipping back into the pillow. “Please, Brakkor.”
My name on her lips unspools something inside me.
The measured, careful rhythm fractures into something more frantic, more desperate.
My thrusts lose their precision, driven by the sight of her unraveling beneath me.
Her perfect composure shatters with each snap of my hips, replaced by a wildness that matches the frantic beat of my heart.
She’s so beautiful like this—flushed, undone, her sleek hair a dark tangle against the white linen. So damn sexy I can hardly stand to look at her without losing my mind.
“Calla.” Her name is a plea, a curse, a prayer. I lean down, stealing a messy, breathless kiss as my body drives into hers. The bedframe groans in protest, the sound swallowed by her desperate moans.
My hips piston between her thighs, chasing the frantic, desperate rhythm she set. I take her deeper, harder. Every thrust jolts the headboard against the wall. Every cry that escapes her lips sounds better than the last.
“You feel incredible,” I grind out, my voice raw, broken. “I’ve been wanting—” The words catch as I bottom out inside her, her inner walls hugging me impossibly tight. “I’ve been wanting to know how good you feel.”
She arches her back, a sharp gasp punching from her lungs as I press deeper still. Her eyes lock on mine. “So have I.”
The admission hangs, sharp and stunning, in the heated air between us.
“What?” The question escapes before I can censor it.
“I’ve thought about this.” Her hands slide from my shoulders to my face, framing my jaw with a shocking tenderness. “About you.” Calla Mercer doesn’t blush, but a flush spreads high on her cheekbones, visible even in the lamplight. “In my bed. Under me. Over me.”
A primal surge of possession blinds me for a second. My next thrust loses its coordination, driven by pure emotion. “And here I thought you were innocent.”
A breathy laugh, almost a sob, escapes her. “You have no idea. Those long, quiet afternoons you’d be scowling over papers, pushing your hair out of your eyes—” She moans, her head tipping back as I increase my pace. “I’d picture you pushing into me instead.”
I drop my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling. The air smells of sweat and sex and the faint, lingering scent of rosemary. I’m fucking a mess into her, and she’s asking for more.
“Show me.”
She stills beneath me, her dark eyes searching mine.
“Show me what you pictured,” I clarify, slowing my movements to a deliberate, controlled roll of my hips. “Tell me.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair. “I pictured you just like this,” she whispers, her voice raspy with need. “Holding me down, taking what you wanted. Making me unable to think about anything else.”
Her words are a match to dry tinder. My control snaps.
My hands slide down to grip her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh as I drive into her with renewed force. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the small room, underscored by the rhythmic creak of the bedframe.
“I’m close,” she gasps, her nails scoring my back. “Don’t stop.”
It’s the last clear thought either of us has.
Sensation takes over—the slick friction, the tight clench of her around me, the broken sounds she makes at the back of her throat.
My control disintegrates, the last thread snapping.
I fuck her with a raw, ragged intensity, chasing my own release with each punishing stroke.
Distantly, I feel her shake apart, her body convulsing around mine as a strangled cry tears from her throat.
A deep, rolling shudder wracks my frame, and I bury myself inside her one final time as I fill her with my come. My hips jerk through the last pulses of it, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, my breath sawing harsh and loud in the quiet room.