Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
brOCK
I t’s been a couple of days since I kissed Willow against her door, and I still can’t get the feel of her out of my head. The way her body fit perfectly against mine, the way she gasped my name, the way her eyes looked at me like I was the only thing in her world—it’s burned into my brain.
I’ve been keeping myself busy in the workshop, trying to channel the energy she stirs in me into something productive. But every time my phone buzzes with her name, I’m useless.
Today’s been quiet, though. Too quiet. I haven’t heard from her since this morning, and it’s gnawing at me. I know she’s busy running Sweetly Yours, probably up to her elbows in flour and sugar, but I still feel the pull to check in.
I grab my phone and send her a quick text.
Me: How’s my favorite baker doing?
The reply doesn’t come right away, and I try to focus on the coffee table I’m building, sanding down the edges until they’re smooth as silk. But it’s no use. My mind keeps drifting to her, to the way she laughed during dinner, to the softness of her lips, to the way she whispered, “You could stay.”
I didn’t stay. I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I wanted her too much. If I’d stayed, there wouldn’t have been any going back. And as much as I crave her, I want to do this right. I want her to know she’s not just a fleeting thought in my mind. She’s it.
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Willow: Exhausted. But I think I finally got the frosting on Mrs. Carter’s cake to behave. How about you?
Me: Just finished sanding a table. Now I’m trying to resist the urge to drive over there and make sure you’re taking care of yourself.
Willow: Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.
Me: I always worry about you.
I set the phone down and lean against the workbench, running a hand through my hair. It’s true—I do worry about her. Not because I don’t think she can handle herself, but because she means too damn much to me already.
I pick the phone back up and fire off another message before I can overthink it.
Me: Got plans tonight?
Willow: If you’re about to suggest something, the answer is probably yes.
Me: I was thinking dinner. My place. Something simple.
Willow: I can’t say no to food. What time?
Me: Five. And don’t bring anything except yourself.
I smile as her response comes through—just a simple “Deal” with a heart emoji—but it’s enough to set the tone for the rest of my day.
It’s not long before I’m tidying up the workshop, making sure everything looks good before I head home to get things ready. Cooking isn’t exactly my forte, but I can handle grilling some steaks and throwing together a decent salad.
When five rolls around, I’m standing in the kitchen, checking the time for the fifth time in as many minutes. Then I hear the knock.
I open the door, and there she is—standing on my porch, wrapped in a soft sweater and a smile that makes me forget how to breathe.
“Hey,” she says softly, her voice like music.
“Hey, baby,” I reply, stepping aside to let her in. The word slips out naturally, like it’s always belonged to her.
As she walks past me, her shoulder brushing mine, I know one thing for sure: tonight is going to be special.
She steps into my place, and for a moment, I just stand there, watching her take it all in. My cabin isn’t much—a small living room with a wood-burning stove, an open kitchen, and just enough space for me to call it home. But seeing Willow here, standing in the soft glow of the warm light, makes it feel like it’s exactly where she belongs.
“It smells good,” she says, her eyes flicking to the kitchen where the steaks are resting on the counter.
I smile, closing the door behind her. “Hope you like steak. If not, I’ve got a backup plan, but I’m warning you—it’s frozen pizza.”
She laughs, the sound warm and easy, and shakes her head. “Steak sounds perfect.”
“Good,” I say, nodding toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab you something to drink. Wine okay?”
“Perfect,” she says again, slipping out of her sweater and draping it over the back of the couch before sitting down.
I pour two glasses of red wine, bringing them over to the coffee table. When I sit down beside her, the warmth of her presence pulls me in like a magnet.
“You’ve got a cozy place,” she says, looking around. Her gaze lingers on a pair of shelves I built last year, and I can’t help but feel a little pride when she runs her fingers along the edge.
“Thanks. It’s nothing fancy, but it does the job.”
“It’s very... you,” she says, smiling at me over the rim of her glass.
I raise an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“Warm, solid, and built to last,” she teases.
“Solid, huh?” I laugh, leaning back against the couch. “I’ll take it.”
The food comes together easily. I grill the steaks, throw together a salad, and plate everything while Willow sits at the counter, sipping her wine and chatting about her day. She tells me about a mix-up at the bakery with an overly picky customer, and I can’t help but admire the way she lights up, even when she’s venting.
“Here you go,” I say, setting a plate in front of her once we move to the dining table.
She cuts into her steak, her eyes widening after the first bite. “Okay, this is really good,” she says, pointing her fork at me.
“I’m full of surprises,” I reply, smiling.
We eat, talking easily between bites, and by the time the plates are cleared, I can’t remember the last time I felt this... content.
Back on the couch after dinner, the atmosphere shifts. It’s quieter now, more intimate. The wine is almost gone, and the fire in the stove crackles softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Willow sits close, her legs tucked beneath her, and when she leans into me, resting her head against my shoulder, I feel my whole chest tighten.
“This is nice,” she murmurs, her voice soft.
“Yeah,” I say, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “It is.”
Her hand rests on my arm, her fingers tracing small, idle patterns against my skin. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes me want to pull her closer, to hold her and never let go.
“I like this,” she says after a while.
“What?” I ask, my voice low.
“This,” she says, tilting her head to look up at me. “Being here with you.”
I don’t say anything at first, letting the weight of her words settle over me. Then, slowly, I reach out, cupping her face in my hand.
“I like it too,” I say, my thumb brushing along her jaw. “A little too much, maybe.”
She tilts her head, looking up at me with those honey-brown eyes, and I’m a goner. “You’re staring,” she teases, her voice soft and playful.
“Can you blame me?” I murmur, my voice low and rough.
Her cheeks flush, but instead of looking away, she shifts, moving onto my lap, her legs straddling my hips.
“Willow,” I rasp, the weight of her against me sending heat coursing through my body.
She cups my face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over my jaw, and her lips curve into a small, shy smile. “I want this, Brock,” she whispers, her voice steady despite the blush creeping up her neck.
Before I can respond, she leans in and kisses me.
Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against mine with a heat that makes my head spin. I grip her waist, pulling her closer, and the feel of her body pressed against mine is enough to make me forget everything but her.
When she starts to move, rolling her hips against me, the thin barrier of her panties and my jeans does nothing to dull the friction. It’s maddening, and it’s not enough.
With a growl, I grip her hips and roll us over, pinning her beneath me on the couch.
She lets out a soft gasp as I settle between her spread thighs, her body arching slightly against me. Her dress has ridden up in the motion, revealing her creamy thighs, and I have to take a second to catch my breath.
Jesus, she’s beautiful.
Her chest rises and falls quickly, and she looks up at me, her lips swollen from our kiss and her eyes wide, her pupils dark.
I lower myself, brushing my lips against hers again, my hands finding their way to her thighs. I start to rub slow, circles up and down her legs, my palms gliding over her warm, smooth skin.
Her breath hitches, and I can feel the tension in her body as I inch closer to where I know she wants me.
“Brock,” she whispers, her voice trembling with need.
The sound of her saying my name like that—so breathless, so full of want—nearly undoes me. My fingers dip closer to the heat between her thighs, teasing, and her hips lift slightly, seeking more contact.
“You’re incredible,” I murmur against her lips, my voice rough with restraint. “Do you know that?”
Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging in slightly, and the way her body responds to me—soft, eager, and full of trust—makes me want to give her everything she’s ever wanted.
I kiss her deeply, letting my hands roam higher, inching closer to her pussy.
Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine, filled with a mix of longing and hesitation. “You’re sure?” I murmur, my voice rough with desire.
“Yes,” she whispers, the sound almost swallowed by the crackle of the fire.
My hand slips under the hem of her dress, pushing it up to reveal her panties, soft and delicate. I glide my thumb over the fabric, feeling the heat radiating from her core, and she lets out a soft, needy whimper. The sound nearly undoes me.
I slip her panties to the side, exposing her wet pussy to the cool air. She gasps as I trace my finger along her wet folds.
“Brock,” she whispers, her voice trembling, filled with need.
I lean down, capturing her lips again, deepening the kiss as I circle her clit, teasing her. Her hips rock against my hand, seeking more, and I finally press a finger into her, feeling her walls clench around me.
She moans into my mouth, her hands gripping my shoulders as I move inside her, slow and deliberate. Each stroke sends a shiver through her body, her breath hitching as I add a second finger, curling them to find that spot that makes her gasp. Her nails dig into my back, her body arching against me as the tension in her builds.
“You feel amazing,” I murmur against her lips, my voice low and thick. “So perfect.”
Her response is a soft cry as her body tightens around my fingers, her thighs trembling. I move my thumb to her clit, circling it gently, and her hips buck against my hand. The sight of her, lost in pleasure, is enough to make me forget everything but her.
She grips me tighter, her head falling back as she comes, her soft cries filling the room. I don’t stop, drawing out her pleasure until she’s trembling beneath me, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
When her body finally relaxes, I pull my hand away, brushing her hair from her face and kissing her forehead. Her eyes flutter open, hazy with satisfaction, and she smiles up at me, her cheeks flushed.
I withdraw my fingers slowly, savoring the feel of her warmth and softness, and as she watches me, her lips parted, I lift my hand to my mouth. My eyes remain locked on hers as I press the fingers that were inside her to my lips, tasting her on my skin.
The rich, intimate flavor of her sends a jolt of heat through me, my body tightening with renewed hunger. Her breath catches as she watches, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. “Brock,” she whispers, her voice trembling, but whether from embarrassment or excitement, I can’t tell—and it doesn’t matter.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur, letting her taste linger on my tongue as I lean closer, brushing my lips against hers. She lets out a soft, surprised gasp, her hands finding their way to my chest.
Her lips part under mine, and I deepen the kiss, letting her taste herself on my mouth. It’s a slow, deliberate connection—one that makes her whimper softly, her body shifting closer, seeking more.
I press my forehead to hers when I finally pull back, my hand cupping her cheek. “I’ll never get enough of you,” I say, my voice low, barely a whisper.
Her lashes flutter, and she smiles shyly, biting her lip as her fingers trace the line of my jaw. “Then don’t,” she says softly, the blush on her cheeks only making her more irresistible.