7. Chapter 7 Daisy
Chapter 7: Daisy
I 've been rearranging the same stack of chairs for the past ten minutes, making room for Marcus to repair any of my furniture. I am aware of Marcus watching me. He thinks he's being stealthy, but I can feel those grey eyes burning into me every time I bend over.
That's why I wore the jean shorts.
"Are you going to lurk there all night," I say without looking up, "or actually help me move this furniture?"
"I’m assessing the space." His deep voice does wonders for my nether region.
I glance over my shoulder, catching him definitely not assessing the space. "And how's the view?"
He scowls, but I don't miss how his eyes drag over my legs. I may have borrowed one of his old flannel shirts I found in storage, rolling the sleeves and tying it at my waist. The way his jaw ticked when he saw me in it was worth every second of searching.
"Cluttered," he growls. "You're going to need to clear at least twenty square feet to work on these pieces properly."
"Good thing I have a big, strong mountain man to help me then."
The temperature in the room seems to spike.
Don’t touch the mountain man Daisy. Make him come to you.
"Tell me about when you made these pieces,” I ask, something so I can get my thoughts together.
"I’d rather hear about why you're really here." He moves to the antique dining table, his large hands skimming over the surface. Those fingers should be illegal. "This is a long way from Seattle."
"Keeping tabs on me?"
"Small town. People talk."
"People talk," I echo, watching him work. "But not about you. Why is that?"
His shoulders bunch under his thermal shirt. He turns away, but not before I catch him scowl.
"Look at me."
"We're here to work."
"No, we're here because you've been sneaking in at night to check on these pieces for weeks." I move closer, breathing in his scent. "Because you care about them. Just like you care about those dogs you pretend not to want."
He goes still as I reach his side. Heat radiates off his body, making it hard to think straight.
“The Trading Post's always carried Steel pieces." he says finally. "Been that way since my grandfather's time.”
My heart skips. "Your family built them?" I touch the table's surface reverently.
"Started with my grandfather. Taught my father, who taught me."
"And now?"
"Now I work alone."
His voice softened, watching my fingers trace the patterns in the wood. The carvings tell stories of bears and wolves running through forests, mountains rising from clouds. Wild things lurking in the grain.
"You tell stories in the wood," I murmur as I step even closer, so his hip grazes against me.
His breath catches as I step closer. "Yes.”
"I see them. The wild things. The scars. The beauty." I look up at him, pulse racing. "The darkness too."
His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. Eve
"You see too much." His voice is rough.
I lean into his touch as he cups my cheek. My eyes drift half-closed at the sensation of those callused fingers on my skin. "Or maybe just enough."
"Why did you really buy this place?" he asks.
"I needed a change." I turn my face into his palm, breathing him in. "I had a fancy marketing job in Seattle. Corner office, expense account, the works. But it felt?"
"Empty?"
"Yeah." I meet his eyes, drowning in stormy grey. "Then I took a wrong turn on a road trip. Ended up here. Saw this place."
"And?"
"And it felt like home." I gesture at the moonlit room. "Including these pieces, the history, the stories. Even before I knew they were yours."
I step closer, eliminating the last space between us. Now we were pressed against each other and I could feel his growing need. "Why do you really come here at night?"
"To check the humidity." His free hand finds my hip, sending electricity through me. "Wood's sensitive to changes."
I rise on tiptoes, bringing my mouth inches from his. "Try again."
His thumb brushes my bottom lip, making me shiver. God, I want those hands everywhere.
"Because it's quiet," he admits. "Peaceful. No one is staring."
"I'm staring." I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the muscles jump under my touch.
"You're different."
"Why?"
When he doesn't answer, I trace my fingers over his scars. They're smooth under my touch, a map of stories I want to learn. "Marcus. Why?"
He breaks.
His mouth crashes down on mine and my body screams, YES, this is what I've been waiting for. I moan as he backs me against the table, my hands fisting in his shirt. He tastes like coffee and wilderness and need.
I part my legs, letting him step between them. The angle brings his thigh against my core and I gasp at the friction. His hands slide under my shorts, rough palms on bare skin, and I'm on fire.
"Tell me to stop," he growls against my throat.
I arch into him. "Not a chance."
I roll my hips against his thigh, desperate for more contact. His mouth reclaims mine, hungry and deep, making me whimper.
"Daisy." His fingers skim my breast as I start to grind against his leg.
I don’t care that I’m shameless. I want and need him.
A bark splits the night. Someone walking their dog late. Marcus steps away, leaving me cold and aching.
"That's enough for tonight." His voice is harsh.
"Marcus." But he's already grabbing his jacket.
"I'll be back tomorrow. We'll start the restoration then."
"You're running away."
"I'm being smart." He backs toward the door. "This is a bad idea."
"No," I say softly. "This is the best idea either of us has had in a long time."
He disappears into the night, leaving me trembling and unfulfilled.
"Well," I tell the room, touching my tingling lips, "that was interesting."
My body's humming with need. The man kisses like he carves – all passion and barely leashed power. And those hands. Holy hell in a handbasket. They look magical.
A whine draws my attention to the door. Scout sits there, looking mighty pleased with himself.
"Did you follow him here?" I crouch to scratch his ears. "Sneaky boy."
He wags his tail, unrepentant.
"Yeah, I like him too." I sigh. "Even if he is stubborn as a mule."
Scout woofs softly in agreement.
"But that's okay." I stand, surveying the room. The table still needs clearing, and I have so much to finish. "I'm pretty stubborn myself."
Tomorrow he'll be back, and we'll do this dance again. Only next time, I won't let him run.