Chapter 10
QUINN
The wine sits warm in my belly as I walk through downtown Redwood Rise, my boots scuffing against the sidewalk. Three glasses. Maybe four. Enough that the edges of the world have gone soft, enough that I needed to walk off some of the buzz before heading back to my room at the Pinecrest Inn.
Cilla hugged me goodbye at the Inn, smelling like lavender and red wine, whispering advice I'm not sure I asked for. "Life's too short to wait for perfect timing, sweetheart. Sometimes you just have to jump."
The cold October air bites against my cheeks now, clearing my head with each step. My thoughts keep circling back to Eli. To this morning in the cellar. To the almost-kiss that's been haunting me all day.
I round the corner onto Main Street, and there it is—the Bear Claw Tavern, glowing warm against the darkness.
Eli's truck sits in the parking lot, mud-splattered and solid.
He came back. Left his family compound to check on the place, probably found some excuse about inventory or prep work that couldn't wait until morning.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
I should go home. Should walk back to the Inn, climb the stairs to my room, take off this dress Cilla insisted looked "criminally good" on me, and sleep off the wine. Should be sensible and careful and all the things I've learned to be since my taste buds went silent and my career imploded.
Instead, I cross the street.
The door isn't locked. The bell chimes as I push inside, and Eli looks up from behind the bar where he's doing inventory counts, pen paused over a clipboard. His hair is still damp from a shower, pushed back from his face, and he's changed into a clean flannel over a dark t-shirt.
"Quinn." Surprise crosses his features, followed quickly by hunger and wariness. "Everything okay?"
"Why didn't you kiss me?"
The words come out steadier than I expected. Direct. No preamble, no dancing around it.
Eli sets down his pen carefully, like he's buying time. "You've been drinking."
"I had wine with dinner. I'm not drunk." I move closer, my dress swishing around my knees. "I'm steady on my feet, my words aren't slurring, and I meant every step that brought me here. I'm just done pretending I don't feel this."
"Quinn...”
"You wanted to." I stop at the bar between us, gripping the edge. The wood is smooth and cool under my palms. "In the cellar this morning. You wanted to kiss me."
His jaw tightens. "That doesn't mean I should."
"Why not?" Frustration edges my voice sharper. "Give me one good reason that isn't about protecting me or keeping things professional or whatever excuse you've been telling yourself."
Eli rounds the bar slowly, each step deliberate. He stops close enough that I can smell cedar and smoke on him, see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then tell me." My pulse hammers in my throat. "Explain it to me instead of making decisions about what I can handle."
"You're vulnerable right now. You're rebuilding your life, figuring out who you are without...” He stops himself, but I know what he means. Without taste. Without my career. Without all the things that used to define me.
Heat flares in my chest. "I'm not fragile, Eli. I'm not some broken thing you need to tiptoe around."
"I know you're not broken."
"Then stop treating me like I am." I step closer, eliminating the space between us. "I can taste your food. Evelyn's food at the Inn. When I can't taste anything else. That means something. You mean something."
His hand lifts, almost involuntarily, brushing a strand of hair back from my face. His fingers linger at my temple, trembling slightly. "Everything about this is complicated."
"I don't care about complicated." My voice drops lower. "I care about this. Right now. You and me and whatever this is between us."
"Quinn." My name sounds like a warning and a prayer.
I kiss him.
Press up on my toes and close the final inches between us, my mouth finding his. His lips are warm, firm, and for half a heartbeat he goes rigid under my touch. Frozen. Then he makes a sound—low in his throat, almost a growl.
Eli's hand slides into my hair, fingers gripping tight enough to make my scalp tingle, cupping the back of my head.
He kisses me back and the world tilts. His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak, demanding and possessive.
His other arm wraps around my waist, hauling me against the solid wall of his chest.
My fingers tighten in his flannel. His beard scrapes my chin. His tongue traces my lower lip and I open for him, tasting cinnamon and coffee and heat.
I grab fistfuls of his flannel, holding on as he walks me backward until my spine hits the bar. His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, and I gasp at the scrape of his beard against sensitive skin. His breath comes hot against my neck.
"Quinn." My name sounds like a question and a curse.
I tilt my head back, giving him better access. "Don't stop."
"You have no idea what you're starting."
"Then show me."
Eli lifts me onto the bar in one smooth motion, the wood cold against the backs of my thighs.
He steps between my knees, spreading them wider, and my dress rides up.
His hands skim up my sides, calluses catching on the fabric, and my back arches without conscious thought. Heat pools low in my belly.
His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time.
Demanding. I taste cinnamon and heat and something wild that makes my head spin.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his flannel, clumsy and shaking.
The first button slips free. Then the second.
I need to feel his skin. Need more than fabric and friction between us.
He makes an impatient sound and helps me, yanking the flannel open. Buttons scatter across the bar top, pinging against glass bottles behind us.
"Quinn." He breaks the kiss long enough to yank his t-shirt over his head, and I get a brief glimpse of broad shoulders, muscled chest, a wicked scar along his ribs before he's kissing me again.
My hands slide over his back, fingertips tracing the ridges of muscle, the dip of his spine. His skin is hot—fever-hot—like he's burning from the inside out. I dig my nails in and he groans against my mouth. The sound vibrates through my chest, settles between my legs.
His fingers find the zipper at the back of my dress. "Is this what you want?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No doubt.
The zipper slides down with a soft rasp.
Cool air hits my spine and I shiver, goosebumps rising across my shoulders.
Then Eli's hands are there—palms rough, callused, scorching hot against my bare skin.
He peels the dress down slowly, exposing one shoulder, then the other.
His mouth follows, lips and teeth and tongue tracing the path of fabric.
A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.
"Don't." His eyes meet mine, pupils blown wide. "Don't hold back."
So I don't.
His mouth closes over my breast through the thin lace of my bra and a moan tears from my throat. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there. His hand slides up my inner thigh, slow and deliberate, and his name comes out broken. "Eli...”
He growls against my skin. His fingers dig into my hip, possessive and demanding. When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and slides them down my legs, his hands tremble. The fabric catches on one ankle and he curses, fumbling with it.
"Protection?" The word comes out strangled.
"I'm clean. On birth control." I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. "You?"
"Clean. But Quinn, if you want to wait...”
"I'm done waiting." I get his belt open, his jeans unbuttoned. "I want this. I want you."
He helps me with the rest, shedding clothes with practiced efficiency, and then there's nothing between us. Just skin and heat and need.
The bar’s edge digs into my thighs as Eli pulls me closer. His forehead rests against mine, our breath coming fast and ragged, suspended in this moment between before and after.
"Last chance." His voice barely sounds human. "We do this, everything changes."
"Good." I wrap my legs around his hips. "I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you."
He enters me in one slow, devastating thrust, and the world narrows to just this. The stretch and burn and perfect fullness. The way his hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. The broken sound that tears from his throat.
He pulls back almost completely, then drives in again.
Harder. Deeper. I gasp and my nails rake down his back.
The rhythm starts rough, uncoordinated—all desperate need and wanting I didn't even know I carried.
Days, maybe. Or longer. Maybe I've been waiting for this—for him—without knowing what I needed.
My back arches, my hips rising to meet each thrust.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping, and I turn my head to give him access. One of his hands slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple through the lace, and pleasure sparks through me.
"Quinn." He groans my name against my throat. "God, Quinn."
I can't form words. Can only hold on as he moves inside me, each thrust hitting deeper, the friction building. The bar creaks behind us. Something glass—a bottle maybe—tips over and rolls to the floor with a crash. Neither of us stops.
His hand moves between us, fingers finding where we're joined, and when he touches me there I nearly come apart. The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter low in my belly.
When I come, it crashes through me like a wave. My vision whites out, my whole body seizing, clenching around him. I cry out—his name, maybe, or just wordless sound—and distantly I hear bottles rattling on the shelves behind the bar.