7. Christiane
SEVEN
Christiane
I drop my head into my hands as Adam curses Emmanuel. Trust me, I couldn't agree more, but that isn't helping the situation.
"Do you have your phone?" I ask, already dreading the answer.
Adam goes still. Too still.
I lift my head just in time to see the muscle in his jaw flex.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter.
His sigh is sharp. "I left it on the porch. I didn't think this would take long."
I groan and let my head fall back against the loft wall. "Great. You don't have your phone either. We're going to be stuck here until the day we die."
"Don't be dramatic," he mutters, but even he doesn't sound convinced.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the occasional thud from below, as Emmanuel amuses himself by headbutting an empty feed bucket.
I fold my arms over my chest and glare at the ceiling. "You know, this is entirely your fault."
Adam lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. " My fault? You climbed up here without thinking things through."
"Oh, so now I don't think things through?" I snap, shifting so I can glare at him properly.
He turns toward me, blue eyes flashing in the dim loft light. "Well, you are stuck in a loft, with no way down. What would you call that?"
I push up onto my knees, my temper flaring. "I would call it bad luck —which seems to happen whenever you're around."
His gaze drops—just for a second, to the way my shirt has slipped off one shoulder. The barn is cool, but suddenly, the air feels thick, charged with something I don't want to name.
I force myself to ignore it, but when I move to stand, the loft creaks beneath us, shifting ever so slightly. Instinctively, Adam reaches out, grabbing my waist to steady me.
I freeze.
His hands are warm and firm, fingers pressing just enough to catch my breath. I glance up, and for once, Adam isn't smirking. He isn't teasing. He's watching me, really watching me, like he's seeing something for the first time.
The tension between us tightens, something raw and unspoken, curling in the space between breaths.
I swallow hard. "Let go."
His hands stay where they are, his grip just a fraction tighter. "You sure?"
I should be sure. I should shove him away, roll my eyes, say something cutting.
Instead, my pulse betrays me, hammering so hard I know he can feel it.
"No," I manage to whisper, and his lips swoop closer to mine.
"Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this, and I will walk away right now. Tell me. Christiane. Tell me ." His tone is rough and demanding, and the grit in it, when he says my given name, makes my knees start to buckle.
Pulling me close, he lowers me beneath him on the hay-strewn floor, and it's all I can do to utter, "Don't stop," because I don't want him to stop. This, whatever this is between us, is as inevitable as the sun rising and falling.
Hands, rough from years of farm work, grip me behind my knees and pull me to Adam, bringing his body closer to mine. I moan against his lips as they own me. A shiver rocks through my body as his lips brush my ear.
"You are going to ruin me. I know it." Sliding my oversized sweater down my shoulder, his lips trace a line down to my breasts. I wrap my fingers in his hair and arch into his touch. His teeth scrape over my nipple through my bra, and the sounds that fall from my mouth are anything but decent. Later, this could be embarrassing, but for now, I just need the feel of his skin against mine. I need it more than baking, more than oxygen. I may lose my mind if I don't feel him.
"Please." I'm begging, and all Adam does is chuckle, before popping the button on his jeans.
"Anything for you, princess." Tugging his shirt off with one hand, his other slips down into the waistband of my leggings, one long rough finger sliding along my slit, and circling my clit.
" Tabarnac !" My back bows off the floor of the loft, and I can't keep my hips from rocking back and forth.
"You're so very wet for me. Fuck. I love it." Adam teases my clit at a relentless pace, stopping only to remove his own clothes. When his body covers mine again, I can feel him, hot and hard against my core. "Let's get rid of these now." My leggings are tugged off and thrown across the loft. "I want to take my time. I want to ruin you, like I know you're going to destroy me, but if I don't get inside you soon, princess, I may lose my mind."
" Yes. That. Do that. Now."
I shouldn't want this. God help me; I shouldn't want this.
Adam has been nothing but surly, mean, and impossible, since I set foot in Willow Glen. Every conversation is a battle, every glance a challenge, every word sharpened to cut.
And yet, tabarnac , I still want him.
It's infuriating. Maddening. Completely illogical.
And it is everything.
His body presses against mine, heat and strength coiling around me, grounding me, even as he drives me to the edge of oblivion. The first push of him steals my breath, a delicious stretch that borders on too much, too good. A sharp gasp escapes my lips, swallowed by the rough, reverent groan he lets out as he sinks deeper.
"Christiane," he breathes, voice wrecked, like he's barely holding on.
He draws back, teasing, testing, before sliding in again, slow at first, deliberate, then settling into a rhythm that is anything but gentle. Every thrust sends fire licking up my spine, pleasure curling low in my belly .
"Beautiful girl, marvelous girl," he mutters against my skin, voice rough with need. His lips brush my shoulder, his hands gripping my hips, keeping me exactly where he wants me. "You feel so damn perfect around me."
A strangled moan slips from me, as he moves harder, deeper, like he's determined to meld us into one person.
"God," he groans, "you've been driving me crazy on purpose for months, haven't you?" His teeth scrape my shoulder, before he soothes the mark with a kiss. "Look at you now. So sweet. So fucking mine ."
That word—mine—shatters me.
Pleasure crashes over me, in a wave so intense I can't do anything but fall. My body clenches around him, a cry filling the air as I come undone beneath him.
Adam curses, his rhythm faltering as he follows, burying himself deep with a final, uneven groan. For a moment, the only sound is our breath, ragged and uneven, tangled together like the rest of us.
I should regret this. I should push him away, and tell him this was a mistake.
But as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to my shoulder, his hands still gripping my waist like he's not ready to let go…
I know without a doubt that I can’t.