Chapter 4
Chapter Four
OWEN
Three days since I kissed Carmen Reyes in the cold behind the supply shed, and I've been a useless man ever since.
Can't fix the weatherstripping on cabin three without smelling vanilla on the wind.
Can't chop wood without hearing her laugh carry across the property from wherever she's working.
Can't sit at my kitchen table without staring at the chair she sat in that first night, eating stew with trembling hands, looking at me with those exhausted, beautiful brown eyes.
She's avoiding me. Politely, professionally, with the kind of careful distance that tells me she's thinking about it as much as I am.
We eat meals at the same table but she keeps the conversation to work.
What needs fixing. What supplies to order from Durango.
Whether the roof on cabin two will make it through December.
Her hands don't shake anymore. Noticed that yesterday.
Right now it's raining. Hard. The kind of mountain rain that turns the creek into a roar and makes the cabins smell like wet pine.
A guest was supposed to check into cabin one today but cancelled because Holloway Pass flooded.
That means no guests, no income, no distraction from the woman walking toward my front porch through the downpour wearing my jacket.
She still hasn't given it back.
"Pipe burst in cabin four." She's soaked. Dark hair plastered to her neck. The jacket hangs off her shoulders, drenched, but she's still wearing it. "Under the bathroom sink. The fitting I told you was wrong."
"The one my dad installed in '97."
"That's the one."
She's standing in my doorway dripping onto the floorboards, breathing hard from running through the rain, and her scrub top is wet enough that I can see the outline of her bra underneath. Dark. Lace, maybe.
Don't look. Don't.
"Got a shutoff valve under the access panel." Grabbing a towel from the hook by the door, I hand it to her. Our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away. "I'll go deal with it."
"Already shut it off." She towels her hair, her neck, the collar of my jacket. "Water's contained. Mopped it up with the spare linens from the closet. You'll need a new fitting, though. Half-inch copper, not the three-quarter that's in there."
A woman who knows pipe fittings.
"You an ER nurse or a plumber?"
"Twelve years in a hospital that was built in 1974. You learn to fix things or you drown." She drops the towel over the porch rail. Pushes wet hair off her face. "The rain's not stopping anytime soon."
"No."
"And cabin four's got no running water now."
"No."
"So I'm stranded in the main house with you."
The rain hammers the roof. Water sheets off the gutters. The whole world has narrowed to this porch, this doorway, this woman looking up at me with rain on her face.
"Come inside, Carmen."
She steps past me into the kitchen. The jacket drips on the floor. My jacket, on her body, soaked through, and the possessive satisfaction that rolls through my chest at the sight of her wrapped in my clothes is completely unreasonable.
"You want coffee?"
"God, yes."
The kitchen is warm from the woodstove. While the coffee brews, she peels off the jacket, hangs it on the back of a chair. Underneath, the scrub top clings. Full breasts, soft stomach, hips that curve into her jeans. She catches me looking. Doesn't look away.
"Owen."
"Carmen."
"We can't keep doing this."
Pouring two mugs, I set hers on the counter. Close enough that she has to reach past me to get it. Close enough that her arm brushes my chest.
"Doing what?"
"Pretending." She wraps both hands around the mug but doesn't drink. Steam curls between us. "You kiss me behind the shed and then we spend three days talking about roof shingles."
"You asked for space."
"No. I said this can't happen." She looks up at me over the rim. "That's not the same thing."
Something cracks open in my chest. The part of me that's been holding back for ten days, being careful, being steady, being the man who leaves soup on porches because touching her feels too dangerous.
"So what do you want?"
The mug hits the counter. She steps into me. Both hands flat on my chest, fingers curling into the thermal. Rain thunders on the roof. Her eyes are dark, wide, certain.
"You, Owen. I want you."
My hands are on her hips before the words finish leaving her mouth. Pulling her flush against me, I back her into the counter. Her gasp is hot against my throat. My mouth finds her neck, the soft skin below her ear, and the sound she makes when I suck there goes straight to my cock.
"Tell me where," I growl against her jaw.
"Bedroom. Now."
Lifting her off the ground is easy. She's soft and warm and her legs wrap around my waist, her mouth open on mine, kissing me deep while I carry her down the hallway. Her fingers grip my hair. Pull. The pain sparks down my spine.
The bedroom door bangs against the wall when I shoulder through it. Setting her on the edge of the bed, I pull the scrub top over her head. Dark blue lace bra. Full breasts spilling over the cups. My hands cover them, squeezing through the lace, thumbs finding her nipples already hard.
"You've been walking around my property in this." My voice is wrecked. "Under those thin scrub tops."
"Every single day."
Reaching behind her, I unclasp the bra. Let it fall. Her breasts are perfect. Heavy, dark nipples, soft skin that goosebumps under my palms when I cup them bare. Lowering my mouth, I pull one nipple between my lips, sucking hard enough to make her arch off the bed.
"Owen. Oh god."
Her hands tear at my thermal. Pulling it over my head, I drop it on the floor. Her fingers trace my chest, my stomach, the trail of hair below my navel. When she reaches my belt, I catch her wrist.
"Not yet."
Pushing her back on the bed, I unbutton her jeans. Pull them down her hips, her thighs, her ankles. Dark blue lace panties to match the bra. A wet spot at the center that makes my mouth water.
Kneeling between her legs, I press my mouth to her inner thigh. She shudders. My fingers hook the lace to the side and the sight of her pussy, wet, swollen, waiting, makes every rational thought leave my head.
The first stroke of my tongue pulls a moan out of her that echoes through the bedroom. She tastes clean. Sweet. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider. Tongue circling her clit, then flattening, then circling again. Learning what makes her gasp versus what makes her grip the sheets.
"Right there. Owen, right there, don't stop."
Not stopping. Not for anything. Her hips roll against my mouth. My fingers slide inside her, two at once, curling forward while my tongue works her clit. She's tight. Soaking. Clenching around my fingers with every stroke.
Her orgasm builds in the tension of her thighs. The hitch of her breath. Then she comes on my tongue, back arching, hands fisting the quilt, crying out loud enough that if there were guests in the cabins they'd hear her through the walls.
Good.
Standing, I strip off my jeans. Boxer briefs. Her eyes track down my body, land on my cock, hard and thick against my stomach. Her lips part.
"Nightstand," I tell her. "Top drawer."
She reaches back, finds the condom, tosses it to me. Rolls it on while she watches from the pillows with dark eyes and flushed skin, her breasts rising with every breath. Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine.
Settling between her thighs, I line up and push in slow. Inch by inch. Watching her face. Her eyes flutter shut. Mouth open. Hands gripping my shoulders.
"Look at me."
Brown eyes open. Lock on mine. I bottom out inside her and the sound she makes is something between a prayer and a curse. Tight. Hot. Perfect.
"You feel incredible." My forehead drops to hers. Pulling back, I thrust deep. Slow. Building a rhythm that has her nails digging into my back. "Fucking incredible, Carmen."
"Harder."
Harder. My hips snap forward. Her breasts bounce with each thrust. Reaching between us, I press my thumb to her clit, circling in time with my strokes. She wraps her legs higher around my waist, changing the angle, pulling me deeper.
"Come for me again." Rough. Demanding. My thumb pressing her clit while I drive into her. "Right now, Carmen. Let me feel it."
She shatters. Her pussy clenches around my cock so hard my vision blurs. The orgasm rolls through her in waves, pulling me over the edge with her. My hips stutter, bury deep, and I come with her name on my lips.
For a long time after, neither of us moves. My face is pressed into her neck. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. Rain hammering the roof above us. The woodstove cracking in the other room.
"Stay tonight." My mouth moves against her collarbone. "Not in cabin six. Here."
"Owen."
"Stay."
Her hand cups the back of my head. Fingers threading through my hair. Holding me against her. "Okay."
Later. Coffee reheated. Her in my thermal, legs bare, sitting cross-legged on my couch reading a book she found on my shelf. My mother's book. Something she picked up without asking, opened to the middle, started reading without ceremony.
The phone buzzes on the counter.
Mabel:
How's the rain treating you up there? Roads are washed out til morning.
That poor girl in cabin six must be cold. Hope someone's looking after her.
Tossing the phone face-down, I look at Carmen on my couch. She glances up from the book. "Who was that?"
"Nobody."
She smiles. Real. Slow. Sunrise after a long shift.
The developer called again yesterday. Left a voicemail with a number higher than the last one. Enough to solve everything.
Watching her turn the page in my mother's book, bare legs tucked beneath her, wearing my shirt in my house while the rain washes the mountain clean outside, I delete the voicemail without listening to it.