Chapter 17 Boris-Kodjoe-Chestnutian
Boris-Kodjoe-Chestnutian
Max
I’m still suspended in disbelief. Every inch of my body is lit up from this man’s touch, and yet my first instinct is to send a five-alarm group text to Eslin, Timantha, and the Cockpit Chix.
I need to tell them I’ve somehow stumbled into the kind of love story I never thought possible for myself.
And this one feels like it was written for me. And no one else.
And with a man who can only be described as Boris-Kodjoe-Chestnutian. A whole species that exists solely in the deepest, filthiest corners of my nerdy mind.
I still can’t quite believe what just happened.
What I’ve just experienced with this man.
One minute, I’m sure he’s pushing me out of his life with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. And the next, he’s buried deep inside me, holding me like he’s scared I’ll disappear.
And he’s still inside me.
His lips brush against my shoulder. Soft now, as he begins to move again.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low, warm against my skin. “Are you okay?”
It’s jarring, the contrast.
The man who just ravaged me now moves like he’s afraid of breaking something precious. Like he’s suddenly aware of how much force he carries.
“I’m…yes. It’s fine,” I manage, the words barely holding together.
As he rocks in and out of me, he never looks away. Not once. His eyes stay locked on mine, reading every expression, every gasp, every tremor he pulls from my body like he needs to catalog it. Like it matters.
In.
Out.
The pace builds, slow at first, then deeper, stronger. My breaths fracture, come and go, but no matter how much he gives me, it’s never enough. The stretch. The burn. The way he fills me until I feel unearthed by it.
This man doesn’t just fuck.
He frees you.
Every glide of him feels intentional, like he’s giving something instead of taking it. Like it’s a gift he doesn’t offer lightly.
When he finally releases that gift inside me, he finds my mouth and kisses me again, unhurried and certain, sealing something between us.
A week, Max.
A fucking week?
What did I just agree to?
My brain is screaming at me to run—to put distance between myself and whatever this man is pulling out of me. But instead of letting me sit with my spiraling thoughts, Eli just stands and holds his hand out.
I take it.
And once I’m upright, not entirely convinced my feet are touching solid ground, he scoops me up.
“You don’t have to carry me, you know,” I say, my cheek pressed to his shoulder.
“But I want to,” he says simply.
He keeps unraveling me with…him.
The silent want. The gentleness beneath all that brute force.
This man is a paradox wrapped in flannel and timber.
He’s quiet again, and my head’s swirling with a thousand questions I know better than to ask right now.
What was that?
Why now?
How long have you been holding all that back?
But I’ve learned enough about Eli Shaw to know: if I push, he’ll retreat.
So I keep my mouth shut. For now.
We’re nearing the path to his front door when he veers right, onto another trail I hadn’t noticed before.
It’s narrow, lined with moss and soft stones, like it’s been walked a hundred times but never announced itself.
And then I see an outdoor shower.
Okay. Not a shower. A sanctuary.
Built into the landscape like it grew there on its own.
A curved wall of smooth stone surrounds it, with vines trailing along the edges. It’s enclosed in glass, but there’s no door, just a soft curve of privacy.
The floor is made of wood and accented by large, flat river rocks, smoothed and worn down with use.
The water flows from a copper spout fixed into a beautiful piece of driftwood.
It feels wild and intimate—a raw, visceral reality that outstrips anything I could have ever dreamed, or even dared to write poetry about.
“When I need to break something,” he says, “I’ll chop wood, dig, plant. Whatever it takes to work the frustration out of my system. Then I come here. To wash it all off. The weight. The noise. I don’t like carrying any of that into the place I call home.”
God.
Why is everything about this man so deep and soulful?
“Did you build this too?” I ask, still taking in the details.
“I did,” he says, setting me down gently.
He reaches forward, turns the water on.
It’s cold on my feet at first.
Then warm.
Warmer.
Steam rises slowly into the morning air.
And because I can’t help myself, I ask the question I know I shouldn’t.
“What are we washing off right now?” I ask, not looking at him. “Consequence?”
He pauses.
I feel the stillness settle between us.
But when I finally look up, he’s already recovered.
“Right now,” he says, stepping closer, “we’re just washing off the earth.”
The lust. He doesn’t say it, but I feel it lingering.
He starts with my shirt—his shirt—and peels it off me. Like he’s undressing something special.
His hands skim the sides of my body, brushing over my ribs, my hips.
My pants and shoes are still back by the tree, but somehow I still feel the weight of being stripped bare by him now.
He moves with purpose.
Not rushed.
Present.
And it’s sexy as shit.
I stand there, naked in front of him, and I have never felt more seen.
More vulnerable.
More wanted.
The water begins to rain down, warm and even, and when he finally steps in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, I don’t say a word.
Because sometimes, silence says everything.
I usually hate showering with men. It’s awkward. Too cold. Someone’s always half out of the stream, pretending it’s fine. But this shower is built differently. This entire experience is different.
Nothing feels cramped or misplaced.
It feels easy.
Natural.
Like him.
He reaches behind me for a glass bottle tucked neatly on a shelf carved into the stone wall.
The label is hand-drawn—faded flowers sketched in delicate black ink, no brand name, no fancy packaging. Just… simple.
He pours a small amount of the body wash into his hand. The second it hits the air, I smell it—berries. Ripe and sweet, like crushed blackberries and warm sugar left in the sun.
“What is that?” I ask, breath hitching as his palms meet my skin—shoulders first, then arms, slow strokes that make the water feel hotter than it is.
“It’s a wash my mom makes,” he says, his voice quieter now, like we’ve both stepped into some other kind of intimacy. “I grow the fruit here in my garden—raspberries, blueberries, blackcurrants—and she makes soaps and body stuff to sell at flea markets. Mostly to her church friends.”
“That’s…” I stop myself because the word adorable feels wildly out of place when his hands are trailing down my back. “It smells amazing.”
“It’s her favorite blend,” he murmurs, his hands slick with suds now as he smooths the wash across my hips, then my belly, then lower.
“I can see why.” My voice comes out thinner than I expect, stretched tight by something sharp and unfamiliar.
The berries cling to my skin in the warm mist, their scent blooming around us as he keeps going, unhurried. His hands are steady. Certain. This isn’t new for him.
And the next thought hits harder than it should.
I want to know how many women he’s made feel exactly like this. How many have stood where I’m standing, breathing this same air, melting under that same quiet confidence.
The jealousy surprises me but I force myself to suppress it for now. To enjoy the sensation of this man.
When he slides one leg between mine to turn me under the water, I lean into him, my back pressed to his chest. I feel the beat of his heart there, stern and strong against my spine.
“You really built all this?” I whisper, just to keep myself from whimpering.
He hums in affirmation, rinsing the suds from my shoulders. “Every inch.”
His hands never stray far. He’s not groping. He’s not rushing. He’s…bathing me. Like a ritual. A reset. Something ancient and religious.
And I let him.
When he’s done, when every inch of me has been touched with reverence and rinsed clean with warmth, he exhales like he’s just come back from a place deep in his soul.
Only then does he look around.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
“What?” I ask, blinking through the steam.
He scratches the back of his head, a sheepish look tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I forgot to bring towels. There usually aren't any guests out here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s freezing. What do you normally do?”
“I usually just walk back to the house naked,” he shrugs, like that’s the most reasonable answer known to man.
“Well, it is your place,” I say, biting back a grin.
He reaches for the same flannel I’ve claimed and wraps it gently around me, securing it like a protective layer against the breeze.
“Still,” he murmurs, “I won’t subject you to that.
And this afternoon, we’ll take you into town to get you some real clothes.
You will freeze to death if I let you wear the crap you brought. ”
He snatches up his pants and boots, cramming them under one arm as he moves to my side, his other arm hovering behind my back like he already knows I’m one icy patch away from wiping out.
But when the cold hits us both again, any thought of decorum dies instantly.
I don’t walk.
I bolt.
However, before I can protest, he bends, hooks an arm under my legs, and lifts me clean off the ground.
“Hey—!” I yelp, grabbing onto his shoulders as the world suddenly tilts.
“I’ve got you,” he mutters, striding toward the house.
The cold air bites at everything exposed, and I burrow closer into him on instinct while he jogs up the path, boots crunching through the snow. My laughter fogs the air between us as he carries me like I weigh nothing, dodging icy patches I absolutely would’ve fallen on.
But even though it’s freezing and my nipples are at a permanent stand-still, it’s stupidly beautiful out here. And after years of tiny, overpriced apartments and traffic noise, I am going to say something that I don’t believe anyone from my sorority would ever believe.
I could live here.
I could want this.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Eli says, panicked, slicing through my daydream.
My head snaps toward him. “What?”
“Fuck. Shit. Fucking fuck, fuck.”
“Eli!” I hiss. “You’re just stacking cuss words. I need a real answer!”
He grips his pants tighter and holds them in front of him like a loincloth.
And that’s when I hear her voice. Warm, amused, and definitely too close for what we’re not wearing.
“Well, this is new.”
I look up.
She’s poised. Holding a grocery bag. Smiling and unphased.
“Hey, Mom,” Eli says, voice flat as a brick wall, his pants still covering the southern region of his manhood.
I freeze.
My breasts are on full display.
I want to die. But instead I smile. Because that’s what you do when you’re naked and afraid, in the woods and meeting a man’s mother.
“Heyyy, Momma” I wave, sounding like Felicia from Friday. “How you doin’?”