Chapter 7 #2
Inside, the air was cool, stale, and thick with the must of old wood floors and dust. The front room was huge, its bones visible in the cracks of lath and the warping of the once beautiful ceiling tiles.
Light came in through a grid of mismatched glass, painting strange shapes on the floorboards.
It was at best, a haunted mansion for bored ghosts; at worst, a condemned structure waiting for a legal reason to collapse.
But Harper beamed, and for a second, I could almost see it: the echo of music and movement, a large mirror along one wall, barre attached.
The blank walls blooming with color. Through an opening, another large space opened up.
It mirrored the other side. Twin doors to Main Street with the panes of the window lights painted over took up one wall.
I could imagine the others covered in my art and the art of other Texas artists.
My pulse thumped in my throat, the earlier weirdness replaced by something like nervous hope.
“Think anyone else could do this?” she said, spinning in a slow, arms out circle. “Dance studio in Dairyville, Texas. Art gallery. Us, together.”
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “There’s probably a reason no one’s done it before. We’re either brilliant or doomed.”
She laughed, and the sound rebounded off every wall, loud and exuberant.
“I’ll take both. I spent my entire childhood dreaming of something bigger.
That wound up buying me years of essentially prison time.
Now, I think small sounds pretty damn good.
If the bitch pack will let me…” She stopped, then started again.
“You know they tried their damnedest to keep bringing up the fact that I danced in that goddamn club. Made it out that I liked it; that I wasn’t worthy to be in this pack or being Jess’s mate. ”
That sent my anger nuclear. “You just show me who it was, Harper. I’ll personally rip their throats out. Consequences be damned. You’re the best fucking person I know. Who are they to judge you or anyone for that matter?”
She walked up to me and put her hands on my shoulders, eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Thank you, little sis. But there is no need for you to do anything. Our Luna tore each one of them new assholes. She called in their husbands also. And if they didn’t have a husband, she called in their fathers.
Let them all know under no uncertain circumstances that if any of them were ever heard saying one sideways thing about me, she’d personally escort them off of Iron Valor pack territory. ”
I could not believe that. “Holy shit!”
“Rest easy, Brie Bear. Our Luna has our backs.” She stood confidently in saying those words.
“So you’re good now? Everyone plays nice with you?”
“God, no,” she said, snorting. “But… they’re not so bad now. Or maybe I just don’t care anymore.” She looked at me, serious for a second. “I think you belong here too.”
I didn’t answer. The truth was, I didn’t know yet if I did belong here, or anywhere.
But it seemed I’d found my little tribe.
Parker, Maddie, and Aspen all seemed to truly care about me.
I know I’d fight for them. And Juliet was a Luna who, while only a few years older than me, seemed so much wiser.
I had no doubt she had my back. I had more than enough reasons to want to stay, not even counting Finn.
Before I could change the subject, the door creaked behind us.
In walked who I assumed was the architect, Chantel, straight from Amarillo.
She was tall, model-thin, with shiny strawberry blonde hair and green eyes that missed nothing.
Her suit looked expensive, and her face looked like it had never broken a sweat.
She carried a leather portfolio under one arm and didn’t bother with a handshake.
“You must be Brie and Harper,” she said, nodding once. “I’m Chantel from Frost and sharing it with my sister seemed pretty perfect.
“We’ll make it work,” I said, and almost believed it.
Harper sat down beside me, thigh to thigh, and we watched the dust dance in the beams of afternoon light, quietly taking it all in.
By the time darkness washed Dairyville into silence, I’d showered, gone through two face masks, and watched exactly forty-six minutes of a French murder drama without reading a single subtitle.
The house was quiet—Mom had gone to bed early, and even the air conditioner gave up its rattle and settled into a low, satisfied hum.
I sprawled on my bed in a tangle of sheets, feeling vaguely hollow and more than a little sorry for myself.
That was when my phone buzzed.
It was a text, not a call, and my pulse kicked at the familiar number: Gunner.
I stared at the screen, debating, then opened it with the reckless hope of a woman who has nothing left to lose. The message was a single line:
You make the prettiest sounds when you think you’re alone.
My cheeks flared red so fast I actually gasped. I sat up; the phone clutched in my sweating palm, staring at the words like they might sprout claws and drag me through the glass.
Another buzz almost immediately:
I could listen all night, Maverick. But I’d rather you made those sounds for me in person.
I dropped the phone on the comforter, breathing fast, hands pressed to my face.
I knew he’d had to hear me last night. I’d seen that I’d accidentally dialed his number.
When I’d checked further, I saw the call had lasted forty minutes.
He’d stayed on the line and listened to me.
He’d heard me whining his name. I knew that’s what he’d referenced this morning, and I actually thought it was funny.
So what? He heard me getting myself off. Good for me.
My wolf stirred, rolled belly-up and whined for more.
I typed back, rapid-fire, thumbs shaking:
You didn’t have to perv. You could have hung up.
Three seconds later:
I could have. But I didn’t. You really wouldn’t have wanted me to.
I bit down on a yelp, then thumbed back:
Dream on, cowboy.
His reply came so fast I knew he’d already written it.
If I did, I’d still wake up hard as a fence post thinking about you.
I snorted. It was such a Gunner thing to say. The laughter, raw and a little wild, made my stomach flutter.
A pause, then:
Tell me what you’re wearing right now, Maverick.
I looked down at myself: bralette, ragged blue shorts, bare legs tangled in a quilt. My skin flushed, but the idea of telling him made something inside me spark.
Nothing you’d like, I wrote. Boring old pajamas.
I’d like you better out of them. I know you’re not shy.
A moment, then:
Prove it. Show me.
My heart galloped in my chest. Was he kidding? Was I? I debated, then—fuck it—I snapped a quick shot of my legs, knees up, one foot bare, the rest artfully out of frame.
You’re not getting more than that, I sent.
He replied with a single word:
Liar.
Before I could respond, another message landed:
Are you wet, Brie?
I nearly dropped the phone. I’d never had a man ask me that, not so directly. My thighs pressed together of their own accord, the heat starting to build. I hesitated, then typed:
Maybe.
His answer was instant, hungry:
Go to your drawer. I know you have a toy.
I stared at the screen, jaw slack. How did he…?
His next message came before I could even blush:
Don’t play innocent. You came on the phone for me last night, didn’t you?
I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified and wildly turned on. My hand slid under the pillow, found the small pink vibrator I’d shoved there last night after my shame bath. I thumbed the power on just to feel the vibration in my palm.
I thumbed back:
You’re an animal.
He didn't deny it:
You love it.
Tell me exactly what you’re doing.
I exhaled, slow, the room suddenly too warm. My fingers found the hem of my shorts, slipped inside, and my body jerked at the touch. My skin felt fever-hot; my nipples hardened under the thin cotton bralette.
I let the toy hover over my clit, the vibration just enough to make my knees buckle inward. My head went fuzzy. I typed, one-handed:
It’s on low. I’m teasing myself. Is that what you want to hear?
He replied:
No, I want you to do it right. Push those shorts down. Open your legs for me. Pretend I’m there, watching you.
I did. God help me, I did. The sheets were soft under my thighs, the air cold against my flushed skin. The vibrator pressed against me, and I nearly bucked off the bed.
I whimpered just once, then went with text dictation:
I’m spread wide. It feels good. Are you hard for me, Finn?
His answer:
I’m always hard for you, Maverick. Keep going.
I set the phone on my nightstand and circled the toy over my clit, a slow, aching rhythm that made my breath hitch every time. I pinched a nipple through the bralette, rolling it until the nerves sparked.
I wanted to tell him everything, so I did.
I’m dripping. I’m sure the sheet is wet. I wish it were your tongue.
His reply:
It will be. I want you to think about me between your legs. I want you to fuck yourself for me, Brie. I want that toy inside your sweet pussy just like I will be soon.
I shoved the toy inside me, the shock of sensation almost too much. I gasped his name—out loud, not just in my head.
My body arched, every nerve ending tuned to that pulse, the heat in my belly coiling and tightening. I rocked my hips, grinding down, chasing it.
Tell me you want me, Maverick.
I wanted to fight him, to make a joke, but all I could manage was the truth:
I do. I want you so fucking bad.
Now I want you to come for me, Brie. I want my name on your lips when you do.
The orgasm hit hard, blinding and fierce, ripping the air out of my lungs. I writhed against the sheets, biting down on a moan so loud I worried Mom would hear. My hand clutched the phone, white-knuckled, and I managed to dictate my message, mid-shudder:
Oh, fuck, Finn. I’m coming.
The aftershocks lasted forever, or maybe just a few seconds. My skin tingled, my eyes watered, and the phone nearly slipped out of my hands. I curled into a ball, giggling and weeping and more alive than I’d felt in years.
Good girl. It will be my tongue and my cock making you come next time.
I smiled at the screen, dizzy and satisfied.
I like it when I can be good for you, Finn. I don’t always want to make you crazy. But I’m not gonna lie. I kinda like it when I make you crazy too.
That’s my bratty girl.