5. Fox
CHAPTER FIVE
FOX
T he next morning, I'm up before dawn, throwing clothes into an overnight bag and checking my phone every five minutes like a teenager waiting for prom photos to drop.
I keep my expectations firmly in check—this is just a casual visit, no pressure—but my hands still shake slightly as I lock up the cabin and load my truck.
The drive to Seattle passes in a blur of pine trees and coastal views, broken only by the occasional rest stop. I send Prue a quick text when I cross the city limits, and her address pops up on my phone moments later, along with a message: *Door's unlocked. Let yourself in.*
Her place is in one of those old Seattle neighborhoods where character trumps convenience—narrow streets lined with quirky bungalows nestled between towering evergreens.
I find her house easily, a mid-century gem with clean lines and large windows.
The landscaping is immaculate, not a leaf out of place.
It's so perfectly Prue that I have to smile.
I hesitate at the front door, suddenly nervous. What if this was a mistake? What if the chemistry we had in Cedar Bay doesn't translate to her world? But before second-guessing myself further, I turn the handle and step inside.
The interior is even more impressive than the exterior—it's an open concept with warm wood tones, carefully curated furniture, and pops of color in just the right places. It's stylish and comfortable, like something from a design magazine that people want to live in.
"Prue?" I call out, setting my bag down.
"In the kitchen!"
I follow her voice through the living room, past a wall of built-in bookshelves, and find her at a sleek kitchen island, arranging fresh berries on two plates of what looks like homemade waffles.
She's wearing tiny denim shorts and a loose white T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. There isn't a hint of makeup—just Prue—and she's breathtaking.
"You made breakfast," I say, suddenly aware of my hunger.
"Don't look so surprised." She glances up with a smile that makes my chest tighten. "I occasionally cook for guests who drive three hours to see me."
"Is that a common occurrence?"
"You're the first." She slides a plate toward me. "Coffee's in the pot."
I pour us both a cup and join her at the island. There's an easy silence as we eat, broken only by the occasional compliment on the food. I watch her movements, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear and the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrates on cutting her waffle.
"So," she says finally, setting down her fork. "You drove all this way. What's your plan?"
I take a sip of coffee to hide my smile. "I thought maybe you could show me around. I've never really explored Seattle properly."
"Tourist stuff? Space Needle, Pike Place?"
"Whatever you want. It's your city."
She studies me momentarily, those bright blue eyes assessing every inch. "You're leaving it up to me?"
"I'm at your mercy," I confirm, and the slight darkening of her eyes tells me she likes that idea.
"Dangerous words, Carmichael." She stands, collecting our plates. "Let me clean up and change, then we'll head out."
I offer to help with the dishes, but she waves me off. "Guest privileges. This time only."
While she disappears into what I assume is her bedroom, I wander around the living room, taking in the details.
Her bookshelves are crammed with design books, novels, and framed photos—mostly of her and Cilla, a few with an older couple I guess are their parents.
One shelf holds various design awards and a framed magazine article about her business.
"Snooping?" Her voice startles me.
I turn to find her leaning against the doorframe, now dressed in fitted jeans and a soft-looking sweater that hangs off one shoulder. She's added minimal makeup and twisted her hair into something more intentional.
"Admiring," I correct. "You've done well for yourself."
"I have," she agrees, without false modesty. "Ready to go?"
We spend the day doing exactly what she suggests—all the tourist spots I've never bothered to visit despite living just hours away.
We ride to the top of the Space Needle, wander through Pike Place Market where she knows all the vendors by name, and eat lunch at a tiny hole-in-the-wall place with the best seafood I've ever tasted.
Throughout it all, we talk—about everything and nothing—Prue's business challenges, my construction projects, books we've read, movies we've seen.
I learn that she hates olives but loves pickles, that she breaks out in hives if she eats strawberries, and that she once spent a summer backpacking through Europe alone after college.
I find myself telling her things I rarely share—about my time in Afghanistan, my parents, and the nightmares that sometimes still wake me. She listens without judgment and asks questions without pushing too hard.
By late afternoon, we're walking along the waterfront, shoulders bumping occasionally, hands brushing without quite holding. The sexual tension that's been simmering all day ratchets up with each accidental touch.
"Should we head back?" she asks after a particularly lingering contact. Her voice has that slightly husky quality I remember from our first night together.
"If you want," I say, trying to sound casual despite the heat building in my core.
The walk back to her place is filled with charged silence. We're barely through her front door before she turns to me, eyes dark with want.
"I've been thinking about you all week," she admits, stepping closer. "It's extremely annoying."
I laugh, relief and desire flooding through me. "Believe me, I know the feeling."
"This doesn't change anything," she warns, even as her hands rest on my chest. "I'm still not looking for?—"
"I know," I interrupt, cupping her face. "No expectations, remember?"
She nods, then rises on her tiptoes to press her lips to mine. The kiss starts gently but quickly ignites, weeks of text-message tension exploding into physical reality. Her hands tangle in my hair as mine slide down to grip her hips, pulling her flush against me.
"Bedroom," she gasps against my mouth. "Now."
I scoop her up without hesitation, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her down the hallway. She directs me between kisses—"Left, that door"—until we stumble into her bedroom, a serene space with a massive bed that becomes my immediate focus.
I lay her down gently, but she pulls me with her, unwilling to break contact. We kiss deeply, hands roaming, relearning each other's bodies in the afternoon, light streaming through her windows.
"Too many clothes," she murmurs, tugging at my shirt. I help her remove it, then return the favor with her sweater, leaving her in a simple black bra contrasting beautifully with her pale skin.
"You're gorgeous," I breathe, trailing kisses down her neck and collarbone.
"Less talking, more action," she demands, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
I inch down her writhing body, taking my sweet time despite her desperate bucks beneath me.
As I reach the edge of her jeans, my fingers graze the sensitive skin beneath, and I look up, hungry to see the plea in her eyes.
She nods, lifting her hips eagerly as I peel the denim down her trembling legs.
Her panties cling to her, damp and inviting.
"Take them off, Fox." She begs. I hook my fingers in the flimsy fabric, and she lifts her hips again, desperate for more. I rip them away, leaving her glistening and exposed.
I pause, taking in her scent and the sight of her, open and ready. "Please," she whimpers, her voice thick with lust.
Diving between her quivering thighs, I take my time and let her squirm and writhe. When I finally drag my tongue through her folds, she screams my name. Her fingers clench in my hair, holding me against her as she grinds against my mouth.
I take my time, savoring her reactions, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan. Her legs tremble as I bring her closer to the edge, her breathing growing more ragged with each passing moment.
"Don't stop," she pants, hips moving against my mouth. "Please, don't?—"
Her words shatter into a primal scream as ecstasy overtakes her, body convulsing and arching off the bed, her fingers gripping my hair with an intense, almost exquisite pain. I guide her through the waves of pleasure, softening my touch as her tremors gradually subside.
When she finally sinks into relaxation, I slide up to lie beside her, savoring the sight of her flushed, radiant face as she struggles to catch her breath.
"That was..." she begins, then releases a breathless, sensual laugh. "Wow."
"Yeah?" My voice drips with pride, basking in the aftermath of our shared indulgence.
She turns to face me, eyes sparkling. "Don't get cocky, Carmichael. We're just getting started."
Her hand slides down my chest toward the button of my jeans, and I know with absolute certainty that this weekend will be even better than I imagined.
"Is that a challenge?" I ask, catching her wrist just as her fingers reach the button on my jeans. My pulse hammers beneath her touch.
"Maybe." A wicked smile curves her lips. "You seem like a man who rises to challenges."
"Among other things," I murmur, and she laughs—that full-throated sound that expands something in my chest.
She wrestles her hand free and continues her downward exploration, popping the button on my jeans with practiced ease. "I want to see all of you," she says, suddenly serious. "No more waiting."
I help her remove my remaining clothes, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable under her appraising gaze. But the hunger in her eyes as she takes me in banishes any insecurity.
"Come here," I growl, pulling her back up my body until we're face to face again.
"Not yet," she protests, sliding back down. "My turn."
Before I can respond, her mouth is on me, warm and insistent. I groan, fisting the sheets to keep from grabbing her hair. The sight of her—this brilliant, beautiful woman—taking me apart with such obvious enjoyment is almost too much.
"Prue," I warn after a few minutes of exquisite torture. "If you keep that up, this will be over embarrassingly fast."
She releases me with a pop, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "We can't have that," she purrs, crawling back up my body like a predator. "Not when I have plans for you."
She straddles me, her body still flushed from her earlier climax, then sinks onto me slowly, both of us groaning as our bodies join. For a moment, she stays perfectly still, adjusting to the feeling, her eyes closed and lips parted. Then she moves, setting a rhythm that has me seeing stars.
I sit up, needing to be closer, to taste her skin. She gasps as the angle changes, her nails digging into my shoulders. We move together, finding a perfect rhythm that belies the newness between us.
"Fox," she moans, her movements becoming more erratic. "Oh god, Fox."
I slip a hand between us, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves, determined to feel her come apart around me.
She throws her head back, crying out as another orgasm rips through her, her inner muscles clenching around me so exquisitely that I follow her over the edge, burying my face in her neck as pleasure overwhelms me.
We collapse together onto the rumpled sheets, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. I expect Prue to move away, to reestablish some distance, but instead, she curls against my side, her head on my chest.
"That was..." she trails off.
"Yeah," I agree, stroking her back. "It was."
We lie in comfortable silence, the afternoon sun painting patterns across her bedroom walls. I know I should say something, but I'm afraid of breaking whatever spell has allowed her to stay in my arms.
"Hungry?" she asks finally, propping her chin on my chest to look at me.
I smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Starving."
"Good," she says, sitting up and stretching like a contented cat. "Because I know this amazing Thai place that delivers, and I have zero intention of putting on real clothes for the rest of the day."
"That sounds perfect," I say, watching as she slips out of bed and pulls on a robe.
"Plus," she adds, tossing me a wicked grin over her shoulder as she heads for the door, "we're going to need to refuel for round two."
As she disappears into the hallway, I fall back against the pillows, grinning like an idiot. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, or even what tonight will mean for us beyond the obvious pleasure. But for now, in this moment, I'm exactly where I want to be.
And maybe—just maybe—so is she.