14. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Molly
I'm floating in liquid heaven because Beau's hot tub is perfect.
Water temperature that makes my muscles melt, jets that massage every knot of tension I've carried for months, and a view that belongs on the cover of a travel magazine.
Mountains stretch endlessly in every direction, painted gold by the afternoon sun, while steam rises around me like I'm some kind of goddess.
But none of that compares to the anticipation thrumming through my veins as I wait for Beau to return.
The sliding door opens and I turn to see him stepping onto the deck, carrying what appears to be the most ridiculous wine service in the history of civilization.
In one hand, he's got a bottle that looks like it survived the war alongside him. Literally. The label is so faded I can't even read it, and there's actual dust coating the glass like it's been sitting in his cabinet since the stone age.
In the other hand, he's carrying two glasses that definitely didn't come from the same set.
One looks like it might have once been part of someone's good china, all delicate curves and what might be gold trim. The other is clearly a jelly jar with cartoon characters on it.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Fancy."
He sets everything down on the small table beside the tub, scowling at the mismatched collection. "I forgot I don't actually drink wine."
"No…" I grin sarcastically. "What do you think gave you away? The dust or the fact that one of those glasses has Bugs Bunny on it?"
"I was distracted," he mutters, uncorking the bottle.
"Distracted by what?" I ask innocently, though my eyes are definitely making a pointed journey toward his crotch, where the evidence of his distraction is still pretty obvious through his jeans.
His jaw ticks. "Your ridiculous strip tease back there. It caught me offguard."
"Ridiculous?" I arch an eyebrow, settling back against the edge of the tub in a way that makes the water lap just below my breasts. "You didn't seem to think it was so ridiculous. In fact, you seemed pretty... appreciative ."
The wine sloshes as he pours, missing the fancy glass entirely and splattering onto the deck. "Christ."
I'm grinning and biting my lip form laughing, high on the power of reducing this mountain of a man to clumsy hands and cursing.
"Need help with that?"
"I've got it," he growls, successfully filling both glasses this time. He hands me the jelly jar, keeping the fancy one for himself.
I take a sip and immediately understand why he doesn't drink wine. It tastes like someone mixed grape juice with paint thinner, then aged it in a gym sock.
But I don't care, because Beau is pulling his flannel shirt over his head, and suddenly breathing becomes a secondary concern.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
I knew he was built—I'd felt those muscles when he kissed me, seen hints of them through his shirts—but seeing him like this, with steam rising around us, is like witnessing a religious experience.
His chest is a masterpiece of hard-earned muscle, with dozens of ridges and powerful curves that speak of years of physical labor. His shoulders are impossibly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist that disappears into low-slung jeans that are about to give me a heart attack.
But it's the ink covering his arms that makes me choke on the terrible wine.
Intricate tattoos sleeve both arms in black and gray, telling stories I can't read but desperately want to learn.
Mountain silhouettes wind around his right bicep, while something that looks like coordinates spirals down his forearm.
On his left arm, a lone wolf stands beneath a pine tree, surrounded by symbols and dates that feel heavy with meaning.
And the scars…
God, the scars.
They're everywhere. Thin white lines across his ribs, a thick, jagged mark along his left shoulder, smaller nicks and cuts that speak of a life lived dangerously. Each one tells a story of survival, of pain endured and overcome.
"You okay?" he asks, and I realize I'm staring with my mouth open like some kind of sex-starved teenager.
"I'm..." I swallow hard, trying to find words that don't make me sound like a complete lunatic. "You're just..."
He reaches for the button of his jeans, and whatever I was going to say dissolves into incoherent noise.
The denim hits the deck, followed immediately by black boxer briefs, and I'm pretty sure I stop breathing entirely.
Because Beau Callahan is hung like a fucking stallion.
His cock is thick and heavy, the head flushed dark with arousal, and I can see the vein that runs along the underside even from here.
It's the kind of equipment that should come with a warning label, and the fact that it's currently pointing in my direction makes something hot and desperate unfurl in my belly.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I breathe, not caring that I sound like a woman who's never seen a naked man before.
Because I've never seen a naked man like this before.
He slides into the water across from me, and the way his triceps flex and bunch with the movement makes my mouth water. The hot tub suddenly feels like it's shrinking.
Every bubble that pops against my skin feels like a tiny explosion, and I'm suddenly aware of exactly how naked we both are beneath the churning water.
The mountain view that had me in awe just moments ago might as well have disappeared. Because now the only landscape worth studying is sitting directly across from me, watching me with eyes that promise dirty, filthy things that I suddenly crave.
"Better?" he asks, settling back against the jets with a low groan that goes straight to my core.
"Better," I manage, though I'm pretty sure my voice comes out as a squeak.
We sit in silence for a moment, the awkwardness of new intimacy settling between us like steam.
I can't stop staring at him—the way the water beads on his chest, how his tattoos seem to come alive in the shifting light of the sunset, the fact that his cock is still hard beneath the surface.
I need to focus. Change the subject. Say… say something.
"I-I can't believe I'm here," I say, my voice softer, more wondering. "A week ago I was... God, I was so lost. And now I'm looking at this incredible view, in this amazing hot tub, with the most incredible man I've ever met."
Beau goes very still beside me, his jaw tightening at the clear compliment. "Molly, you shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't what?"
"Put me on some pedestal." His voice is strained and he swallows his wine in one go. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying—"
"No, you don't." He turns to face me, and there's something almost desperate in his eyes. "You might see this place, what I've built, and you think... how wonderful. But you don't know who I really am. What I've done."
The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. "Beau..."
"I'm not worth all this attention, Molly," he says quietly, looking down at the water between us. "I'm not the man you think I am."
The words hit me like a slap because, where the hell did that come from?!
"Don't you dare," I say, moving through the water toward him. "Don't you dare say that."
I settle beside him, close enough that our legs brush underwater, and the contact sends sparks shooting up my spine.
"You built this place with your own hands. You saved a family last night. You bought me a phone just because you remembered I threw mine away. You are absolutely worth attention."
He's looking at me like I'm speaking a foreign language, and something fierce and protective rises in my chest. How long has he been hiding up here, telling himself he doesn't matter? The thought of that breaks my heart in pieces.
I reach out, my fingers finding his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. His skin is warm, slick from the water, and I can feel the slight ridge of an old scar beneath my fingertips.
"What happened here?" I ask softly, tracing a thin scar across his collarbone with my fingertip.
His jaw ticks. "Shrapnel hit. Afghanistan."
I press my lips to the mark, tasting salt and chlorine. "And this?"
My fingers find the thick scar on his shoulder, and his breath hitches as I explore its length.
"IED. Same day as the first one." His voice is rough with the memory. "Three guys in my unit didn't make it home."
"But you did," I whisper, kissing this one too. "You survived."
His hand finds my waist underwater, fingers spanning my ribs, and the touch sends heat shooting through me.
"Sometimes I wonder if I should have."
"No." The word comes out fierce, final. "Don't think that. Don't ever think that."
I shift closer, practically in his lap now, my breasts brushing against his chest as I map each scar with my fingers and lips, letting his words reveal the stories, one by one.
A small one near his heart from a training accident. Another along his ribs from a knife fight in a bar outside base. Each story comes reluctantly, pulled from him like splinters, and with each one I feel him relaxing beneath my touch.
" See. You're a good man, Beau Callahan," I murmur against his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. "The best man I've ever known."
His hands are sliding up my back, cupping my ass, tracing the curve of my waist like he's memorizing every inch. When I shift to straddle him properly, his cock presses against my belly, thick and hard and making me dizzy with want.
"Molly," he growls, but I'm already reaching between us, wrapping my fingers around his length.
He's even bigger than I thought, my hand barely closing around him, and the low groan that rumbles from his chest when I stroke him makes my pussy clench with need.
"Fuck," he breathes, his hands finding my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they're tight and aching. "I never thought I'd have this. Never thought I'd share my home, my thoughts… my demons."
His voice is raw, filled with a vulnerability that makes my heart swell.
I arch into his touch, pressing myself closer, feeling the roughness of his palms against my soft skin. Water sloshes around us, the cool night air contrasting with the heat of our bodies as I rock against him.
His grip tightens on my hips, guiding me, his breath hot against my neck as he murmurs, "You're everything, Molly. Everything I never knew I needed."
His words are like a spark, igniting a fire deep within me. I can feel every inch of him, every hard plane and curve, every scar that tells a story of his past.
And I want it all—the good, the bad, the broken parts of him.
Because in this moment, we're not just two people tangled together in a hot tub under the stars; we're two souls finding solace in each other, finding a home in the chaos of our intertwined lives.
"You're totally worth the wait," I whisper in his ear, biting gently at his lobe.
His mouth crashes into mine, all tongue and teeth and desperate hunger. His hands grip my ass, lifting me so he can trail his lips down my throat to my breasts. When he takes my nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me cry out, I nearly come apart right there.
"Beau," I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair as he lavishes attention on my breasts. "Oh God, Beau. "
His hand dives in the water and slides between my legs, fingers finding my clit. I buck against him as pleasure shoots through me like lightning.
"So fucking wet," he murmurs against my skin, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until I'm panting and grinding against his hand with my own free will. "Is this for me?"
"Yes," I breathe, my hand working his cock faster, feeling it pulse and twitch in my grip. "All for you."
We're both breathing hard now, the water around us churning from our movements. His fingers slide lower, teasing my entrance, and I'm so close to begging him to fuck me right here in the hot tub when he suddenly stops.
"Get out," he growls, suddenly removing his hand from my core, leaving me aching for more.
"What?"
"Get out of the tub." His hands grip my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing. He plonks me down on the outside of the tub and I shiver against the cool air. "There's no way I'm making love to you for the first time in the hot tub."
The words send my heart into a frantic rhythm. Or a panic. I'm not sure which.
Making love.
Not fucking.
Not screwing around.
Making love .
Did he mean that? Or is it just something men say when they're about to get laid?
I don't have time to analyze it, because suddenly I'm standing on the deck, water streaming from my body in the cool mountain air, and Beau is rising from the tub like some kind of water god.
He grabs a towel from the stack beside the tub, wrapping it around my shoulders before using another to roughly dry himself. When he's done, he drops it and steps toward me, his eyes dark with promise.
"Molly," he growls deeply. "Let me take you inside."
All I can do is nod before he's lifting me, cradling me against his chest like I'm something precious, carrying me toward the sliding door that leads to his bedroom.
To his bed.
To whatever comes next.
My heart pounds against my ribs as we cross the threshold, leaving the evening behind for the warm shadows of his sanctuary.
Making love, I think again, my arms tightening around his neck.
God, I hope he meant it.