Chapter 25
Will and I are sitting in his office. I’m curled up on the couch with my laptop, going over the final draft of my latest article. He’s at his desk, elbows resting on spreadsheets, brow furrowed as he works through his inventory list, a cigar sitting in the ashtray by him.
The quiet between us is easy. Domestic, even. The kind of quiet that feels earned.
Every few minutes, I glance up just to look at him because I can’t help it. Because somehow, even like this, half-distracted and muttering about whiskey orders, he still makes my chest ache.
Apparently, I’m not as subtle as I think, because without looking up, Will says, “Keep lookin’ at me like that, sugar, and I swear, these bottles aren’t gonna get counted.”
I smile. “Party pooper.”
He leans back in his chair and stretches, arms behind his head, his eyes meeting mine.
“You think about it anymore?”
My heart skips a beat. “About what?”
He doesn’t look away. “Tellin’ Sam.”
The air shifts just enough to make me pause.
I close my laptop and set it on the cushion table beside me. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I think about it.”
He nods, waiting.
“And?” he asks.
I draw in a slow breath, choosing my words. “I’m not ready. Not yet.”
Will watches me, quiet.
“I just…” I shrug. “Can we give it another month?”
His brow lifts, but he doesn’t speak.
“It’s not because I’m ashamed,” I add quickly. “Or because I don’t want this. I do. I just… Sam’s been there my whole life. He’s protective in a way that’s complicated. And I want to tell him when I know I can stand in front of him and not flinch.”
Will studies me, then nods once. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
He shifts to the edge of his seat, then comes to sit beside me on the couch. His hand finds my knee, warm and solid.
“You’re not just mine in secret,” he says. “Not to me. Doesn’t matter if Sam knows or not. I’m yours. And I know you’re mine.”
My throat tightens. “You really mean that?”
“I wouldn’t be sitting in this office, watching you steal my concentration every five minutes, if I didn’t.”
I laugh through the sudden swell of emotion, leaning into him. “You’re a terrible multitasker.”
“Yeah, well,” he smirks, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth, “you’re a hell of a distraction.”
I curl into him, his arm wrapping around my shoulders like it’s where I belong.
“One more month,” I whisper.
He kisses the top of my head.
“I can wait,” he says. “Just don’t make me wait forever.”
The silence in Will’s office stretches long after I ask him to wait another month. He says he understands. And I believe him. But I can still feel the tension rolling off of him. He’s being patient, but it’s costing him.
So I close my laptop quietly and stand.
His eyes flick up from the desk, cautious.
“Let me make it up to you,” I say softly.
He leans back in his chair, arms folding as he studies me. “You don’t owe me anything, sugar.”
“I know,” I murmur, walking toward him slowly. “But I still want to.”
I slide between his legs, my hands resting on his thighs. His breath hitches the second I reach for the top button of his shirt.
He grabs my wrist gently. “What are you doing?”
My eyes lift to meet his. “Showing you how much I don’t take you for granted.”
I undo the next button.
And then the next.
By the time I have the shirt open, his skin is warm under my palms, taut and solid and familiar. I lean in and press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
Will swears under his breath. “Phern…”
I sink to my knees before he can talk me out of it.
His hands tense on the arms of the chair as I trail kisses down his stomach, slow and unhurried, loving the way his body reacts to every brush of my lips.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.
I smile against his skin. “Then I’ll make it a good death.”
I undo his belt slowly, letting the sound of the buckle echo in the room. His jeans come undone with a soft rasp, and when I free him, he’s already thick and hard, twitching in my hand.
Will tips his head back with a groan as I wrap my fingers around him.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” I whisper. “About the way you taste. The way you sound.”
And then I take him in my mouth. His hand flies to my hair, but he doesn’t guide. He just holds on, like he’s anchoring himself against the storm building inside him.
I suck him slowly, swirling my tongue around the head, teasing the underside with every pass. He’s breathing harder now, muttering curse words and my name in equal measure.
“Fuck, sugar. Just like that.”
I take him deeper, moaning softly around him, loving the way his thighs tense, how his voice breaks. Every twitch, every groan, is a reward. A reminder that this is ours.
He pulses hot against my tongue, thighs flexing, chest rising in sharp bursts. He’s close. So close.
“Phern,” he gasps, “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m—”
I don’t stop. I want all of it.
And when he comes, it’s with a strangled groan, my name on his lips and his fingers buried in my hair like he never wants to let go.
I stay there, gentle now, letting him ride it out. When I finally pull back, he’s flushed, breathless, eyes blown wide.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, voice raw. “You really trying to kill me?”
I crawl back into his lap, straddling him, pressing my lips to his jaw. “Just making sure you know I’m still all in.”
He pulls me close, arms tight around my waist, forehead pressed to mine.
“You’re everything,” he murmurs. “Even when it’s hard. Even when we’re hiding.”
“I won’t make you wait forever,” I whisper.
He grins, still breathless. “You keep makin’ it up to me like that, I’ll wait as long as you need.”
The next morning, Will tells me to wear boots. That’s it. No hint, no smirk, just a knowing look and a thermos of coffee already waiting in the truck.
“Where are we going?” I ask, sliding into the passenger seat.
He just grins and turns up the radio. “You’ll see.”
The drive is long enough to leave town behind. Asphalt turns to gravel. Fields open wide, framed by split-rail fences and the occasional low-slung barn. The sky is that bright, wide Wyoming blue that makes your heart stretch in your chest whether you want it to or not.
I sneak glances at him as he drives. He looks relaxed. Focused. A little nervous.
He pulls off down a winding lane framed by firs. At the end of it sits a modest house—ranch-style, set back against the rise of a hill. There's a wide porch, a swing hanging from one end, and just beyond it?
Land.
Acres of it.
Golden and open and quiet.
He shuts off the engine but doesn’t get out right away. “Come on,” he says finally, climbing down and rounding the front of the truck to open my door.
When I step out, the breeze lifts my hair, and the smell of warm grass and fresh dirt fills the air.
“I don’t understand,” I say quietly, looking at the house. “What is this?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s for sale. Or, was.”
I blink.
He lets that settle for a second, then adds, “Been looking at it for a while. Had the realtor meet me here this morning before I picked you up.”
My heart thuds.
“You thinking of buying it?”
“I’m thinking of us.”
I stare at him.
He moves closer.
“I know we’re not out in the open yet. I know things are messy with Sam, and you’re still sorting through all of it. I get that. But this is me showing you I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks back at the house, then at me.
“I don’t want to sneak around forever, Phern. I want to build something. With you.”
I swallow hard.
The porch creaks in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a windmill turns lazily.
“I thought it was too soon to talk about forever,” I whisper.
He steps even closer, tilts my chin up with two fingers.
“Sugar,” he says softly, “forever’s already started. You’re just finally catchin’ up to it.”
And I can’t stop the way my heart bursts in my chest. Can’t stop the smile. Or the tears.
“Can you show me inside?”
“Sure can. We own this place now.”
The front door creaks when he opens it, the kind of sound that speaks of age, of stories lived in the walls. Dust motes spin in the light streaming through the tall windows, and everything inside smells like cedar, old floorboards, and the faintest trace of fresh paint.
Will steps back to let me in first.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he says. “Needs some work.”
I cross the threshold slowly, heart thudding harder with every step.
The living room is wide open, with exposed beams overhead and a fireplace that still has soot marks in the brick. There’s a worn rug on the floor, probably left behind, and a window seat with sun-stained cushions that overlooks the front field.
“I like it,” I say softly, running my fingers over the edge of the mantle.
Will watches me. “You haven’t even seen the best part.”
He nods toward the hallway.
I follow him through a small, cozy kitchen—chipped cabinets, old tile, but the kind of layout that begs for morning pancakes and bare feet—and then down a narrow hallway with three doors.
The first is a bathroom. The second, a bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a closet door that doesn’t quite close. But it’s the third that makes me stop.
Sunlight floods in through two long windows. The walls are a soft off-white, and the hardwood floor creaks when I step inside.
There’s no furniture. Nothing but open space and quiet.
And yet… I feel something settle in me.
“This one’s yours,” Will says behind me.
I turn. “Mine?”
He shrugs, hands tucked in his pockets. “Your writing room. If you want it.”
My throat tightens.
I look around again imagining a desk by the window, books stacked on the shelves, maybe a blanket draped over the chair I refuse to let go of. Late nights. Early mornings. Coffee and deadlines and him bringing me food when I forget to eat.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
He steps up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist.
“You can paint it whatever color you want. Knock down walls. Hell, make the kitchen pink if it makes you happy.”
I laugh, leaning back into his chest. “Don’t tempt me.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Tempting you is kind of my specialty.”
We stand there for a while, saying nothing. Just breathing in this space.
I realize I want to see more. The backyard. The laundry room. Every inch.
So I turn in his arms and smile. “Show me the rest.”
His grin is slow and warm as he takes my hand and leads me back down the hall, like this house, this life, is already ours.
He leads me to the last door at the end of the hall.
It opens with a low creak into a room twice the size of the others, flooded with soft light from tall windows on the far wall.
The ceiling angles upward in a sharp pitch, the old wood beams exposed and strong.
A wide stretch of floor. An empty closet with double doors.
And bare walls that just feel like home.
“This would be the primary suite,” Will says, but he’s watching me, not the room. “Needs new paint. Maybe some curtains. A bed that doesn’t squeak like hell.”
I walk in slowly, letting my fingers trail along the wall beside the door. “It’s got good bones.”
“So do you,” he murmurs behind me.
I turn, laughing, but he’s already in front of me. Already crowding me back until my spine meets the wall and his body presses against mine. The look in his eyes is molten. Possessive. Like the weight of this choice is finally catching up to him.
“We don’t have to wait for furniture,” he says low, mouth brushing mine. “Room’s empty. Doesn’t mean it ain’t ours.”
And then he kisses me. His hands slide under my shirt, over my skin, like he’s trying to memorize the way I feel right here, against this wall, in this room.
He lifts me without breaking the kiss, my legs wrapping around his waist as he presses me harder to the wood behind me.
I moan, already soaked, already aching.
“You feel that?” he rasps, grinding against me. “This house. This room. Me. It’s all yours, sugar. You hear me?”
I nod, breathless, desperate.
He pulls my shorts down and my panties aside, finds me slick and ready, and groans low in his throat. “Goddamn, you’re always ready for me.”
“Will—please—”
He doesn’t make me beg twice.
He thrusts into me in one smooth, hard stroke, and we both cry out—lost in it, lost in each other, lost in the way it feels to start something new right here.
He sets the pace. Deep and dirty and slow, like he wants to leave his mark on these walls, on me.
“You’re mine,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “This room? This house? I’ll paint every damn inch of it with memories if it means keeping you here.”
I dig my nails into his shoulders, legs trembling around him, gasping his name over and over.
We come together like thunder, and when it’s over, he stays pressed to me, breathing hard, forehead resting against mine.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment.
Then he says, “Think that counts as christening it?”
I laugh softly, still dazed. “You planning on doing every room?”
“Oh, sugar.” He grins. “We’re just getting started.”
I’m still clinging to him when I hear it.
A click.
Then the unmistakable sound of the front door creaking open.
Will freezes. So do I.
And then—
“Hello?” a woman’s voice calls. Bright. Professional. Too close. “Will? I just wanted to drop off the extra keys.”
Shit.
Will pulls out of me, and I scramble to get my shirt straight, hopping on one leg as I try to tug my underwear and shorts back into place. He’s doing the same, dragging up his jeans and muttering curses under his breath as we both trip over our tangled clothes and near-blown dignity.
“Back here,” Will shouts, breath still ragged. “One sec!”
I hiss, “One sec?! I am literally dripping—”
He shoots me a wild-eyed look. “Would you rather I say two?”
I nearly choke trying to hold in a laugh.
The bedroom door creaks open just as Will swipes a hand through his hair, like that’s going to erase the sweat on his brow and the fact that his shirt is inside out.
The realtor, a polished woman in a turquoise blazer and heels that defy the flooring, smiles like she hasn’t just walked into the aftermath of a hurricane.
“Oh,” she says brightly, eyeing the two of us with the exact kind of knowing grin I want to melt into the floor over. “Hope I didn’t interrupt.”
Will clears his throat. “Just giving her the tour.”
Her eyes flick to my swollen lips, to Will’s still-unbuckled belt, and then back to his hand on my lower back.
“Uh-huh,” she says, all teeth. “Well. Don’t let me stop you. I left the packet on the kitchen counter. Take your time deciding. Though, from the looks of it…” Her grin widens. “You two already have.”
She turns and heads back down the hall, heels clicking as the door shuts gently behind her.
Silence.
Then Will says, totally deadpan, “Next time, we christen the house after business hours.”
I laugh and says, “Let’s get our house, cowboy.”