Chapter 4
Calder
The tires hissed across wet gravel before crunching to a stop.
Rain ticked against the hood, soft and steady, as the engine fell quiet.
My place looked like it always did at night—half-lived in, half-forgotten.
One porch light burned out weeks ago, so only a dim glow from the kitchen window cut through the dark.
Paint peeling on the siding, wood porch bowed from too many winters.
A house that didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t.
She sat still beside me, eyes tracing the outline of the small structure. Her thumb worried the seam of her jeans. The heater hummed, filling the silence neither of us seemed ready to break.
“It’s not much,” I said. The words came rough. “Came with the divorce.”
Her faint laugh carried less humor than breath. “It’s quiet.”
“Too quiet.” I reached for the keys, metal clinking. “You don’t have to come in.”
She turned her head, face just visible in the dash glow. “I came this far.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I shifted, hand resting on the steering wheel. “You can change your mind. We don’t have to—”
She unbuckled, motion quick, decisive. The seat belt snapped back. Before I could finish the thought, she leaned across the console, fingers hooked in my shirt. Her eyes met mine—raw, searching.
“Stop asking,” she whispered.
Her mouth caught mine, urgent and warm, the kind of kiss that drags air out of your lungs and leaves something heavier behind.
The edge of the gearshift dug into my leg.
My hand found the back of her neck, her hair damp from the walk through rain.
She tasted faintly of whiskey and something colder—distance, maybe. Grief that hadn’t burned off yet.
The kiss slowed. She pulled away first, breath uneven. Neither of us moved completely back.
“You still want to go inside?” I asked.
She looked past me, through the windshield. My house loomed small, tired, but it was closed off from every set of curious eyes in that bar. That seemed enough.
Her nod was slight. “Yeah.”
I stepped out, the chill biting quick through my coat. Gravel shifted under boots. When I circled to her side, she was already standing, arms wrapped tight. The wind carried that faint scent of pine and oil from the garage. I didn’t reach for her hand. She followed me across the porch, anyway.
Inside, the floorboards creaked under our weight.
The house smelled like dust, coffee gone stale, and something faintly metallic from the still-drying hockey gear near the mudroom.
A single lamp threw amber light across the narrow living room—couch scarred with age, crooked frames on the wall, a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter.
No music. No sound besides our own breathing.
“Still not too late to back out,” I said quietly, more habit than warning.
She closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and met my eyes. “Would’ve backed out already if I wanted to.”
She studied me from across the room, her shoulders pressed to the door like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or bolt. Light from the lamp caught the edge of her jaw, that same stubborn tilt I’d seen in women who’d already decided they’d regret what came next.
“Why are you talking me out of it?” Her voice wavered, thin but steadying as she spoke. “Are you not… I mean, I can leave.”
I crossed the space before the thought finished forming in her eyes. My hands landed on her shoulders, firm enough to still the tremor running through her.
“I don’t want that,” I murmured.
Her pupils widened, and for a heartbeat neither of us breathed.
Then she was in my arms, all warmth and rising pulse.
The kiss started soft, then burned hotter, the kind that emptied your head and filled every quiet part you’d been avoiding.
She tasted like whiskey and nerves, and I didn’t pull back until she pressed her palms against my chest.
“I can tell you’re nervous,” I said, my thumb brushing her cheekbone.
She tried a laugh, but it broke halfway. “I told you, I don’t do this.”
“Then why—”
“I caught my boyfriend cheating on me.” The words came clipped, like she’d rehearsed them and hated every syllable. “I just want to feel…”
Her eyes dropped; she didn’t finish.
“I can do that,” I murmured. The words came out low, raw. “Guy’s a fucking moron for cheating on you.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t take long to see what’s right in front of me.”
I kept my gaze level, but inside everything was shifting—obedient restraint scraping against the years of want I’d buried under booze and fury.
She couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-two, maybe, too young for the broken pieces I carried, but that didn’t stop the way she felt under my hands.
Every angle of her pulled some forgotten instinct awake, needy and dangerous.
When she looked up again, I saw that same mix of hurt and defiance that used to stare back at me in locker room mirrors before a fight. She wanted pain to mean something. I knew that look.
Her fingers fisted in my shirt and drew me closer again. The lamp’s glow slid between us, catching in the line of her throat as she tilted toward me. Her breath shivered against my neck.
I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve given a damn about what tomorrow might look like. But I wasn’t a good man. Hadn’t been one in a long time. And after tasting her, all I wanted was to drown in her until the noise in my head shut off.
I kissed her hard, slow, taking what she offered and more. Her back hit the wall, and she didn’t flinch. She melted into me, answering each movement like we already knew the rhythm. For once, I wasn’t thinking about redemption or rules or second chances.
Just her. Just this. The one thing in years that felt real.
The wall dug into my shoulder blades, but I didn’t care. Her hands were under my shirt, nails scraping up my ribs, and every touch burned hotter than the last. I caught her wrist, not to stop her—just to feel the pulse hammering against my thumb.
“Bedroom’s back here,” I muttered against her mouth.
She didn’t answer, just let me pull her down the hall, our steps unsteady, clothes already half-undone.
The floorboards groaned under us, old and complaining, but neither of us slowed.
My fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back just enough to kiss the sharp line of her jaw. She gasped, and I swallowed the sound.
The bedroom door hit the wall with a thud.
The room was cold, the sheets probably still smelled like detergent and neglect, but none of that mattered.
She shoved me backward, and I let her, landing on the edge of the mattress with her straddling my lap.
Her thighs squeezed tight around mine, and I gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of her waist.
“You’re sure?” I asked, one last time, because something in me still remembered how to be decent.
She yanked her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. “Stop asking.”
The sight of her—skin flushed, hair messy, eyes dark with want—shoved the last of my restraint into the fire.
I pulled her down, crashing our mouths together again, and rolled us until she was beneath me.
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of my jeans, impatient, while I dragged my mouth down her throat, over her collarbone, tasting salt and something sweet beneath it.
She arched up, breath hitching as my hand found her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. “Fuck,” she whispered, and the sound went straight to my gut.
I stripped off my shirt, then hers, letting the fabric pool on the floor. Her skin was warm under my palms, smooth where mine was rough. She reached for my belt, but I caught her wrists, pinning them above her head.
“Not yet,” I growled.
Her lips parted, a silent challenge, and I took it. Kissed her again, harder this time, until she was gasping beneath me, until the only thing left was heat and need and the way her body moved against mine, like she was trying to crawl inside my skin.
Her pulse jumped under my lips, fast and wild, like a trapped bird. I dragged my mouth down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, the faintest hint of perfume—something floral, something her. My teeth grazed her collarbone, and she gasped, back arching off the bed.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I murmured against her skin.
Not just words. Truth. She was all sharp edges and softness, the kind of contradiction that made my hands shake.
My cock throbbed, heavy and aching, pressed against the rough denim of my jeans.
I hadn’t wanted anyone like this in years. Maybe never.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, nails scraping my scalp as I kissed lower, over the swell of her breasts. I took my time, teasing one nipple with my tongue before sucking it into my mouth. She whimpered, her body tightening beneath me, and I groaned in response, the vibration making her shudder.
“So responsive,” I growled, switching to the other breast, giving it the same attention. “Every little touch, and you fall apart for me.”
She didn’t answer, just made a broken sound, her hips lifting, seeking friction. I pinned her down with a hand on her stomach, holding her still as I worshipped her with my mouth. Her skin was hot, flushed, and I could feel the way her heart raced, like she was as desperate as I was.
I slid a hand down, fingers tracing the waistband of her jeans. “Lift your hips,” I ordered, voice rough.
She obeyed without hesitation, and I peeled the denim down her legs, tossing it aside. Her panties were next, nothing but a scrap of lace, and I hooked a finger under the fabric, dragging it down slow, savoring the way her breath hitched.
“Look at you,” I murmured, drinking in the sight of her—bare, trembling, mine for tonight. My cock pulsed, demanding, but I ignored it. This wasn’t about me. Not yet.