3. Skye
Chapter three
Skye
Iwake to the smell of coffee, and for one disoriented moment, I don't remember where I am. The bed is softer than my own, the pillow smells like cedar, and golden light filters through unfamiliar curtains.
Then it rushes back. The cabin. The deadline. Hunter. The kiss.
My fingers touch my lips before I can stop myself, heat flooding my pussy.
I sit up, and my body registers its complaints with aching shoulders and a crick in my neck.
But underneath all of that, an unfamiliar sensation lives.
I feel rested. Not completely, but better than I have in months.
The panic that usually has me reaching for my phone before my eyes are fully open is quieter this morning, muted, like someone turned down the volume while I slept.
Movement in the main room makes me still. The soft clink of a mug. The creak of floorboards under heavy footsteps. Hunter's still here.
I catch my reflection in the small mirror as I get out of bed, my hair wavier than usual from yesterday's bun, ink still streaking my jaw, wrinkled pajamas. I should care. Should be mortified. But when I ease the bedroom door open, the sight drives every self-conscious thought from my head.
Hunter's at the worktable, assembling planners.
The workspace looks even more organized than last night.
Materials are staged in perfect sequence.
There are at least twenty more completed orders than when I went to bed.
His large hands move with surprising deftness, slotting insert pages into custom covers with the same confidence he carries everywhere with him.
He worked while I slept. For hours.
The realization cracks me open. I press my palm against the doorframe to hold myself upright. I'm not used to waking up and finding the world didn't fall apart just because I stopped holding it together.
"You're awake." His voice is rougher than usual, unused. He doesn't turn around, just keeps working. "Coffee's ready. Should still be hot."
I cross the room on unsteady legs, hyperaware of every step that brings me closer to him. The cabin feels smaller in daylight, more intimate. Outside the windows, weak morning sunlight streams through the trees.
"You didn't sleep." Not a question.
"I slept enough." He finishes the planner, adds it to the stack, and reaches for the next set of materials without breaking rhythm. "You needed it more."
"Hunter—"
"How do you feel?" He turns to look at me, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my pulse jump. He's assessing me, cataloging signs of exhaustion or stress. "Better?"
"Yes. But you can't just—"
"Sit down. Eat. Then we'll do another session before the next break." He nods toward the kitchenette, where fresh fruit, yogurt, cheese, and a bakery box labeled "Sadie’s Place Bakery" await. "Don't argue. You need fuel."
My mouth opens to protest, but what comes out is "Where did this come from?"
"I headed out earlier, brought supplies." He's already back to work. "Can't have you running on empty."
I stare at the food, at the care he took. The words won't come. Instead, I pour coffee into my favorite mug from home, which means he unpacked my boxes. The cinnamon rolls in the bakery box are still warm when I tear off a piece. It tastes like something I’d never have the time to make on my own.
"How many did you finish?" I ask past the tightness in my throat.
"Twenty-three. All standard orders. Left the custom ones for you." He glances up, satisfaction flickering across his face when he sees me eating. "We're at sixty-six total. Ahead of schedule."
Ahead of schedule. Two words I haven't applied to my business in months. The relief makes me dizzy.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"You already thanked me."
"I know. But—"
"Then don't." He sets down what’s in his hand and crosses the cabin to me.
Suddenly, he's right there, close enough that I smell clean sweat and something uniquely him, and my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
"You don't need to figure out how to thank me or repay me or whatever you're working out in that head of yours.
You just need to let me help. Can you do that? "
I look up at him, at the steadiness in his expression. My hands shake slightly as I set down my coffee mug. "I'm not good at letting people help."
"I noticed." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "But you're doing it anyway. That's what matters."
"Yeah," I hear myself say.
He guides me to the worktable. I show him the custom orders, the specific color schemes, hand-lettered covers, specialty accessories. He watches with intense focus, asking questions that show he understands the mechanics and the why behind each choice.
"Your customers care about the details," he observes.
"They're buying the feeling of having their lives together, not just buying a simple planner." I smooth my hand over a finished piece, tracing the gold foil lettering. "It’s the feeling of being organized and capable and in control."
"It's not an illusion if it helps them function better." He's watching me instead of the planner now. "Same reason people hire me to build systems. They need someone to create order so they can focus on what matters."
"Is that what you're doing? Creating order? Building systems?"
"For you? Yes." He doesn't look away, doesn't soften it. "You're good at what you do. But you're trying to do everything alone, and that's not sustainable. You need structure. Support. Someone to make sure you're not burning yourself out."
The words should make me defensive. Instead, they feel like care. He's choosing this. Choosing me. The certainty in his movements says he decided hours ago.
We work for the next two hours, and it's different from yesterday's frantic assembly.
Hunter enforces a rhythm of forty-five minutes of focused work, then a ten-minute break where he makes me stand, stretch, drink water, and look at something other than planner materials.
At first, I resist, convinced that the breaks waste time.
By the third cycle, I notice the difference.
My hands are steadier. My mistakes decrease. The work flows.
He works beside me, still taking the standard orders while I handle the custom pieces. The cabin fills with the soft sounds of materials sliding, accessories snapping into place, packaging rustling. Outside the windows, the day brightens, sunlight burning off the last storm clouds.
During one break, he disappears outside and returns with firewood.
He builds up the fire in the wood stove, and soon the cabin is warm enough that I push up my sleeves.
I watch the play of muscle under his flannel shirt, the economical grace of his movements, and feel heat flood my pussy again.
There’s been an awareness building inside me since the moment he walked through the door yesterday.
"You're staring," he says without turning around.
My pussy tightens. "You're nice to look at."
He glances over his shoulder, heat in his eyes. "Feeling's mutual." My heart flutters, and heat rises in my chest.
"Break," Hunter says when we've completed another thirty-two orders. The progress is staggering. He guides me to the couch with a hand at my back. The touch sends sparks up my spine. When I sit, he settles closely beside me, thighs pressing together.
He laces his fingers through mine. "You're not doing this alone anymore," he says quietly.
The words crack me open. I'm not used to the messy, exhausted reality underneath the competent fa?ade being seen. Instead of being repelled, he's choosing to help.
I curl into his side, my head on his shoulder. His arm comes around me, solid and sure, and I let myself rest without guilt.
When I stir, he helps me to my feet. "Better?"
"Yeah."
When he drops his materials and turns to me, there's intention in every line of his body.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I cross to him. He frames my face with both hands. "You with me?"
"Yes."
His mouth claims mine, deep and unhurried, hunger finally unleashed.
His palms lock at my waist, then slide lower as his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my hips. He guides me back until the couch cushions press against my thighs. I sink down. He follows, stepping between my spread knees. The shift in height sends liquid heat rushing straight to my pussy.
His lips drag from my mouth along my jaw, down the sensitive column of my throat. I tilt my head, exposing more skin. My hands fist the front of his shirt and tug him closer.
"Skye." The gravel in his voice scrapes hot over my pulse point. "I need to taste every inch of you. I want you to be mine. Let me have you."
Since yesterday, I’ve accepted his care in a hundred small ways already. “Yes,” I whisper.
"My mouth is going to devour you." He pulls back enough for our eyes to lock, pupils blown with raw need. "Spread those pretty thighs and let me worship what belongs to me."
The command coils in my pussy. I nod. My throat feels too tight for words.
His hands push under my shirt, rough, warm palms skimming my sides. "Arms up, babe."
I lift my arms, and he slips my shirt off, tossing it away. The sudden rush of cool air hits my skin. His gaze rakes over my full breasts, nipples already pebbled hard.
He palms their weight, lifting and squeezing with just enough pressure to make me gasp. His thumbs drag slow circles over the stiff peaks. Each pass sends sharp sparks of pleasure arrowing straight to my clit. My back arches, pushing them harder into his hands.
"Look at these gorgeous tits." His breath fans hot across my cleavage. "So soft and heavy, nipples begging for my tongue."
He unhooks my bra and slides the straps down my arms. The fabric falls away, leaving me exposed and aching.
He stares with open hunger on his face. Then his mouth descends.
His lips close around one tight nipple, and wet heat engulfs me.
His tongue flicks fast, swirls, and sucks hard enough to pull a moan from my chest while his teeth graze the sensitive bud.
He tugs gently, releases, and sucks again.
The wet pull echoes straight into my pussy, which clenches around nothing.
I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there.
He switches to the other breast, lavishing the same attention with suction stronger now, tongue lashing the peak while his hand kneads the neglected one.
He pinches the wet nipple between thumb and finger and rolls it as the pleasure borders on pain. It’s perfect.
My hips rock against the couch seeking friction, needing more.
His free hand trails down my stomach, popping the button on my jeans. "Lift those gorgeous hips for me."
I brace my feet, raising my hips. He yanks my jeans and soaked underwear down my legs, and I kick them aside. I shiver as my pussy is exposed. His palms immediately spread my thighs wide, pushing my knees toward my chest. The couch cushions dip under the shift.
"Lie all the way back." His rough command is laced with want.
I sink against the cushions and stare at the ceiling beams as my heart slams against my ribs. My pulse throbs in my clit.
His hands stroke up my inner thighs as his thumbs brush the crease where my leg meets my body. He’s so close and not close enough.
"Such a pretty, dripping pussy." His voice drops lower. "Already glistening for my mouth."
He leans in, breath hot against my pussy. The first broad stroke of his tongue parts me, and he laps in broad slicks from entrance to clit. He’s agonizingly slow and thorough. My hips buck toward him, and he grips me tighter, pinning me open and exposing me to his mouth.
He licks again, deeper this time, with his tongue flat and wide. It circles my swollen clit with exactly enough firm pressure as he sucks my clit between his lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the room. Each pull sends jolts of heat through my pussy. My walls flutter, aching to be filled.
Two thick fingers press at my entrance, then slide in and out easily, slick with my arousal. They stretch me, fucking me, curling and stroking that spot inside with knowing expertise. They move in and out in a steady rhythm that matches his tongue.
Pleasure coils tighter inside, hot and relentless. My thighs tremble against his shoulders.
"Hunter." The word breaks hoarse.
He growls against my clit. The vibration shoots straight through me. His fingers fuck me faster as his tongue flicks rapidly over my clit. His wet suction increases, messy and devouring.
"Come on my tongue, Skye. Let me feel your pussy squeeze my fingers while you fall apart."
The orgasm hits like a freight train on command.
My back bows off the couch as my thighs clamp around his head.
A raw cry tears from my throat as waves of pleasure crash through me.
My inner walls pulse hard around his fingers, clenching and releasing.
He doesn't stop, licking me through every spasm with his tongue, gentler now but still drawing it out until my legs twitch.
Until oversensitivity makes me whimper and push weakly at his head.
He presses one last open-mouthed kiss to my throbbing clit. Then to the inside of each trembling thigh. His lips and chin shine with my release. His eyes are dark and satisfied.
He rises, gathers me against his chest, and pulls me into his lap as he wraps his strong arms around me.
One hand strokes slowly down my spine while the other reaches past me for the water bottle on the side table.
I take a long drink as the cool water quenches my thirst. He asks no questions, places no demands on me.
We sit in quiet understanding of exactly what my body needed.
He watches me drink with the same attention to detail he had with the planners, making sure I finish the water before he's satisfied.
"Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder.
"You're welcome." His arms band around me. "Rest a little longer. Then we'll finish the work."
My muscles go slack as I lean into his chest, my hands finding the firm line of his shoulders. The heavy internal weight of maintaining every moving part alone finally shifts. He remains steady against me, absorbing the pressure of my exhaustion until the need to be the anchor disappears.
The deadline still looms. The orders still wait. But right now, wrapped in his arms with the golden afternoon light pouring through the windows, I let myself believe that maybe I don't have to do this alone.
That maybe I never did.