5. Wynonna
five
Wynonna
I close the door to the spare room and lean against it, my heart still racing from that moment in the kitchen.
The look on Josiah's face when I took his finger into my mouth—surprise, heat, and something darker that made my stomach flip—plays on repeat in my mind.
I've never been so bold with a man before, but something about Josiah makes me braver than I've ever been.
For the first time since arriving, I feel certain he sees me as a woman, not just Frank Crow's little girl.
Night settles over the cabin as I change into the oversized t-shirt I sleep in.
Through the thin walls, I hear Josiah moving around, getting ready for bed himself.
The boards creak as he walks the hallway, pausing briefly outside my door before continuing to his room.
The small hesitation sends a thrill through me.
He's thinking about me too.
I slide beneath the quilt, but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. The memory of his large hand in mine, the taste of his skin on my tongue, the sharp intake of breath I'd drawn from him. It all swirls together, building a restless heat that makes it impossible to lie still.
What would it be like if he gave in to whatever's building between us? If he stopped fighting this pull we both clearly feel?
I close my eyes, imagining a future where he finally accepts what I've known since I was fifteen—that I belong with him. I picture us in this cabin, but not as tentative housemates. As husband and wife.
Our wedding would be small, just a few people from town at that little white church in Silver Ridge. I'd wear something simple but beautiful. And Josiah would look at me the way he did today in the kitchen, but without holding back. Without guilt or hesitation.
The thought sends a wave of heat through me. My fingers drift beneath the covers, tracing patterns along my stomach, edging lower. I know I shouldn't, the walls are thin, and Josiah's room is just down the hall, but the ache between my thighs has become impossible to ignore.
I bite my lip as my fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties, finding the slick heat there. A small gasp escapes me before I can stop it.
I imagine our wedding night, how gentle those rough, calloused hands would be as they undressed me. How his gray eyes would darken as he saw me fully for the first time. The weight of his body over mine, pressing me into this very mattress.
Would he be gentle? Or would that control he keeps so carefully in check finally break?
My fingers move faster as the fantasy takes shape. Josiah, unleashed. His large hands gripping my hips, his mouth claiming mine. The hardness I glimpsed in his expression when I sucked his finger fully realized as he finally takes what we both want.
Heat builds low in my belly, my breath coming in shortened gasps that I muffle against the pillow. In my mind, it's his fingers, not mine, creating this exquisite pressure. His breath hot against my ear, telling me I'm his. That I've always been his.
The tension coils tighter, threatening to snap. I imagine him above me, inside me, making me completely his. My back arches as the fantasy overtakes me, pleasure crashing through my body in waves that leave me trembling and breathless.
As reality slowly returns, guilt creeps in around the edges of lingering pleasure. I'm in his home, his guest room, fantasizing about him while he's just down the hall. It feels like crossing a line, even if he'll never know.
But that small hesitation outside my door—what if he does know? What if he hears me and recognizes the sound for what it is?
The thought should mortify me, but instead, it sends another jolt of heat through my oversensitive body.
I curl onto my side, pulling the quilt tight around me as my racing heart gradually slows. Tomorrow, I'll continue proving to Josiah that I belong here. That what's between us is worth exploring. That I'm a woman grown, not the child he remembers.
But for now, I drift toward sleep, sated and more determined than ever to make my fantasies reality.
Morning brings with it a sense of exposure I'm not prepared for. As if my nighttime activities are somehow written across my face for Josiah to read.
I dress carefully in jeans and a simple blouse, trying to look mature without seeming like I'm trying too hard. My reflection in the small mirror shows cheeks still flushed with the memory of last night's fantasy. There's no way he could know, but I can barely meet my own eyes, let alone his.
When I finally venture to the kitchen, Josiah is already there, coffee brewed, eggs and bacon sizzling in a cast-iron skillet. His back is to me, shoulders broad beneath his flannel shirt, and the sight sends my mind straight back to last night's imaginings.
"Morning," I manage, voice coming out huskier than intended.
He turns, and for a second, I see a heat that wasn't there yesterday before his usual stoic mask slides back into place.
"Sleep well?" he asks, turning back to the stove.
"Fine," I lie, unable to look at him directly as I pour myself coffee. "You?"
"Well enough."
An awkward silence falls between us, thick with unspoken tension. I focus on my coffee, avoiding his gaze even as I feel his eyes on me.
"You're quiet this morning," he observes, setting a plate of eggs before me.
"Just thinking," I reply, still not meeting his eyes.
"About?"
About you, I want to say. About your hands on my body. About what it would feel like to be yours completely.
"Home," I say instead. "Manitoba, I mean. Tying up loose ends."
He nods slowly, studying me with an intensity that makes me wonder if he can somehow see right through me, through my flimsy excuse to the truth beneath.
"Still planning to stay, then?" There's something in his voice I can't quite read.
Now I look up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Yes. If you'll let me."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite softening, but a subtle change nonetheless. "Got plenty of work to do around here. Could use the help."
It's not a declaration of love, not even close. But it's permission to stay, at least for now. And after last night's heated imaginings, it's enough to send my heartbeat racing.
"I'm stronger than I look," I say, finding my footing again. "And I'm a quick learner."
"I've noticed."
Does he know? Could he have heard me last night? The thought should mortify me, but instead, a strange sort of power unfurls in my chest. If he heard and he's still asking me to stay...
"What needs doing today?" I ask, forcing my voice to sound normal despite the riot of butterflies in my stomach.
"Roof on the greenhouse needs patching before the next rain," he says, all business now. "Can show you how, if you're interested."
"I'd like that."
As we finish breakfast and clear the dishes, a new understanding seems to hover between us. Nothing spoken, nothing acknowledged, but present nonetheless. Like we've moved past one barrier only to find another, more intimate one waiting.
One step at a time. He's given me permission to stay, to help. To prove myself.
The rest will come. I'm certain of it now.
I just have to be patient a little longer.