Chapter 5 – Demi
I wake to the sound of nothing.
The fire has died down to embers, casting a faint orange glow that barely reaches the edges of the room. Everything is dark and warm and close.
And Joseph is right there.
I feel him before I'm fully awake—the heat of his body beside me, the way the mattress dips slightly toward his weight, the rhythm of his breathing slow and steady in the darkness.
We're not touching, but we might as well be. The space between us is so small it feels like it has its own gravity, pulling me toward him even as I lie perfectly still.
My heart is already beating faster.
I remember the almost-kiss. The way he leaned in, the way his eyes dropped to my mouth, the way the air between us felt charged. And then the way he pulled back, like he was stopping himself from falling off a cliff.
I saw the conflict in his face, the want and the fear tangled up so tightly he couldn't separate them.
But I'm not afraid.
I know what I want. I've known since the moment I walked into this cabin and found him standing there, all broad shoulders and rough edges and careful restraint.
I've known since he cooked for me, since he wrapped me in his shirt, since he told me about the woman who left and the solitude he chose instead of risking that pain again.
I want him.
Not just his body, though God, I want that too.
I want him to want me back. Fully. Without hesitation. Without fear.
I shift slightly under the blankets, testing the silence, and my hand brushes against his arm. His skin is warm, the muscle beneath firm and unyielding. Even that small contact sends a shiver through me.
He doesn't move, but his breathing changes. Deepens. Catches for just a second before evening out again.
He's awake.
"Joseph," I whisper, my voice barely audible in the darkness.
For a moment, he doesn't respond. Then I hear him exhale, long and slow, like he's been holding his breath.
"Yes."
His voice is rough, low, like gravel and honey, and it makes my stomach tighten.
I move closer, just a fraction, and my hand slides down his arm to his wrist, then to his hand. His fingers are warm, calloused, the skin rough. When I lace mine through his, he doesn't pull away. Instead, his fingers tighten around mine, holding on like he's anchoring himself.
"I'm awake," I say softly.
"I know."
"Are you okay?"
He's quiet for a beat, and I can feel the tension radiating from him, the way his body is coiled tight like a spring about to release. "I don't know."
I shift onto my side, facing him even though I can barely see him in the dim light. The outline of his face is barely visible, all hard lines and shadows, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze on me.
He turns his head, and I can just make out the shape of his face, the shadow of his beard, the glint of his eyes catching what little light there is from the dying embers. They're darker than usual, almost black in the dim glow, and there's something raw in them.
His breathing is uneven now.
I move closer, closing the space between us until I can feel his warm breath on my face, until our bodies are almost touching under the blankets.
"Please," I whisper. "Let me in."
For one terrible second, I think he's going to pull away again.
But then he kisses me.
It's like something inside him breaks, and suddenly his mouth is on mine, hot and hungry. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and he kisses me like he's been starving for this, like he's been holding back for too long and can't do it anymore.
I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands finding his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the rapid thud of his heartbeat under my palm.
He tastes like want and restraint finally giving way, a hint of mint from toothpaste and something darker, more primal. His tongue slides against mine, claiming, exploring, and I open for him completely.
Our bodies press together, and I feel the heat of him through the layers of clothing still between us. His hand slides down my back, pulling me closer, and I shift my leg over his hip, wanting to feel more of him, needing the contact like air.
The friction of our bodies moving together sends sparks of heat through me, settling low in my belly and spreading outward.
"Demi," he breathes against my mouth, pulling back just enough to speak, and it sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once.
"Don't stop," I whisper back, my lips brushing his with every word. "Please don't stop."
He groans a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine, and then his hands are moving, sliding under my shirt, finding bare skin.
His palms are rough and warm, calloused in all the right places, and when they settle on my waist, I arch into his touch, wanting more. His thumbs brush against the soft skin of my stomach, and I feel goosebumps rise in their wake.
I'm bolder now, driven by the need to show him what I want. My hand moves down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, feeling each muscle tense under my touch, and lower, until I'm cupping him through his boxers.
He's hard, straining against the fabric, thick and hot even through the thin material, and when I squeeze gently, he makes a sound that's half moan, half growl.
"Jesus, Demi—"
I don't let him finish. I slip my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping my fingers around him, and the feel of him pulsing in my hand makes my mouth water.
He's so hard it's almost intimidating, the skin silky-smooth over rigid heat, and I can feel him throb against my palm with every beat of his heart.
He curses under his breath, his hips jerking slightly into my touch, and I start to stroke him slowly, exploring the length of him, the weight of him in my palm, the way he responds to every movement.
His breathing turns ragged, and he buries his face in my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, sending shivers racing down my spine.
"You're going to kill me," he mutters, his voice rough and strained, his breath hot against my throat.
"Good," I whisper back, and I feel him smile against my skin, the curve of his lips warm and slightly damp.
Then his hand is moving, sliding down my stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of my leggings and panties. His fingers find me, and I gasp at the contact, at the way he touches me like he's learning me, like he's memorizing every response.
He traces my folds slowly, teasingly, and I'm already so wet that his fingers glide easily.
He starts slow, tracing, teasing, his fingers circling but never quite giving me what I need, until I'm squirming against him, desperate for more. My hips rock against his hand, seeking friction, seeking relief, and I hear him chuckle darkly against my neck.
"Impatient," he murmurs, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Joseph, please—"
Then he slides one finger inside me, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.
He moves slowly at first, pumping in and out, his thumb finding my clit and circling in a rhythm that makes my breath come in short gasps.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough with wonder. "You're so wet."
I can't form words. I can only move with him, my hips rocking against his hand as he pumps his finger in and out, slow at first, then faster.
Just when I think I can't take anymore, he adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me, and I moan into his shoulder.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice dark and encouraging, vibrating through his chest. "Let me hear you."
I'm beyond embarrassed, beyond self-conscious. I'm just feeling his fingers inside me, and the pleasure building and building until I'm trembling against him. My hands clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin through his shirt, and I hear him hiss in response.
But I want more.
I pull back slightly, my hand still wrapped around him, stroking in time with his fingers inside me, and I look up at his face in the darkness. His jaw is tight, his eyes half-closed, and he looks like he's barely holding on. "I want to taste you."
He goes still, his breath catching, his fingers pausing inside me. "Demi—"
"Please."
For a moment, he just stares at me, and I can see the conflict in his face, want warring with restraint.
Then something shifts, and he nods slowly, pulling his fingers from me. I immediately miss the fullness, but the anticipation of what's coming makes up for it.
I shift under the blankets, moving down his body until I'm between his legs. I pull his boxers down, freeing him, and even in the dim light I can see how hard he is, how much he wants this.
He's thick and long, the tip already glistening, and my mouth literally waters at the sight.
I lean forward and take him in my mouth, wrapping my lips around the head and swirling my tongue. The taste of salt and musk makes me moan around him, and I feel him jerk in response.
He makes a sound and his hand comes down to tangle in my hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needs to ground himself.
I start slow, taking him as deep as I can, my tongue sliding along the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs the length of him, tasting salt and skin and want.
Then I pull back, letting him slide from my lips with a wet sound, and spit on him, watching the saliva drip down his length before I take him deeper, faster, until he's groaning my name.
"Jesus, Demi—fuck—"
His hand tightens in my hair, guiding me now, and I let him, loving the way he loses control, the way his hips start to move, the way he hits the back of my throat and I take it, take all of him.
I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard, and use my hand to stroke what I can't fit in my mouth. His breathing is even more ragged now, harsh pants and low moans that make me feel powerful and desired.
"Spit on it again," he rasps, his voice strained and commanding, sending a thrill through me.
I do, pulling back and letting a long string of saliva drip onto him, watching it coat his length.