Chapter 26 #2
“Shh.” She raised a finger without thinking, shushing him like a child. The sharp look he sent her made her lips twitch. His jaw flexed as though he were grinding his teeth.
Oh yes, he was right on the edge.
She could see it in the tightness around his mouth, the restless way his shoulders shifted, the faint vibration in the air between them as his temper simmered.
This was his seventh attempt at the simplest stitch, and every time something went wrong.
Dropped loops, knots, and the yarn snapped once.
She was honestly impressed he hadn’t hurled the needles across the room yet.
“Breathe and listen to me, Cujo…” she coaxed softly, letting the nickname slip easily and full of warmth.
“I might be foaming at the mouth by the time we’re done with this,” he snapped.
She couldn’t help the laughter that spilled out. The sound seemed to ease some of the storm in him, even as he tossed the needles down with a frustrated growl. She shifted forward, intending to pick them up, but he moved at the same time, starting to rise.
“Stay there,” she ordered quickly, her tone firmer now. He froze, startled. Nettie bent to retrieve the needles, and then, before she could think better of it, she climbed into his lap.
His whole body jolted under hers, the sheer surprise etched across his face nearly making her laugh again. His hands twitched as though unsure whether to push her off or hold her closer. “What—”
She settled firmly, folding her legs over his in the same cross-legged tangle as before, their knees brushing and locking together, close enough that she could feel his breath catch.
She smoothed the yarn in her lap, took the needles into her hands, and lifted her chin.
“Nobody said things would be perfect the first time…”
“What are you doing?” His voice had shifted, the edge of frustration replaced by something huskier, heavier.
“Teaching you,” she said, softer now.
His hands, once rigid with tension, lifted almost hesitantly before cupping her elbows.
Slowly, deliberately, they slid up the length of her arms until his fingers wrapped around her wrists.
The touch wasn’t just a touch—it was a caress, his calloused fingertips brushing her skin with meaning.
A shiver worked its way down her spine, and she tried to steady her breath.
“Follow my lead…” she whispered.
“I can’t concentrate…”
“Yes, you can…”
“Sticks…” His low groan of a nickname made her heart flutter.
“That’s right,” she purred, leaning closer, the word soft and coaxing. Her resolve melted under the intimacy of his touch, but she pressed on. “Take the yarn and slowly move it…”
“You go too quickly,” he interrupted, his lips grazing the edge of her neck with his breath. “I’d rather you moved much, much slower and taught me everything you like…”
Her pulse jumped. She tried to summon authority into her tone. “Focus.”
“Oh, I’m completely focused.”
“Tate?” she breathed, daring to turn her head, daring to meet the molten depths of his gaze. It was like being caught in quicksand—inescapable, pulling her down deeper. “If we ever make love someday, are you going to be focused—or distracted?”
“Both,” he said without hesitation, his mouth curving in a wicked smile that made her throat go dry.
“Are you going to want to hurry—or take your time?”
“Again—both. Are you coming onto me, Sticks?”
“Teaching,” she countered with a laugh that came out far too husky.
She held his gaze as she moved her hands, deliberately slow, deliberately close, demonstrating.
“So, if both ways are right and it doesn’t matter so long as you are in the moment—then how is any of this wrong?
You take the yarn like so…” She guided his hand, the brush of his fingers against hers more distracting than any clumsy stitch could ever be. “And feel it slip between the needles…”
“Sticks…”
“The sticks,” she corrected softly, smiling at his stubbornness. His whole body shuddered faintly, the reaction spilling into her veins. “Working the yarn slowly and methodically… over and over again.”
“I never thought knitting could be like this,” he laughed, though his voice was tight, breathless, more confession than humor.
“Now, take the yarn,” she encouraged, moving his hand again, steadying his grip with her smaller one.
“Curl it over, move your hand, and… there,” she praised, her voice dropping into a tender murmur.
The moment stretched around them, fragile and warm, laced with an intimacy that had nothing to do with yarn and everything to do with him. “Do it again…”
His hands stumbled, awkward and heavy, but he followed. She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her, each breath fanning against her cheek.
“And again,” she whispered, her own heart pounding so fiercely she wondered if he could feel it. “And again…”
“We could stop,” he muttered, his tone low, suggestive, dangerous. “Or keep going like this forever.”
“If you keep going, you’ll have a memory—and a scarf—in no time,” she murmured, though her lips quirked knowingly.
“I’ve already got a few special ones that I’ll never forget… minus the scarf.”
Her chest tightened. “When you are feeling overwhelmed or need to relax, think of me, think of this moment, and let your hands do what they already know instinctively…”
“Sticks, if you’re not coming onto me—I’d love it if you attempted it.”
She chuckled, the sound shaky with nerves and want. “I’ve got your attention, don’t I? …And you’re doing it. You’re knitting, Tate.”
“Sticks?” His voice had softened completely now, all frustration gone, replaced by something tender.
He set the needles aside, his hands rising instead to sweep her hair back from her shoulder.
He leaned forward, dropping a lingering kiss against the side of her neck.
Heat bloomed everywhere he touched, everywhere he breathed.
“No offense, my heart, but you are never teaching another person on this planet how to knit—or I will lose my absolute mind. Got me?”
“I do,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut as she gave in. His arms came around her, firm and protective, and she melted into him, the needles forgotten entirely.