Chapter 7 Tilly
Chapter seven
Tilly
He’s standing in my shop when I arrive at dawn.
I stop in the doorway, keys still in my hand, and for a heartbeat, I can’t move.
Relief and surprise tangle in my chest so tightly I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself.
I didn’t let myself hope he’d be here. I didn’t let myself imagine his truck parked outside or his tools spread across my floor.
But he’s here.
Tools line the floor in neat rows. The armoire sits exactly where we planned it, and he’s measuring the wall for the floating shelves with a tape measure and pencil tucked behind his ear.
He turns when the door opens. His eyes find mine. Yesterday’s distance fills the space between us, heavy and unspoken. His jaw is tight, shadowed with stubble. He’s wearing his work clothes, jeans worn soft at the knees, and a thermal shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
“Morning,” he says.
“I didn’t expect you today.” The words are soft. “I thought... after yesterday, I thought you might need more time.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Regret. “I needed one night to get my head straight. That’s all.”
“Okay.” I set my bag down, giving my hands something to do. “I was letting you have your space. I wasn’t going to push.”
“I know.” He crosses the room and stands before me. “That’s one of the things I love about you. You let me work through it instead of demanding answers I wasn’t ready to give.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” His hand settles on my shoulder, thumb brushing the curve where my neck meets collarbone. “You trusted me with your vulnerable places, the parts you usually hide. I owe you the same.”
I lean into the touch because fighting this feels harder than surrender. “Okay.”
He takes a breath, and I watch his chest expand under the thermal.
“I was a team lead when the fire happened. I made the call to go in based on the information we had. The structure failed faster than anyone predicted, and I lost someone.” His voice is steady, but his eyes carry weight.
“I left the firehouse after that. Came across the country from the Shenandoah Mountains in Virginia, and built the cabin. I tried to figure out how to live with what I couldn’t fix. ”
My fingers find his wrist, wrapping around the solidity of him. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“Logically, I know that. But knowing it and believing it are different things.” His thumb strokes across my skin. “Yesterday, my brother called. He reminded me that punishing myself doesn’t honor what I lost. Building a good life does.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“It means I’m done treating happiness like a debt I haven’t paid.” His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me. “It means I’m choosing you. Choosing this. Choosing to build instead of burn.”
The certainty in his words sinks into my bones, solid and real. “I choose you, too.”
He leans down and kisses me, his mouth gentle against mine. In his kiss, I taste apology and promise. His forehead rests against mine when he pulls back.
“Let me help you finish this space,” he says. “Let me prove I’m staying.”
I nod because my voice has tangled somewhere behind my teeth.
He releases me and moves back to the wall. “I’ve got the final measurements for the shelves. I need you to tell me exactly where you want them.”
The shift from emotional to practical grounds me. I move beside him, studying the blank wall that will hold books and decorative pieces. “Here,” I say, pointing to a spot eye-level. “And another set here, staggered to create visual interest.”
He marks the spots with a pencil, moving efficiently. “How much weight?”
“Books mostly. Some vintage frames. Nothing too heavy.”
“I’ll reinforce them anyway.” He glances at me. “Better to overbuild than have them fail.”
The care in his planning makes my eyes sting. I open my mouth to argue that I could’ve figured out the placement alone, but the lie won’t form. The truth is, I needed him. The truth is, I’m done pretending I don’t.
I watch him work, his hands steady as he measures and marks. He’s built for this, his body designed for labor and precision. When he reaches up to mark the top bracket, his shirt rides up, exposing the muscles of his lower back.
Heat spirals low and blooms in my pussy. I force myself to focus on the layout instead of the way his jeans hang on his hips.
“What about the armoire?” I ask. “Does it work where it is?”
“Come look.” He leads me to the east wall where the massive piece now sits. “Stand there.”
I position myself where customers will enter, and the sightline opens up perfectly. The armoire anchors the space without blocking the flow. The grain catches the light streaming through the windows, making the wood glow warm and golden.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
“You planned it perfectly.” He moves behind me, his chest a wall of heat at my back. “I just had the muscle to make it real.”
His hands settle on my waist, and I lean back into him. His stature makes me feel small in the best way, protected and grounded. His breath stirs my hair.
“Thank you,” I say. “For showing up. For staying.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He holds me tighter, pressing me against his chest. “You’re stuck with me now.”
The possessive language makes me smile. “Good.”
We stand like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, while morning light fills the shop. Outside, the town is waking up. Inside this space, we’re building something permanent.
“I should let you work,” I say, but I don’t move.
“Or you could help me.” His mouth brushes my neck, teeth sliding along the sensitive skin. “Tell me what you need. I’ll make it happen.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me. Heat floods my face and spreads down my chest. “Davin—”
“Say it.” His hands slide up from my waist to just below my breasts. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you.” The words come out breathless. “But not here.” I pause for a beat. “Not in the shop. We have work to finish.” My words lack conviction.
“Work can wait.” His thumb drags across my bottom lip, and my knees soften. “This can’t.”
“Then let’s go home.” He releases me and turns me to face him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “We’ll come back and finish this later. Right now, I need you alone.”
The intensity in his voice makes my pulse kick. I grab my bag and keys, and he follows me out. He locks the door behind us with the spare key I gave him days ago, and the casual domesticity of the gesture makes my ribs feel too small to contain what I’m feeling.
The drive to his cabin takes twenty minutes. I count every one. His hand stays on my thigh, and when he parks, I’m already reaching for him.
We barely make it through the door. He backs me against the wall, his body pinning mine, and his mouth finds my neck. His teeth graze my earlobe, and I arch against him with a noise caught between desperation and need.
“I love you,” he says into the curve of my neck, lips brushing skin. “I should have said it yesterday instead of pulling away.”
“Tell me that again.” My hands slide under his shirt, nails dragging across the muscles of his back.
“I love you, Tilly.” He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. “I love you so much it scares me.”
“Don’t be scared.” I frame his face with my hands. “I’m not going anywhere, and I love you, too.”
He lifts me and carries me through the doorway, setting me on the bed with careful hands. The light slants gold through the window. He strips my coat away, then my sweater, his hands gentle on my skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. The worship in his voice makes belief feel inevitable.
He reaches behind me with steady hands, unhooks my bra, and draws the lace away like unwrapping something sacred.
My breasts spill free. They’re heavy, nipples already straining toward him.
He exhales, palms rising to cradle their weight.
He lifts my breasts, thumbs sweeping the soft undersides, savoring the plush feel before his mouth descends toward me.
His lips close around one peaked nipple in a slow, enveloping heat that makes my toes curl.
He draws me deep, tongue lashing in firm, rhythmic strokes while his other hand kneads the opposite breast. His fingers spread wide to encompass as much softness as possible, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger with exquisite, twisting pressure.
The dual assault sends lightning straight to my pussy.
My back bows sharply off the bed as a raw, unfamiliar moan rips from my throat.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin, the vibration traveling through me like a current. “Let me hear you.”
He switches sides without haste, lavishing the neglected breast with the same unhurried devotion.
His long, wet pulls are like electricity through my veins, while his tongue swirls tight circles around my areola before flicking the nipple relentlessly.
His free hand traces the generous swell of the first breast, cupping its fullness, thumb brushing feather-light over the glistening peak he just left aching and flushed.
Pleasure radiates outward in pulsing waves; my hips rock upward instinctively, seeking friction that isn’t there yet.
The wet heat of his tongue flattens against my nipple, pressing hard, then drags in slow, deliberate sweeps that make me cry out.
He doesn’t rush. Each stroke is deliberate, claiming.
My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to me while pleasure spirals through my nervous system.
Finally, he releases me with a soft pop, both nipples dark and swollen from his attention.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and eases them down along with my underwear, peeling the fabric away inch by inch until I’m completely bare.
His hungry gaze roams over me, once again taking in the full roundness of my hips, the plush thickness of my thighs, the inviting softness between.