5. Five
Five
Junie
By the time Weston walks me up to my front door, I'm soaked, half-dizzy from kissing, and dangerously close to forgetting every single reason I was supposed to stay mad at him.
The storm passed eventually, leaving behind a world washed clean and glistening. We hiked back to his truck in companionable silence, hands brushing occasionally, both of us smiling like teenagers who'd gotten away with something. The drive home was quiet too, but not uncomfortable—a different kind of quiet than before. A quiet filled with possibility rather than tension.
Now we stand on my porch, the setting sun painting everything in warm golden light. I should say goodnight. I should thank him for the donation to Roots & Wings. I should do anything except what I actually do.
I unlock the door with shaking hands.
"Come in," I say, barely above a whisper, not trusting my voice with anything louder.
He hesitates for half a second—just long enough to prove he's a decent guy—before stepping inside, closing the distance between us like he's been waiting for an invitation he wasn't sure would come.
The air between us is thick with anticipation. My damp sweater clings to my skin, and droplets of water still cling to his dark hair. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, then turns to face me with fire in his eyes.
"Junie," he says, voice low, rough with restraint, "tell me no if you don't want this."
I walk straight into him, eliminating the last few inches between us.
"No."
He blinks, confusion clouding his features. "No?"
"No, I don't want to tell you no," I clarify, feeling a smile tug at my lips.
He lets out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then he's kissing me again—even deeper this time, hungry and reverent all at once. His hands slide into my damp hair, tilting my head back to give him better access as his tongue explores my mouth with thorough precision.
I feel the solid wall of his chest against mine, feel his hands sliding down my sides, patient and sure, like he's learning me by touch alone. His fingers find the hem of my sweater, hesitating there, asking permission without words.
"Yes," I breathe against his mouth, and when he lifts my sweater, I raise my arms obediently. It hits the floor with a wet plop, forgotten.
His gaze drops, and for a second, I freeze.
I'm not the kind of woman who graces magazine covers. I've got curves and softness and hips that don't lie—but I've also got insecurities that whisper when the lights are low. What if I'm not what he expected? What if all this buildup leads to disappointment?
But Weston?
He looks at me like I'm the Sistine Chapel and he's seeing it for the first time.
"God, you're beautiful," he says, his voice all gravel and reverence. His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the soft skin just below my ribs. "You have no idea what you do to me."
My breath catches as he reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with one smooth motion. It slips down my arms, and then his hands are on me—gentle, then not so gentle. Cupping, caressing, thumbs brushing over nipples that harden at his touch.
He lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, sucking, teasing until my knees threaten to give out. My fingers dig into his shoulders for support, and I arch into him, shameless and aching.
"I've thought about this," he murmurs against my skin, moving to pay equal attention to my other breast. "Dreamed about you."
"Show me," I whisper, tugging at his still-damp shirt.
That's all it takes.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carries me down the hall. I expect him to ask which door leads to my bedroom, but he doesn't hesitate, finding it unerringly—as if he's mapped out my entire home in his mind.
The way he looks at me—it's not just lust. It's something deeper. Something that scares me almost as much as it thrills me. Like I'm a mystery he's been dying to solve, a case he can't close.
When he lays me down on my quilt-covered bed, he takes his time undressing me, kissing every inch he reveals. The curve of my hip. The soft flesh of my belly. The inside of my thigh where a pulse beats wild and urgent. And when it's his turn, I sit up, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, needing to feel the heat of him. His body is everything I imagined on those nights when anger gave way to other emotions—hard muscle, golden skin, and that little trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
When he's finally naked above me, I take a moment just to look. To appreciate the broad shoulders, the taut abdomen, the proud evidence of exactly how much he wants me.
"You still sure?" he asks, even though he's already sliding a hand between my thighs, making me whimper at the first touch against where I'm already slick and ready.
"Yes," I breathe, spreading my legs wider in unmistakable invitation. "God, yes."
What follows isn't gentle.
It's raw, needy, built from two years of unresolved tension and a whole lot of craving. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that walks the exquisite line between pleasure and almost-pain. But it's also careful—his hands never stop touching, grounding, reminding me that I'm safe, that this is real. That I'm with a man who sees me—really sees me—not just as the angry environmentalist or the town troublemaker, but as a woman worth wanting.
When I finally fall apart beneath him, clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash through me, it's not just from the way he moves inside me or the clever circles his thumb makes against my most sensitive spot—it's from the way he whispers my name like a prayer, like something sacred.
And when we're tangled together afterward, bodies still humming, sheets damp with sweat and rain and release, he presses a kiss to my forehead and says, "I meant what I said, Junie."
"About dreaming of me?" I ask, drawing lazy patterns on his chest, marveling at how comfortable this feels. How right.
"About wanting more than one night."
I close my eyes and let myself hope. Just a little.