Chapter 28
CHAPTER 28
T he afternoon sun is blazing by the time we turn back toward the cabin, the creek glittering like molten gold under the heat. My waders are sticking to me, my shirt is damp, and my stomach’s been grumbling for the past hour—snack bars clearly didn’t cut it.
Gabe shrugs off his lack of a catch, throwing me a grin. “Trout hate this kind of heat. And y’know, all my hero moves untangling your line probably didn’t help.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Blame the rookie.”
As we trudge along the trail, the air starts to shift, growing heavier with humidity. A strange tension prickles along my arms, and when I glance at the sky, I see clouds piling up, dark and ominous on the horizon. Then, thunder cracks, loud enough to make me flinch.
What starts as a drizzle turns into a torrential downpour in seconds. Rain comes down in sheets, soaking us before we can even register it.
Gabe pulls his hat lower, water streaming down his face. “Go, go, go!” he yells, jogging ahead with his fishing rod pointed out in front of him.
I’m right behind him, laughing and gasping as the rain soaks through every layer of my clothes. Alberta weather in late June is no joke. By the time we make it to the porch, we’re both breathless, shaking with laughter, and completely drenched.
We slam the door shut behind us, the sound of rain muffled by the cabin walls. Droplets cling to us, to our hair, the chill of the storm still clinging to our skin. Water beads along his jaw, a stray drop trailing down the curve of his neck. He watches me watching him.
I clear my throat, wringing the rain from my hair in an attempt to shake the tension. “Well,” I say, a little breathless, “that was fun.”
Gabe smirks as he peels off his soaked waders and shirt, hanging them on a hook by the door. Droplets still cling to his skin as he steps past me, clad only in his boxers. He doesn’t hesitate, reaching into his bag and pulling out a pair of sweatpants.
“Hang yours up, too, before you drip all over the place. And the rest of your clothes, unless you want to stay wet all day.”
I nod, fumbling with the straps of my waders. They’re heavy with water, making a loud thud when I finally manage to peel them off and hang them next to his.
His eyes flick to my shirt, and he says, casually but firmly, “That too.”
“Right,” I mumble, grabbing the hem of my T-shirt. I yank it off quickly, forgetting for a moment what I’m wearing underneath—until I catch Gabe’s reaction. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens, and for a second, it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.
Oh, right. The black lace bra. The one I picked this morning for no logical reason, other than not having anything else clean or that wasn’t super unflattering. And now, it’s plastered to my skin, completely visible and leaving nothing to the imagination.
Gabe swallows hard and quickly looks away, and I catch the muscle in his jaw tick. My heart pounds as I cross my arms over my chest, heat flooding my face. The lace clings to me, rain-soaked and highlighting everything, including the telltale cold-induced tightness around my nipples that I know he noticed.
“Shower’s all yours if you want to warm up,” he says after a moment, his voice lower than usual. “I’ll, uh, get started on lunch.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice tight as I clutch my bag and head straight for the bathroom. I don’t look back, but I can feel the tension following me like a shadow.
The bathroom is small but clean, with a simple shower stall and a tiny sink. I crank the water on, and thankfully, the heater works. As the water climbs to a comforting warmth, I strip out of my remaining clothes—including my bra—and step under the spray. The hot water feels like a blessing, washing away the chill from the rain.
I lean against the shower wall, my mind wandering back to Gabe. The way he guided my casts earlier, his hands brushing against mine. The way he looked at me just now, unguarded and raw for that brief moment before he looked away. It’s like the tension has been building all day, tightening around us with every passing minute.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the present—only to realize there’s no soap in the shower. Great.
“Gabe!” I call out, trying to keep the edge of desperation out of my voice.
No answer.
I lean closer to the curtain, raising it a notch. “Gabe!”
Still nothing.
Rolling my eyes, I poke my head out past the edge of the shower curtain, water dripping down my neck. “You got soap in here?”
From the other side of the door, I finally hear his muffled reply. “Check my toiletry bag by the sink.”
Sure enough, there’s a small, zippered pouch sitting on the counter. I unzip it and—bingo—there it is: a light-green stub of Irish Spring, classic and unmistakably Gabe.
I grab the soap, ready to wash myself, but the second the scent of it hits me, my brain takes a sharp left turn. I picture Gabe with this very soap in his hands, back at camp in that makeshift shower. My mind conjures the image of him standing under a stream of water, rivulets tracing the sharp lines of his chest and cutting over the ridges of his abs. My fingers tighten around the bar as the scene sharpens: his hair dripping, his skin slick and glowing in the hazy golden light, every muscle flexing as he moves.
The soap glides over his chest, down his arms, then lower, skimming the deep cut of his hips. I imagine the low sound he’d make as the lather slips farther, following the path of that V that leads to his erection. My breath catches, and my skin prickles as the fantasy intensifies—his strong hands working the foam, muscles tensing, water cascading down every inch of him.
I bite my lip, my pulse racing, as my thoughts dive deeper into territory I should not be exploring. The warmth of the shower mixes with the heat swirling low in my belly, and for a moment, I let myself indulge in the image of him—wet, bare, and thoroughly, unapologetically masculine.
But then, a sudden knock from the other side of the door shatters the spell. My fantasy snaps like a rubber band, and I’m yanked back to reality. The soap slips from my fingers, clattering to the shower floor as I stand there, trying to get a grip on myself.
His voice cuts through the door. “Hey, you want mayo on your sandwich, or no?”
The timing couldn’t be worse—or better, depending on how you look at it.
I choke back a laugh, shaking my head, and yell back, “Uh… no mayo! Thanks!”
Eventually, the water turns lukewarm, so I shut it off and reach for a towel. My hand comes back with a teeny towel—definitely from back when he was a kid, considering it’s plastered with Transformers. “Oh, come on,” I groan, glaring at the pathetic excuse for a towel. “Gabe, do you have any actual towels out there?”
Silence.
Figures. He’s probably too busy in the kitchen to hear me.
Sighing, I wrap the towel around me, but it’s so small it barely covers my ass cheeks. I’m practically strangling it around my chest just to keep what little modesty I have left. Then, with my heart hammering, I crack open the bathroom door and peek out. The coast is clear.
I shuffle quickly to the adjacent bedroom, dragging my duffle bag behind me with one hand while holding the towel with the other. The space feels snug—cedar shiplap ceilings, a window framing tall pines—and, oh, a certain blond-haired man sitting casually on the edge of the queen bed in the centre.
My stomach drops. “Gabe!” I squeak, freezing mid-step.
He shoots upright, hands raised like he’s been caught red-handed. “Shit—sorry,” he mutters, his face pulling into a guilty half-grimace. “I thought you’d, uh, be dressed. I’ll… I’ll go.”
“No,” I blurt, my heart pounding in my chest as I clutch the towel tighter. “Stay.”
His eyes flick to mine, and for a second, he freezes. There’s a tension there, heavy and crackling, like he’s deciding if this is a line he should cross. I’m acutely aware of the heat in the room, the space between us, and the way his gaze darts to the bare skin I’m so desperately trying to keep covered.
He blows out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his damp curls. “I’ve been trying to play it cool, y’know?” he says, voice dipping lower, a little uneven. “But honestly? I’m losing my mind. Yesterday in the car, when I kissed you…” He trails off, his glacier-blue eyes locking on mine.
“Yeah,” I say softly, my voice barely audible over the rush of blood in my ears. I don’t dare look away, even as every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire. “You said some things are worth complicating.”
“I should’ve said something else.” He steps closer, his voice quieter now, more raw. “I wanted to see if there was something here—something worth complicating the summer for…” His hand lifts, brushing a stray drop of water from my collarbone, his thumb grazing my skin in a way that sends a shiver straight down my spine. “And now I know. Because I can’t stop thinking about you, Soleil.”
My mouth goes dry as I whisper, “And is it? Worth it, I mean? Because it feels like we’re almost past the point of no return.”
For a moment, time seems to freeze. His gaze holds mine, searing and unflinching, as if he’s daring me to ask what happens next. Memories flash through my mind—the kiss in the SUV, the playful banter, the way he’s looked at me all day like he’s barely holding himself back.
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he closes the distance, one hand finding the curve of my waist while the other cups my jaw, his thumb brushing the edge of my mouth. The heat of his touch spreads through me, leaving me breathless as his lips crash into mine.
It’s not gentle, not hesitant—this kiss is urgent, all-consuming, like the energy between us has been building to this moment all day. His palm presses into my back, pulling me closer, and my hands instinctively find their way to his shoulders, then his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath my fingertips.
I can’t think, can’t breathe. All I know is the feel of him—the strength in his touch, the low groan that rumbles in his chest when I press closer, the way he says my name, rough and desperate. “Soleil…” And if the firm press of Gabe’s erection against me is any indication, he has no intention of wanting to stop this anytime soon.
His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, then lower to my neck, each kiss leaving a trail of wet heat in its wake. When his hand grazes the edge of my towel, I freeze for half a second, but then I let out a shaky breath and loosen my grip.
The towel slips away, pooling around my feet on the cabin floor. I stand there, completely naked—hair damp, vulnerable—as he takes me in. But there’s no hesitation in his gaze, no scrutiny. Just heat. And somehow, that look doesn’t make me feel exposed. It makes me feel powerful. Like I’m the one holding all the control.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice rough, his gaze raking over me like he’s trying to commit every inch of my skin to memory. “Lie down,” he murmurs, his tone low and charged. “Please.”
What a gentleman.
I move to the bed, sitting at the edge before slowly backing onto it. My palms press into the quilt as I inch backward, the fabric bunching beneath me. I lean on my elbows, my body stretching out, open, waiting. The room feels smaller as I meet his gaze, daring him to close the space between us.
He follows, tugging off his socks and shirt with deliberate slowness. When his sweatpants and boxers drop, I swallow hard, my breath catching at the sight of him, of the muscles of his legs flexing under a fine layer of pale hair that glints in the low light. But it’s impossible not to focus on what’s front and centre: every inch of him is perfectly proportioned and noticeably erect, the skin taut and faintly veined, standing straight and proud.
Heat blooms in my cheeks, and from the way his mouth curls into a self-assured grin, he knows exactly why my body is reacting. And that grin—the one he flashed a month ago when he first teased me—now carries a more potent edge, hinting at how much he wants me.
He eases onto the bed slowly, one knee braced next to my hip, his hand pressing into the mattress to steady himself. I feel the bed shift under his weight, every movement careful but deliberate, charged with unspoken passion. When he lowers himself over me, there’s the faintest space left between us, the warmth of his skin radiating across the gap.
His eyes meet mine, searching. “You, okay?” he murmurs, voice pitched low.
I manage a nod, though I doubt I’m fooling him.
Then he leans in, his forearms framing my shoulders, his breath brushing my cheek. His fingers brush along my jawline, tilting my head up to meet his. When his lips finally find mine, they’re soft, testing, like he’s making sure I’m still with him. But I start feeling impatient and let out a soft moan, and something snaps inside of him. The kiss deepens, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me flush against him.
I can feel the heat of him, the hard press of his erection against my lower abdomen, solid and undeniable. The soft brush of his hair mingles with mine, a quiet intimacy that sends a shiver through me. Each small shift, each tight breath, draws us closer, our bodies aligning like they were always meant to fit this way.
“I want you in the worst way, Soleil,” he murmurs, his voice rough as his lips move to the corner of my mouth and trail down my neck.
I let out a low hum, my body arching to press against his. I shift my hips so I’m angled right where his tip is pushing against my center—just enough to tease. “Oh yeah?” I whisper, breathless, lacing my tone with suggestion.
His mouth curves into a faint smile against my shoulder. “You always this hot and bothered?” he asks, his voice a little raspier as he kisses just below my collarbone. Then another kiss, just above my heart, his lips warm and insistent.
“I’m only this hot and bothered when I’m around you… but mostly bothered,” I breathe, holding my breath for his next kiss.
“You…” he murmurs between kisses, getting closer to my nipple, looking up at me just long enough to whisper, “…are,” then another kiss right above the darker pink, and a pause to say, “unbelievably stubborn.” He finally plants a kiss on my nipple, using his tongue to swirl a path around it, sending a jolt of electricity from where he’s made contact straight to my core.
He starts sliding down my body further, leaving a trail of kisses across my abdomen and finally settling between my thighs with a deliberate slowness that makes me feel exposed and nervous. He’s seeing me up close for the first time and I start to have girl worries: What if he doesn’t like how it looks? I don’t think men care when there’s one thing on their mind. What if I’m too hairy? Oh shit . I panic, realizing that I haven’t trimmed up my bikini line in weeks. Shaved, yes. But my bush is feeling a little more voluminous than I’m used to sporting, so I instinctively shoot my hands down to cover myself. “I’m so sorry, but I haven’t landscaped in a while. Maybe we should put a pause on that.”
He pauses, his gaze lifting from the kiss he just planted below my navel. The look he’s giving me is telling me I just interrupted something very important to him.
“Do you think a bushman cares about landscaping?”
Oh God, I’m done for.
I shake my head, which he apparently takes as a green light to keep going, and he spreads my legs wider. My breath catches when I feel the wetness of my centre exposed to the air, and I can’t hold back the quiet whimper that escapes when his warm breath fans over my most sensitive spot. I gasp, my head falling back when his tongue finally makes contact in one long stroke up the middle.
“God, you taste so good,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating through my core.
His tongue works me in a rhythm that feels like equal parts torture and bliss, drawing every bit of tension from my body. My fingers find his hair, gripping tightly to steady myself and pull him in closer, guiding him to my most sensitive spot. His tongue starts to flick, which makes me start to feel the telltale ripples of pleasure build up at the centre of my core. I’m so close, but I don’t want to let go just yet. His mouth and tongue are absolute magic—and trust me, I’m loving every second. But as incredible as it feels, I’m craving that moment when he finally slides inside me with that magnificent cock of his.
“Gabe…” I manage, his name a desperate whisper on my lips.
He looks up at me then, his eyes locking with mine.
“I need you… inside me.”
Gabe’s eyes darken as he moves up my body, planting kisses along my stomach and chest, like he’s savouring every second. I arch into him instinctively, chasing the warmth of his weight against me. As he closes the distance, I catch a glimpse of my own wetness glistening on his mouth and lightly dusted across his stubble. His lips press against mine in a slow, deliberate kiss. Then it deepens, parting my lips, and I taste myself there—the intimate tang of my arousal lingering on his tongue.
Then he shifts, guiding himself into position, the blunt head of his erection nudging exactly where I’m slick and ready for him.
“Please, I need you,” I murmur, my voice now more insistent.
“God, you’re so pretty when you beg,” he says, taking his time as he presses forward.
I gasp at the slow, perfect stretch, my fingers digging into his shoulders as the warmth of his chest presses against mine. His breathing is ragged, matching my own, and he keeps his movements slow, pausing with every shallow thrust to make sure I’m okay.
The pleasure starts as a low hum and quickly becomes all-consuming. A sharp jolt arcs up my spine, and I can’t stop the broken moan that tumbles from my lips.
He groans, forehead dropping to rest against mine. “You feel incredible,” he rasps, his voice rough and uneven.
I cling to him, my nails scraping lightly along his shoulders as a cry catches in my throat. He’s hitting that spot inside me with precision, each stroke drawing waves of sharp, almost unbearable pleasure.
His teeth grit as he fights to keep a steady rhythm, but the way his voice shakes gives him away. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep moaning like that,” he admits with a shaky laugh, his pace faltering for a second.
“Me too,” I manage, breathless, my words breaking apart. My nails dig into his back, anchoring myself as he thrusts into me, finding that devastatingly perfect spot again… and again. He sinks into me, deep, with a deliberate grind, and I cry out, my body arching.
I reach down between us, fingertips pressing against my clit in small, fast circles. The added friction, the heat of his body against mine—it’s almost too much, pushing me closer, faster. If I keep this up, I’ll finish in record time, a new personal best, but right now, I don’t care. I just want more.
The slick sound of our bodies meeting fills the space as the tension coils tight in my stomach. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, I know we’re both done holding back. I match his movements, meeting his thrusts with just as much urgency. “God… I’m going to–-” I gasp, the words cutting off as the peak barrels toward me.
He shifts his grip under my hips, angling me just right, and when he hits that spot again, my body seizes, and I let out a ragged sob, the tension snapping all at once.
“Gabe,” I choke, his name tumbling from my lips as the orgasm rips through me.
My body clamps around him, trembling as waves of pleasure crash over me. My legs quiver around his waist, and I cling to him, my head falling back into the pillows.
He starts to come apart at the seams. His body goes rigid, breathing ragged. A low, feral groan rips from his chest as he climaxes, shuddering against me. He thrusts one last time, burying himself deep as he lets go, warmth spilling inside me in sync with the pulsing contractions still gripping my core. It feels like a swan dive into the abyss—utterly blissful.
When it finally ebbs, he collapses onto me, his chest heaving as he buries his face against my neck. My arms wrap around him without thinking, my fingers brushing lightly over the damp skin of his back. For a long moment, neither of us speaks, both of us just breathing, caught in the echo of what happened. His heartbeat thuds against mine, a steady rhythm that makes me feel like I’m floating.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs after a while, his voice muffled against my neck.
I let out a shaky laugh, my fingers threading through his hair. “Yeah. Holy shit.”
After a few moments of lying there motionless, he lifts off me and drops a kiss to my forehead. “I’m gonna rinse off. You can join me if you want,” he whispers as he leaves a few more kisses along the side of my cheek.
I swallow back a flutter of nerves and give a small nod, reaching for the tissue box next to the bed to clean up. He steps into the hallway, and within moments, the soft rush of the shower fills the quiet space. I sink back onto the pillow, exhaling shakily. My body tingles everywhere he’s touched, each nerve ending still tender and throbbing.
The soft sound of him whistling a tune in the next room draws a faint smile from my lips. We’ve crossed a line today—turned a page we can’t simply flip back—and yet I’m not afraid. Somehow, it feels right. And honestly, I never would’ve guessed I’d end up here. The same guy who ripped into me for not drinking enough water on my first planting day, who teased me for wearing Uggs, who left me a note about checking him out, who scared the hell out of me when he got injured with the chainsaw. His sharp wit, that maddening confidence, the way he challenges me but still has my back.
And yet, here we are. Every time I think about him now, my pulse stumbles over itself.