6. Wesley
Wesley
Turns out, Maribel isn’t as shy as I originally thought. The more time we spend together, the more natural she acts.
I can’t lie, having Maribel boss me around, making sure I keep my hands to myself, makes me want her that much more.
Ever since she barely batted an eye at everything, I’ve wanted to kiss her.
Hell, I’ve wanted to marry her. Is that crazy? Absolutely. Then again, I don’t meet a woman who makes me this happy every day.
After making me eat more than enough of my fill and enjoying every precious minute of cleaning up the mess, I’ve coax her to sit with me in my living room before a thought can manifest to suggest she leave.
I offer an entire L-shaped couch to her, and she claims the seat right next to mine. Right where she belongs. I have to fight the urge to tug her closer, right to the best place for my hands to reach. Somehow, I continue carrying the patience of a saint.
Every second that passes, I feel that patience cracking. I’m a good man, but everyone has a limit. I’m starting to reach mine.
The fire casts a low, shifting glow across the room, and Maribel is a warm weight against my side on the couch as she purposefully nudges closer.
Another pesky change I’ve had to adjust to is how cold this mountain is. However, when I’m not alone, I hardly notice the chill in the air. I’ve mastered building fires, down to the point of impressing.
We’ve been talking for an hour, maybe more, the conversation drifting from nothing to everything. Her laughter at something I said still hangs in the air between us, a soft, pleasing sound.
It’s hard to believe she’s still here. A part of me convinced myself that she would’ve booked it the moment I muttered my name. Yet, she stayed for me.
God, I want to touch her. How long does she plan on keeping her distance? I ate her food, I enjoyed it, surprisingly. Isn’t that enough?
I watch her gaze drift around the room, taking in the stark lines, the curated art, the absolute absence of anything personal. Her eyes hold a question she is too polite to ask.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet. “This cabin. I’ve thought so, too. Many times.”
She turns her head, her expression softening. “It’s beautiful. It’s just… very grand for one person.”
“It’s a fortress,” I correct, the word tasting like ash. “Designed to keep the world out. I didn’t think I’d be able to succeed so well. Even coming from a man who is used to success.”
Trying to joke, the words leave my lips relatively flat.
Her brow furrows, not in pity, but in understanding. “It must be lonely.”
Her compassion hits me hard in the chest. I want to deflect it, to rebuild the walls I’ve grown used to, but I am tired of being alone.
The only thing I want in this moment is the woman looking at me as if she can see the hollow spaces inside. The one who sees me as the man I truly am.
I’m a fool to think I could hold on for much longer.
“Come here,” I say, the command quiet but absolute. My fingers drum over my thigh because there’s no place I want her more.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise, but she doesn’t hesitate. She uncurls herself, and in the firelight, she moves with a quiet grace.
One moment she’s listening to the logs crackle, and the next, she’s swinging a leg over my thighs, settling herself firmly in my lap. The boldness of it, the sheer lack of hesitation, sends a wave of heat straight through me. The fine wool of her sweater brushes against the bare skin of my wrist.
My hands come up like they’ve got a mind of their own.
One finds the delicious curve of her waist, steadying her as she claims the space she’s so willingly taken.
The other cups her jaw, my thumb stroking the impossibly soft skin just below her cheekbone.
Her eyes are wide, brown pools in the firelight, watching me, waiting.
“I should tell you about something I find interesting,” I say, my voice lower than I intended, roughened by the sudden, pounding rhythm of my own blood.
“You hit it right on the nose with this next round of pastries. I despise sugar. Sweet things hurt my teeth and make my stomach clench up in the worst kind of ways.”
I let the words hang there, my thumb drifting down, tracing the full, perfect bow of her bottom lip. A nostalgic taste, sharp and vivid, floods my senses.
“But that night,” I continue, holding her gaze, ensuring she feels the weight of every syllable. “That night we kissed… for the first time in my life, I enjoyed something sweet. I’ve been thinking about it since.”
Her breath hitches. As if she wants to continue to torture me, her teeth catch her bottom lip. Biting down hard, the soft sound that escapes is all it takes for my body to betray me. My cock doesn’t stand a chance.
A pretty woman on my lap is all it takes for the blood to rush south.
My thumb presses gently against her lip, parting them just a fraction. Her tongue flicks out, and I have to swallow down the mixture of a groan and a curse.
“The problem with a single taste,” I murmur, leaning in until our breaths tangle, “is that it creates a craving. And I find, Maribel, that now I’ve gotten my fill of everything else… I’m craving my dessert.”
Her eyes grow big at that before she innocently scooches closer. The friction is the most perfect torture.
For a moment, she simply looks at me, her gaze searching mine in the flickering firelight. Then, she eliminates the last inch between us.
Her kiss is hesitant at first, a soft, questioning press of her lips against mine. It’s a ghost of the kiss I remember, and the memory slams into me with the force of a physical blow. My hand tightens on her waist, pulling her flush against me, and a low sound rumbles in my chest.
That single sound makes her hesitation dissolve.
The kiss deepens, turning bolder, hungrier.
It’s like she’s needed this as much as I have.
Her hands come up to frame my face, her fingers sliding into my hair.
It’s my turn to be undone. The careful control I wear like a second skin begins to fray at the edges as her tongue pushes past my lips, filling me with her addicting sweetness.
My hand slides from her waist, my fingers skimming up the soft wool of her sweater until I find the hem. I slip beneath it, my palm flattening against the warm, smooth skin of her lower back. She gasps into my mouth, a tiny, sharp intake of air, and her back arches into my touch.
“Your hands are cold,” she whispers against my lips, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts, giving me better access.
“Is that a complaint?” I murmur, my voice uneven as I splay my fingers, learning the delicate arch of her spine. How many times have I tried to picture what she looked like beneath those aprons? My fingers are pointing out every dip, every soft spot.
“No. It just… tickles.” Instead of giggling, she sighs as her thighs squeeze around my hips.
I’m cursing softly under my breath as my palms glide higher, over the incredible softness of her skin, and discover nothing but bare, smooth flesh. No bra. No barriers. Nothing in my way at all.
“Tell me, Maribel,” I breathe, my thumb sweeping across in a slow circle over her rib cage, just beneath the swell of her breast. “Is it ticklish here?”
I don’t wait for an answer. I shift my hand, capturing the full, perfect weight of her breast in my palm. Her breath catches, her lips parting on a silent gasp. My thumb finds her nipple, already a tight, pebbled peak against my skin. I roll it gently, then pinch, just enough to make her gasp.
She is so devastatingly responsive. Every flick of my tongue, every roll of my thumb, earns a shudder, a gasp swallowed by my mouth.
Her hips roll against me in a slow, torturous grind, the friction against the denim a sweet, maddening agony.
My cock is rigid, straining against my jeans, and she’s only making it worse, this beautiful, relentless pressure.
I’ve never been happier to suffer.
I pour everything into that kiss—weeks of wanting, the stark loneliness on this mountain, the sheer, blinding need she ignites in me. The world narrows to the taste of her, the feel of her, the little sounds she makes in the back of her throat.
It’s that loss of control, the feeling of the ground falling away, that finally breaks the spell.
I tear my mouth from hers, my breath sawing from my lungs. I can’t remember the last time someone has left me this wrecked without lifting a damn finger.
I have to stop. Now. Or I will lose the last shred of my control right here on this couch.
Her breath tickles my lips where her teeth just nipped. “You’re not done yet, are you?”
Fuck. I won’t be done until she’s moaned my name enough times to leave her voice hoarse.
Pulling back enough to look over her shoulder, I follow her gaze to see that she’s appreciating the faux rug I have close to the fireplace. Hopefully, she doesn’t look close enough to see the singe marks left behind, a lesson learned in my first week up here.
“How about you take me there?” Blushing so pretty, she chews on her swollen bottom lip. “Looks more comfortable.”
Whatever she wants, I make a promise to myself that I’ll give it to her.