15. Chasity
CHASITY
Acold wind settles over the mountains, a low keen that rattles the old windowpanes of the inn.
It drives the last of the dinner guests home early, their headlights cutting brief, lonely swathes through the evening fog before vanishing.
The dining room is empty, chairs upturned on tables, but the small bar tucked into the corner hums with a warm, amber glow.
I volunteer to help Lachlan close it down, partly because the thought of my quiet, empty room upstairs feels like a punishment, and mostly because I’ve grown accustomed to the easy rhythm of his presence.
The inn feels different after hours. Softer.
The usual bustle of guests and town gossip gives way to a low thrum of jazz from a hidden speaker and the steady howl of wind against the glass.
It feels secret, like we’re the only two people left in the world.
Dark wood drinks the light, and the rows of clean glasses behind the bar gleam like a promise.
Our closing tasks stretch into a slow, deliberate dance.
Neither of us seems eager for it to end.
Lachlan stands behind me, his chest a warm presence at my back as he explains the quirks of the ancient cash register.
He accuses me of “flagrant financial sabotage” when my count is off by a few dollars, his breath stirring the hair at my temple.
“It’s not my fault your machine is from the Stone Age.” I nudge him with my elbow, the contact sending a spark straight through my sweater. “Maybe you should invest in something that doesn’t require a hand crank.”
“And lose all its historic charm? Never. You just lack the delicate touch required for vintage accounting.” He plucks a ten-dollar bill from my fingers, our knuckles brushing for a brief second too long.
Later, while he polishes glasses at the sink, I perch on a stool and sneak olives from the garnish tray.
“Quality control,” I explain around a mouthful when he eyes me with mock suspicion. “Can’t have your patrons eating sub-par olives tomorrow. Think of the scandal.”
A slow, sexy grin spreads across his face. “You’re a menace, Chasity Robinson.”
The air between us thickens, no longer buzzing with just playful energy but with something heavier, something potent.
The flirtation that once felt like a life raft now feels like a deep current, and it’s pulling me under.
Every shared glance holds, every accidental touch lingers.
When I join him at the sink to rinse the last few shakers, we stand shoulder to shoulder, our arms brushing as we work.
The space shrinks until I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and breathing suddenly requires conscious effort.
His hands are warm, rough against mine as he takes the towel and starts drying my fingers one by one.
The friction sends sparks up my arms, his thumbs pressing slow circles into my palms like he’s memorizing the shape of them.
The jazz from the overhead speakers fades into static in my ears, replaced by the hammering of my pulse.
Then his mouth is on mine—hot, insistent, tasting faintly of whiskey and mint.
The hand towel hits the floor. His hands slide up my arms, pulling me flush against him, and I arch into the heat of his body.
The edge of the sink digs into my lower back, but I barely register it, too busy clutching at his shirt, dragging him closer.
Lachlan makes a low noise in his throat, fingers tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss, all teeth and tongue and barely restrained hunger. His other hand slides down my side, gripping my hip hard enough to bruise—like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.
I gasp when he nips at my lower lip, and he takes advantage, slanting his mouth over mine again, swallowing the sound.
His stubble scrapes my chin, the burn delicious, grounding.
Every inch of me is alight, hyperaware of the way his thigh presses between mine, the way his breath hitches when I rake my nails down his back.
We break apart, panting. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen. I don’t recognize my own voice when I whisper against his ear, "My room…upstairs."
His grip tightens. "Say it again."
I do, teeth grazing his earlobe.
He swears, then yanks me forward, kissing me hard enough to steal my breath as he walks me backward toward the stairs. Glasses rattle in our wake, forgotten. The inn is silent except for the creak of floorboards beneath us and the ragged sounds of our breathing.
Game. Is. On.
We crash through the door to my room, his mouth never leaving mine.
The wood hits the wall with a thud, the sound swallowed by my gasp as Lachlan lifts me effortlessly, hands gripping my thighs while I lock my ankles behind his hips.
His mouth is hot, everywhere—my collarbone, the swell of my breast, the flutter of pulse beneath my jaw—like he can't decide where to taste first.
The backs of my knees hit the bed, and my sweater hits the floor first, followed by his flannel.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings, yanking them down with a sharp tug while I wrestle with the button of his jeans.
Fabric whispers against skin—his palm skims my ribcage, my nails rake down his shoulders—everywhere that I can reach.
I grab his rock hard cock as soon as it springs free from his pants, my thumb stroking the head in slow, maddening circles.
His hips jerk, a ragged groan tearing from his throat.
"Jesus, Chas," he breathes, his eyes dark with need. I feel heat pooling low in my belly as I reach for him again.
His fingers glide through me with devastating ease, dragging a ragged moan from my lips. I tighten my grip on his length just to hear him groan in response, my thumb swiping over the tip, driving him wild.
"Fuck, you're so wet." His voice is rough, his breath scorching against my neck. He curls his fingers inside me in slow, torturous thrusts while his thumb strokes my clit in tight circles. My hips jerk—instinctive, desperate—but he holds me steady, prolonging the ache until my thighs tremble.
"You like watching me unravel?" I gasp, arching into his touch.
His laugh is low, dark. "Love it."
His fingers pump deeper and I gasp, tightening around him involuntarily. My strokes along his cock turn uneven—distracted—but he doesn’t let up, pushing me higher, higher?—
"Lachlan—"
He pulls his fingers away, ignoring my whimper of protest, and pins me with a look that heats every inch of my skin. “You want more?” His hands slide under my thighs, dragging me to the edge of the bed until my hips cradle his.
I groan as he teases the head of his cock against me, stroking through my slick but not pushing in. His grip tightens—possessive—on my thighs. "Ask."
"Don’t tease," I pant, rocking against him, trying to chase the friction.
"Never claimed to." He grins, pressing in just enough to make me whimper before pulling back again.
"Fuck me," I breathe.
His smirk deepens as he leans forward, lips grazing my ear. "Ask nicely."
I bite down a frustrated moan, nails digging into his shoulders. "Please."
One sharp thrust—deep, rough, knocking the air from my lungs—and I cry out, my back arching off the mattress as he fills me completely.
There's no hesitation, no gentle easing in. He doesn’t give me time to adjust, doesn’t bother with slow.
His hips snap forward again, the stretch burning in the best way, forcing a strangled sound from my throat as I tighten around him instinctively, my body already welcoming him like it’s memorized the shape of him.
"Tell me," he growls, dragging me impossibly closer until there’s no space left between us, our bodies flush, skin slick with sweat. His hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I love it—love the way he claims me, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight.
"You feel—god—perfect," I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me higher. The friction is unbearable, exquisite, the heat between us building until I can barely think.
His laugh is raw, breathless, his voice rough with want. "That’s it, honey. Just like that."
He picks up his pace, and the world narrows to nothing but the feel of him—the way his muscles flex beneath my hands, the way his breath hitches when I clench around him, the way his hips roll against mine with a precision that leaves me trembling.
The stretch burns, delicious, my body yielding to him like I've always known this, like every nerve ending was made for him.
"Look at me," he growls, his voice thick with command.
And I do. My eyes lock with his, dark and hungry, and he pulls almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward again, punching a broken noise from my throat.
The bed creaks beneath us, his pace relentless, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise—proof I’m not slipping through his fingers, proof he won’t let me.
My legs wrap tighter around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust, until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
Faster. Harder. The coil between my thighs pulls taut to the point of pain, pleasure mounting with every snap of his hips, every ragged gasp torn from my throat.
The air between us crackles, thick with sweat and desperation, our bodies moving in perfect, filthy sync.
His fingers dig into my flesh, possessive and unyielding, as if he's memorizing every inch of me through touch alone.
And when he drags his thumb over my clit roughly, calloused skin against oversensitive nerves, his voice drops to that low, graveled murmur—"Come for me, princess"—and I shatter.
Pleasure rips through me, white-hot and blinding, my nails scoring down his back as I choke on his name, my body convulsing around him in helpless, shuddering waves.
He follows with a groan so wrecked it curls my toes, burying his face in the crook of my neck like he can't bear to look away from me, his hips stuttering as he spills inside me, hot and perfect.
None of it polite. None of it gentle. Just desperate, hungry proof that we both needed this—needed the heat, the friction, the way we fit together like we were made for it, like every ragged breath between us was leading here.
We collapse, sticky and spent, tangled in each other, limbs too heavy to move.
His weight presses me into the mattress, solid and grounding, his breath urgent against my throat while our heartbeats slow, the quiet punctuated only by the faint crackle of the fireplace downstairs.
The sheets are twisted around our legs, the room bathed in the dim, golden glow of lamplight, shadows flickering against the rough-hewn wooden walls.
The scent of sex lingers, mingling with woodsmoke and the faintest trace of his cologne—something warm and woodsy, just like him.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us wants to.
The wind still howls sharply against the window when I wake, a quiet rhythm that matches the steady movement of Lachlan’s chest behind me.
His arm is slung heavy over my waist, fingers curled loosely against my stomach like even in sleep he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
The warmth of him presses along my back, skin still humming where he touched me hours ago, where his mouth left marks I’ll feel for days.
For one breathless, weightless moment, I let myself sink into it—the solidness of him, the way his exhales stir the hair at my nape, the way my body fits against his like we were carved from the same piece of wood. Happiness swells so violently in my chest it aches.
Then reality crashes in like a fist to the ribs.
Somewhere, in a closet I haven’t opened in weeks, a wedding dress hangs untouched. Somewhere, a man I swore forever to is waking up alone, and I’m here—naked, tangled in sheets that smell like someone else, with a contentment so deep it terrifies me.
Guilt coils hot and suffocating in my throat. I press a hand to my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape—something between a sob and a scream. My pulse thrums too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to claw its way out of my skin.
Lachlan shifts behind me, his arm tightening reflexively. “Mm. You okay?” His voice is rough with sleep, lips brushing the curve of my shoulder.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
He hums, nuzzling into my hair. “Don’t.” His thumb strokes idle circles over my hipbone, slow and reassuring. “Not yet.”
But the weight of it settles over me anyway, pressing down until I can barely breathe. The bed feels too small suddenly, the room too close.
What the hell did we just do?