Chapter 8 #3
He enters me again, this time with a force that leaves no room for doubt.
I catch a glimpse of us in the side mirror, his dark hair a stark contrast against my lighter strands, his body a shadow merging with mine.
“Play with your clit. Strum it hard,” Declan commands, and his voice is the trigger I need.
My fingers dance to his dictation, circling, pressing, strumming with a frenzied beat that echoes the slap of his hand against my skin.
The sting melds into pleasure, a catalyst that sends me spiraling into a second climax, more intense than the first. Declan follows, his groans mingling with my cries as we both descend down the dark alley of bliss, together lost, together found.
Then it crests, my laughter tangled with something that sounds too close to a cry. He groans—low, rough—and the sound vibrates through both of us.
We both pull our pants on and zip up our coats. He wraps me up, arms locking around me until everything goes still. The truck ticks as it cools. The snow keeps falling. And for a long, perfect heartbeat, I think the world might’ve stopped just to give us this.
Then he breathes out, voice a low rumble, “Next time, we’re finding somewhere with legroom.”
We sit without speaking. My heartbeat slows.
My body hums with what just happened, but beneath the warmth, fear curls like smoke.
This wasn’t supposed to happen again. Not here, not now, not when we’d just fought about being too close.
I should regret it. I should push him away.
Instead, I feel steadier than I’ve in weeks, like part of me has been waiting for this to break through the walls I built.
A fist knocks on the driver’s window, and we both jump. Hank stands in the swirl with two foam cups and a lantern hooked to a wire. He lifts one cup and points at his mouth.
I crack the window. Wind rushes in with the smell of cedar and cut boughs. “Thanks. We’ll wait a little longer. Then we’ll crawl out.”
“Bless you for not trying to be heroes,” Hank mutters. “Plow will make another pass in ten.”
I swallow the cocoa. It burns my tongue, and I welcome it. “We make a plan for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Hit me.”
“Tonight, we drop the trees at the grill, my office, and the tasting room. We leave them outside the doors under the overhang. We don’t haul them in. We don’t linger. We don’t work late.”
“Agreed.”
His hand reaches for mine. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’m in my childhood bedroom and my parents are next door.”
“You’re right. Your dad has a shot gun.”
“But I’m not alone.”
“Yes. And I seriously doubt whoever is behind this would go after the main house.”
“Tomorrow at dawn, I get my day done by lunch and maybe you can meet me to help with whatever Sadie didn’t get done. We have a big VIP event.”
He grins. “You conned me into volunteering.”
“I have my reasons.”
“I know.” His tone is gentle. “I’m never asking you to pretend with me.”
My throat tightens. “Then don’t ask me to be brave for you.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you to be honest with you.”
“Wry humor break,” I throw in, because I can feel the tears and I don’t want them. “If we get snowed in here all night, put my good lipstick in my pocket, so I look put together when they find us.”
He huffs a laugh. “You already look put together.”
“Liar.”
“Right. You look like the storm hired you as a consultant.”
“That’s more accurate.”
The plow passes again and throws a drift that hits the hood with a thud. Hank waves from the hut. The wind drops a notch, like it needs to catch its breath.
“We go on the next lull.”
“Yup.”
We sit in a patch of quiet that feels stolen. The tension that wired us tight starts to settle into something else. I tip my head against the headrest and study him. He catches me looking.
“What?”
He reaches across and laces our fingers on the console. His palm is warm. Mine is still cold. He rubs his thumb over my knuckle and it’s ridiculous how much that helps.
Snow slides off the windshield in a heavy sheet. I start the truck. The engine growls. I flip the wipers and pull my gloves back on.
“Ready?”
“Let’s crawl.”
We ease out of the lot. Hank swings the gate wider and salutes with his lantern.
The lane is two tracks carved by the plow.
I drop the truck into the lowest gear and we inch forward while the wind tries to shove us sideways.
My hands ache from gripping the wheel. Declan watches the ditch and calls out markers under his breath like a pilot.
“Stay left. Good. That sign is your turn. Now straighten.”
The highway is a ghost. The world outside is a snow globe someone shook too hard.
I focus on the taillights of the plow ahead until it pulls to the shoulder to let us pass.
The drive that took ten minutes earlier swallows forty.
When we finally pull onto the villa lane, I exhale and don’t realize I was holding that breath until my chest hurts.
We stop under the overhang by the service door. Declan kills the engine and glances over.
“You can stay in the truck. I’ve got it.”
“I’m not staying put while you freeze.” I push the door open before he can argue. Cold air rushes in, biting my face.
He follows, muttering, “Didn’t realize you still had to win every argument.”
“Only the ones worth winning.”
We muscle the first tree onto the dolly, the truck bed full of snow and sleet. The branches catch on my sleeve, and he reaches out automatically to steady it, his hand brushing mine, then retreating like he touched fire.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
“I’ve got it.”
He exhales hard, that deep, frustrated sound that used to come right before he walked away. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Tarryn.”
“Yeah?” I shift the weight, refusing to meet his eyes. “That’s news to me, considering I had to for the last two years.”
The words hang between us, sharp and irreversible. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. We work in silence, moving the second tree. The scrape of the dolly echoes off the concrete, the air thick with everything we’re not saying.
When both trees are finally parked by the wall, he checks the service door lock. I flick on the camera light, making sure it blinks red.
“Still recording,” I tell him.
He nods once. “Good.”
He raises his phone to take the picture, and I step close enough to see the raindrops clinging to his lashes. We both watch the timestamp appear, proof we did what we came for, even if nothing else between us feels certain.
“Send it to Elise,” I say, my voice softer than I want.
He doesn’t look at me. “Already did.”
Me: Trees delivered, will set first thing.
We head to the tasting room. The lot is empty. The string lights glow across the eaves and bounce off the drifted white. We slide the third tree under the covered patio and wedge it between two barrels.
“You sure you don’t want to do the stands now?” Declan asks.
“I’ll have help to get them done in the morning and set up inside so they can warm and open before we decorate.”
He leans in. “We can go back to my place,” his offer laced with need.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
He leans down and kisses me. His tongue tangles with mine, and he doesn’t realize how tempted I am to go back to his place, but the porch light turns on.
We break apart. “Is someone hinting?”
“Always.” I smirk. “See you tomorrow.”
He waits while I walk in and lock the door behind me.
“Nice to see Declan again,” mom yells from the kitchen.
“Maybe.” I’m not ready to unpack what we are right now. There is just too much going on.