5. Elisa
five
Elisa
I wake up with a dull ache between my thighs and frustration humming through my veins. Last night by the fire—God, I've never been left so wound up and unsatisfied in my life. I press my face into the pillow and groan. Female blue balls are absolutely a thing, and I'm suffering from a severe case.
When the power came back on at the most inconvenient possible moment, we'd both just... stopped. Straightened our clothes. Pretended we could go back to normal after I'd felt him hard against my thigh, after his hands had been this close to being where I desperately wanted them.
Sleep had been nearly impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth on my skin again, his weight pressing me into the rug.
The buzz of my phone jolts me out of the memory. Victoria Harrington. Exactly who I don't want to deal with right now.
"Elisa, darling, I've been trying to reach you all night. This is completely unacceptable."
I close my eyes, counting to three. "I apologize, but as I mentioned, there's a severe blizzard—"
"I don't care if it's the apocalypse. I need the venue photos today. The Chapmans just announced their daughter's engagement, and if they secure Darkmore Lodge before us..."
For fifteen minutes, I let her complaints wash over me while my mind wanders back to Jace's hands on my body. By the time I hang up, my frustration has doubled.
After a quick shower, I dress in my last clean outfit—jeans and a sweater. The cabin is quiet when I emerge, with a note on the counter: Gone to check generator. Coffee made. Back soon.
My phone buzzes again. More clients, more demands. By the time Jace returns, stomping snow from his boots, I've fielded three calls and am ready to throw the device into a snowbank. I wish the service would cut out again.
"Everything okay?" he asks, eyeing my white-knuckled grip on the phone.
"Just clients who don't understand the concept of 'stranded in a blizzard.'" I set the phone down. "How's the generator?"
"Stable for now."
The silence that follows is loaded with awareness. Neither of us mentions what happened last night, but it hangs in the air between us.
"I need a distraction," I blurt out. "Something to do that isn't staring at this phone."
He studies me for a moment. "I was going to work in my shop for a while."
"Your workshop? Could I... see it?" The request surprises even me.
I follow him down a narrow staircase. When he pushes open a heavy wooden door, the scent hits me first—sawdust and varnish, earthy and clean.
The workshop takes my breath away. Tools hang in precise arrangements on the walls. Worktables occupy the center, each with projects in different stages of completion.
"This is incredible," I say, turning in a slow circle. "You built all this too?"
"The space, yeah. And most of the workbenches. This is where I make furniture and design equipment for the SAR team."
I run my fingers over a half-finished cabinet door. "It's beautiful. The craftsmanship is amazing."
"Thanks," he says, almost embarrassed. "It's just wood."
"It's art," I correct him. "The kind of detail my clients would pay thousands for."
"Want to try?" He gestures to a small piece of maple. "Could show you some basics."
"I'd probably just ruin it."
"It's just wood. More where that came from."
For the next hour, Jace guides me through sanding and shaping a simple coaster. His large hands occasionally cover mine to demonstrate, sending electricity through my body.
"Gentle pressure," he murmurs, standing close behind me. "Feel the grain."
The repetitive motion of sanding is strangely meditative. For once, my mind isn't racing through checklists and contingency plans.
"In my job, everything is about perfect execution," I admit. "I'm always planning for every possibility."
"Sounds exhausting," he says simply.
"It is. But necessary. One mistake can ruin an entire wedding."
He watches me work. "Wood's more forgiving than you might think. Mistakes become character. Sometimes the piece ends up better for it."
"Not in my world."
"You're not in your world right now," he says softly. "You're in mine."
I look up, our eyes locking. The intensity in his gaze makes my heart stutter.
"Show me how to use that," I say, nodding toward a hand plane.
As he demonstrates, I'm mesmerized by the wood curls peeling away. When I try, the plane catches, leaving an ugly gash across my piece.
"I told you I'd ruin it," I say, disappointed. "I can't even get this right."
To my surprise, Jace doesn't look concerned. "Look closer. See how the grain opens there? Some woodworkers spend hours trying to achieve what you just did accidentally."
I stare at the wood through his eyes. The "mistake" has a certain beauty, revealing layers that would have remained hidden.
"In woodworking, you work with what the material gives you," he continues, his voice low. "Fighting the grain only leads to frustration. The real skill is in adapting, seeing the potential in what others might consider flaws."
Our eyes meet again, and I know we're no longer talking about wood. The air between us thickens with tension.
"I think I'm fighting the grain right now," I whisper.
"How so?" He's standing so close now that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"By pretending I don't want to finish what we started last night."
His expression darkens, desire evident in the way his pupils dilate. "Elisa—"
"The power's on now. No interruptions." I take a deliberate step toward him, eliminating the last bit of space between us. "Unless you've changed your mind?"
"Far from it." His voice is a low rumble that I feel in my core. "But are you sure? This complicates things."
"Things are already complicated." I place my hands on his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm. "And I haven't been able to think straight since you kissed me."
That's all it takes. He backs me against the workbench, his mouth finding mine with an urgency that matches my own. This kiss is different from last night's—deeper, more deliberate, as if he's committing every second to memory.
My hands slide under his shirt, exploring the firm planes of his abdomen, the surprising softness of the hair on his chest. He groans when my nails scrape lightly across his skin.
"Been wanting to hear this all morning," he murmurs against my neck, his beard creating a delicious friction that makes me shiver. "The sounds you make when I touch you." As if to prove his point, his hand cups my breast through my sweater, his thumb circling until I gasp. "Like that."
I arch into his touch, desperate for more. "Jace, please—"
He lifts me onto the workbench, stepping between my legs as his hands push my sweater up. When his mouth replaces his fingers, hot and wet through the thin fabric of my bra, I cry out, threading my fingers through his hair to hold him there.
"Need to taste you," he growls, tugging my bra down to expose my breast. The contrast of the cool air and his hot mouth makes me gasp. “I’ve never seen such perfect tits.”
His tongue circles my nipple before he takes it between his teeth, the gentle pressure sending sparks of pleasure straight to my core. I'm making sounds I barely recognize as my own, my head falling back as he lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "Want to touch every inch of you."
His hands find the button of my jeans, looking up for permission. I nod frantically, beyond caring about anything except having his hands on me. He makes quick work of the zipper, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of my underwear.
When he touches me, we both groan.
"Christ, you're soaked," he says, his voice rough with desire. "Is this all for me, sweetheart?"
"Yes," I gasp as his fingers explore me with devastating precision. "Please don't stop this time."
"Not stopping," he promises, his eyes locked on mine as he slides one thick finger inside me. "Not until I feel you come apart."
His thumb circles my clit as his finger curls inside me, finding that perfect spot that makes my hips buck. "There it is," he murmurs, adding a second finger. "So responsive. So perfect."
The praise washes over me, heightening every sensation. I clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging in through his shirt as the pressure builds. "Jace, I need—"
"Tell me," he commands, his fingers never slowing. "Tell me what you need."
"More," I manage, beyond embarrassment. "Need you inside me."
His eyes darken further, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "You sure?"
"Yes," I breathe. "Please."
In one swift movement, he yanks my jeans and underwear down my legs. I kick them off, suddenly bare from the waist down on his saw-dust covered workbench, but there's no time for self-consciousness. Jace is already unfastening his own jeans, pushing them down just enough to free himself.
The sight of him, thick and hard and ready, makes my mouth go dry.
Then he's positioning himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. "Look at me," he says, waiting until our eyes meet. "Want to watch you take me."
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him forward. When he finally pushes inside, the stretch is exquisite, a delicious burning that has me gasping his name. He goes slowly at first, letting me adjust to his size, his hands gripping my hips with restrained strength.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groans, his voice strained. "So tight, so hot."
“Please fuck me with that big cock, Jace,” I beg. I want him hard and fast, desperate like we were last night.
He doesn't need to be told twice. His first thrust is measured, testing, but when I cry out in pleasure, something in him snaps. He grips my ankles, pushing them up and apart, opening me completely to him as he begins to move in earnest.
"Look at you," he growls, his eyes locked on where our bodies join. "Taking my cock so perfectly. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
The position is obscenely exposed, intensely vulnerable, and absolutely perfect. Each thrust hits exactly where I need him, driving me rapidly toward the edge. The workbench beneath me is solid, unmoving despite the force of his movements.
"Harder," I beg, beyond caring how desperate I sound. "Please, Jace."
He complies immediately, his hips snapping forward with new intensity. "Like this?" he demands, his voice rough with exertion. "This what you need, sweetheart?"
"Yes!" I cry out as he hits that perfect spot deep inside me. "Right there, don't stop!"
His grip on my ankles tightens as his pace increases, his powerful body working mine with single-minded focus. He's a man possessed, all restraint abandoned as he pounds into me. The sounds of our bodies meeting, slick and rhythmic, fill the workshop that now feels more like a fantasy world.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his eyes burning into mine. "Want to feel you come around my cock."
I obey without hesitation, my fingers finding my clit, already swollen and sensitive. The additional stimulation combined with his relentless thrusts quickly pushes me toward the precipice.
"That's it," he encourages, watching my face intently. "Let go for me, beautiful. Wanna feel you."
The pressure builds to an unbearable peak, and then I'm falling, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. My inner muscles clench around him, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.
"Fuck, Elisa," he gasps, his rhythm faltering as he loses control. He drives into me once more, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, his powerful body shuddering against mine. With a long gasp he fills me with his seed, hot and sticky.
Slowly, he lowers my legs, massaging my calves gently where they've tensed from being held up.
"You okay?" he asks softly, brushing my hair back from my face with unexpected tenderness.
I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet. I feel utterly transformed, undone and remade by what just happened between us.
My legs are like jelly, my body humming with pleasant aftershocks. When he pulls me against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me, I melt into the embrace.
We stay like that for several minutes, neither of us speaking, both processing what just happened. Eventually, the reality of being more than half-naked on a workbench asserts itself, and I laugh softly against his chest.
"What?" he asks, a smile in his voice.
"I'm never going to look at woodworking the same way again."
His laugh is deep and genuine, vibrating through his chest into mine. "Me neither. Might need to build a new workbench just for you."