14. Boots Off
14
BOOTS OFF
MAISY
The door clicked softly behind us. Brooks turned on a bedside lamp, revealing the cozy warmth of Richard’s one-room guest house. The space was modest by Buchanan standards, but no less beautiful—oak floors, exposed beams, and a fireplace crackling low in the corner. A plush bed dominated the center of the room, with fluffy blue linens, and the faint scent of cedar lingered in the air. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows like music meant just for us and this fateful moment.
“Boots off?” he kicked his away and patted his thigh. I placed one foot there, and he slid the boot off for me, then repeated with the other. I’d barely taken two steps away before Brooks reached for me, his fingers brushing mine, tentative and hot like he was asking permission—and also like he already knew the answer. My chest rose and fell faster, but I wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. It was something else. A breathless mix of heat and certainty that had been simmering under my skin since the barn.
And it was time.
His hands framed my face, and he kissed me—slow, sure, deep enough to dissolve every last trace of logic I had left.
“You sure about this?” he whispered against my lips.
I nodded, pressing my forehead to his. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He exhaled a shaky breath. “Good. Because I’m not sure I could let you walk out that door again.”
“I can’t let you go, either.” I tugged at the hem of his shirt, slipping my hands beneath it to feel the warm skin stretched over muscle. “Let’s call it a mutual captivity situation.”
He chuckled. “I always liked the way you think, Mais. That incredible mind of yours.”
His shirt hit the floor. He helped me out of mine and it followed, bra, too. And as we reached the edge of the bed, his hands shimmied my jeans down my legs. Something shifted inside of me—a fierce, beautiful realization that this man wasn’t a maybe anymore. He wasn’t a someday. He was here, now, and I wanted all of him.
He eased me down onto the mattress like I was something precious, his eyes sweeping over every inch of me with reverence and something deeper—something that felt terrifyingly close to love.
“You know,” I murmured as his mouth traced a slow path up my body until he hovered over me, “I always assumed the architect thing was just a bonus.”
“Oh, yeah?” he breathed against my skin. “And now?”
“Now I’m thinking I should’ve let you redesign me a long time ago.”
He smiled, eyes dark with want. “Babe, I’ve been drawing you in my head for years.”
I arched toward him. “So let’s stop imagining it.”
His hand skimmed down my thigh, trailing fire in its wake. “You’re my favorite blueprint, Maisy Calhoun. Every damn curve.”
I could barely breathe.
“You know what I want?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Me?”
“Yes. And to take my time.”
“Good,” I said, my fingers diving into the back of his jeans. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He paused just long enough to press a kiss over my heart—gentle, like he was imprinting the moment into memory. His lips lingered there, and I felt the warmth ripple through my chest, a rush of affection and promise I hadn’t dared to believe in.
One hand slid beneath my thigh, the other tracing the slope of my hip as his mouth began its descent again. My skin bloomed under each kiss, and the electricity between us sparked like it had been waiting eons to ignite. Every nerve, every breath, every heartbeat belonged to this. To him. To us.
For a playful moment, his teeth latched onto the thin strap of my panties, pulling them down and off. So sexy.
He stood then, gaze heavy with heat, and pushed his jeans and boxers down in one smooth move. My breath caught as he straightened, the lamplight carving golden shadows across every sculpted line of his body. My eyes devoured the sight of him, every inch of skin, the slight flush on his chest, the tension in his arms.
He met my gaze, his voice low. “Are you on the pill?”
I shook my head, breathless. “No.”
Without hesitation, he reached for his wallet and tore open a condom, the rustle loud in the quiet room. He sheathed himself slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. The intimacy of it sent a jolt through me—he was so careful, so present, I was utterly captivated by how much I wanted him.
“You’re sure of what you want, Mais?” he asked again, even as desire burned in every inch of his posture.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Completely.”
His lips grazed the insides of my thighs, slow and deliberate, and I nearly came undone right there. The soft scratch of his stubble, the press of his mouth against my skin—every sensation lit me up from the inside out. When his tongue found my clit, I gasped, hips lifting instinctively to meet his mouth.
“Oh—Brooks…”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t rush. He explored me, like he was mapping the stars with his tongue. And I couldn’t stop the moans that slipped from my lips, or the way my hands fisted in the sheets, or the way my thoughts spun out of control.
Nothing made logical sense but this man. This moment. This heat.
Pleasure climbed in waves, curling through my belly, down my thighs, up my spine. I was unraveling for him, because of him, and he knew it. He moaned softly against me, like he couldn’t get enough, like I was everything he’d ever wanted.
When I came, it was with a cry of his name and a shudder, toes curling, breath catching, heart thundering.
He kissed his way back up, slow and wicked, smiling like a man thoroughly pleased with himself. And when I caught his face between my hands and dragged him up for a kiss, I tasted myself on his lips—and it made me burn for him all over again.
I whispered his name and saw the fire in his eyes as he gently shifted me on top of him. I knew—I was ready to take everything he wanted to give me.
“Fucking gorgeous, Maisy.” His hands framed my hips, as I settled above him. The weight of his gaze made my breath catch, made me feel like the most wanted woman on earth. My thighs bracketed his waist, and I could feel the heat between us pulsing, begging. He moved his hands over me like he was memorizing everything—my curves, the flush of my skin, the tremble in my thighs.
I leaned down to kiss him again—open, hungry, grateful—and he caught my bottom lip between his, sucking lightly before murmuring, “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I breathed. “Like this.”
He reached between us, fingers finding me slick, ready. I rocked against him, the friction exquisite, our bodies syncing with maddening precision. He groaned low in his throat, and it lit something even deeper inside me.
“God, you’re everything to me,” he rasped, his voice thick.
He gripped himself, guiding to my entrance. I braced my hands on his chest, meeting his eyes. “I want this,” I said clearly. “I want you.”
His powerful hands trembled, showing vulnerability, and gripping my hips. “If it hurts?—”
“It won’t. I trust you.”
I moved slowly, easing him inside me, and he let out a sound that was half-groan, half-prayer. There was a learning curve to this, a long stretch, a sting that made me gasp—but it passed quickly, and what replaced it was something infinitely better.
Filling. Consuming. So right.
Brooks cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing beneath my eye. “Okay?”
I nodded. “So much better than okay.”
I began to move, slowly at first, like my body wasn’t designed to be simply passive in this, but an active participant. Testing. Teasing. Finding the rhythm that matched our breaths, our sighs, our need. He met each roll of my hips with a lift of his own, his hands never still—exploring every inch of me.
“You’re every fantasy, every need and want of mine, every thought I tried to push away,” he whispered, pressing kisses to my chest, my collarbone, the curve of my neck.
“And you…” I said, breathless, “you ruin me. Oh, in a very good way...”
He smiled against my throat. “Let’s ruin each other.”
The tempo increased, my confidence building as pleasure rose, tightening inside me with every stroke. His fingers found my clit, circling in time with our rhythm, and I shattered—body convulsing, breath catching, moaning his name like a vow.
He followed, shifting my body beneath him with tender strength. The moment his body stilled, hovering above mine, I felt the change—his restraint breaking, his need overtaking him. His hands gripped my hips, allowing himself to lose control, to be fully consumed by me. And I welcomed it, arching toward him, matching the fire in his eyes with the blaze in my chest. His release a cry against my skin, a quaking above me. We held each other through it, gasping, trembling, overwhelmed.
When we finally collapsed, boneless and trembling, he wrapped his arms around me, holding me so tightly I could feel his heart beating in sync with mine.
He kissed me and rolled us gently to our sides, pulling the blankets over us.
“I didn’t want to rush this,” he said quietly. “I wanted every second to be a beautiful moment for you. I hope I achieved that.”
I touched his face, memorizing him in the low light. “You made me feel safe. Seen. Desired.”
“You are all of that. And more.”
I smiled, fingers tracing his shoulder. “What now?”
“Now we sleep,” he murmured. “And tomorrow… we figure it all out. Together. Rest now, baby. Don’t let that brain of yours overthink this.”
As I lay there in his arms, warm and full and completely his, I knew we’d crossed a threshold. And there was no going back.
Only forward.