Chapter 8
GIDEON
Elias had pulled it from the depths of that endless garage—a masterpiece of engineering, matte black with red accents that caught the moonlight just enough to hint at the power humming inside.
Over two hundred horsepower, lightweight as a feather compared to the beasts I'd ridden in the field, but built for precision and speed.
It suited me down to the bone: silent when it needed to be, explosive when pushed.
The wind whipped past, carrying the salt of the marsh and the faint echo of the ocean beyond the dunes. Charleston faded in the mirrors, Dominion Hall's opulence already feeling like a dream I hadn't asked for.
I eased off the throttle as the Bradford Inn came into view, its faded blue silhouette rising against the dark like a weary sentinel. No lights in the windows, no glow from the porch. The place was asleep, shutters drawn tight against the breeze that rustled the sea oats.
Disappointment settled in my chest, heavier than it had any right to be.
I'd pictured Hazel still up—maybe in the foyer with her notebook, scratching out lists under the chandelier's fractured light, or on the porch breathing in the night like she was trying to make sense of it.
But the inn stood quiet, only a faint gleam from what might've been Maude's apartment out back.
I killed the engine, the sudden silence rushing in thick and complete.
Swinging off the bike, I wheeled it to the side of the house, leaning it careful against a column so the kickstand wouldn't sink into the soft sand. Boots crunched on the gravel as I headed for the front door. It gave with a gentle push, the bell above tinkling soft, almost apologetic.
The foyer smelled the same—lemon polish layered over salt air, with a lingering trace of dinner: shrimp and rice, her plate across from mine, half-eaten while those green eyes flicked up to meet mine too often.
I moved through the shadows, pack slung easy over one shoulder, up the stairs that creaked no matter how deliberately I placed each step.
The hallway stretched dim and narrow, moonlight spilling through a high window at the far end to paint silver edges on the wallpaper vines. Her door was there, at the opposite end from mine. I paused outside it, the wood cool under my palm as I rested it flat against the panel.
Knock. Just once.
Or hell, break it down—splinter the frame, step inside, find her in the dark and see if that spark from dinner ignited into something we couldn't walk away from. The thought surged hot and unbidden, my knuckles whitening against the grain.
No. Couldn't. She was the owner here, this her world, me just a guest with orders I hadn't even begun to understand. One wall away, and already she had me unraveling.
I forced my hand down, stepped back, and let the silence swallow the urge.
My own door opened quiet. I dropped the pack by the dresser and flicked on the lamp, its soft yellow glow chasing the shadows into the corners.
The room felt smaller now, simpler: the bed with its faded quilt, the wooden chair in the corner, the window cracked open to let in the low hum of the marsh.
I headed to the en-suite bath, trying to shake her from my head with routine.
Brushed my teeth slow, the mint sharp on my tongue, staring at my reflection in the mirror—beard a little wild from the ride, eyes shadowed deeper than the flight alone could account for.
Prepped for bed next: unpacked the pack methodical, clothes folded neat on the chair, boots lined up by the door like soldiers at rest. Stripped down to my boxer briefs, the cotton cool against heated skin.
A second thought crept in as I stood there, the air thick with salt and something restless.
Why bother?
I shucked the briefs, too, let them drop, and climbed naked into the sheets.
The fabric rasped soft against me, a reminder of how long it'd been since anything had touched like this—intentional, unhurried.
The bed creaked as I settled back, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling where cracks spidered like veins in old marble.
A couple creaky walls separated me from her.
That's all. Close enough to hear a sigh if the night was still, far enough to keep the line intact.
Why her?
Why now?
I'd crossed paths with women in worse places—dusty bars on base, fleeting nights in villages where tomorrow wasn't promised—and never once let it linger.
But Hazel ... was it the hair, those wild red curls that escaped her bun like they refused to be tamed? The eyes, green and piercing, shifting like forest light? The body, curves that promised yield under all that control?
I couldn't pin it, not exactly. She was more than parts—a storm contained in precision, a puzzle that begged solving. The inn amplified it, its sagging beams and waiting breath mirroring something in her story, in mine.
Before the thought fully formed, my hand was moving, wrapping around my cock—already thick and heavy from my thoughts, from her. Engorged now, pulsing in my grip as I stroked once, slow, the friction igniting a low fire in my veins.
The fantasy bloomed unbidden, vivid as if she'd slipped through the wall herself.
Hazel, standing at the foot of the bed, moonlight spilling over her skin. That T-shirt clinging damp from the day's work, jeans gone, leaving her bare and unapologetic. Her eyes locked on mine, green darkening with want as she crawled up the mattress, the dip pulling me toward her.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she murmured, voice like smoke over water, her hand covering mine—small but sure, guiding the stroke. "Like this. Slow. Let me watch."
I followed in the dream, pace deliberate, the slide building heat that coiled tight in my gut.
Beautiful—her flush rising, breath quickening as she leaned in, beard brushing her cheek when she nuzzled my neck. Graphic too: her fingers tracing the ridge along my length, thumb swirling the bead of pre-come at the tip, spreading it slick.
"That's it," she whispered, lips grazing my ear. "Feel how hard you are for me."
My hips lifted involuntary, free hand fisting the sheet as she shifted, straddling my thigh—the heat of her pressing down, wet and ready.
"You do this to me," she said, rocking once, the friction electric through us both. Her voice turned commanding, that order she craved bleeding into desire. "Faster now. For me."
I obeyed, strokes rougher, the pressure mounting relentless.
She leaned closer, breasts brushing my chest through the thin shirt, nipples hard points. Moonlight carving shadows on her curves, arching as she ground against me. Nails raking down my abs, leaving faint trails I'd feel tomorrow.
"Imagine inside me," she breathed, hand squeezing with mine. "Tight. Hot. You'd stretch me perfect."
The coil snapped taut. She sensed it, eyes flashing.
"Come, Gideon," the command soft, but unbreakable. "Now. Let go."
I obeyed, come spilling hot over my fist in thick pulses, body arching off the bed as pleasure ripped through—deep, consuming. The room blurred, breath ragged in the aftermath, the fantasy dissolving slow like mist at dawn. Heart thundering against ribs.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the truth settling heavy: A couple walls away, and she'd claimed me without ever crossing the imaginary line.