Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
JADA
Day three and I'm still here.
Not because of the storm. That cleared yesterday morning, just like Beck predicted.
The creek crossing is passable. My car has gas because Beck drove me into Crimson Hollow yesterday afternoon, filled a gas can at the station, drove me back up without a single unnecessary word. My tank is full. The road is dry.
But this morning he made me coffee without being asked. Set the mug on the counter before I was fully awake. Black with two sugars, which is how I've taken it every morning since I arrived. Didn't say a word. Didn't look at me. Just set it down and walked outside to chop wood.
So here I am. On the porch with Duke, watching Beck split wood shirtless because the morning heated up fast. His back muscles rolling with each swing. Sweat tracing his spine into the waistband of his jeans.
Tasha would lose her mind.
Tasha:
You're still there aren't you
Me:
The creek was flooded
Tasha:
Was. Past tense. You just said WAS.
Me:
Duke needs me
Tasha:
Duke is the dog, right? Girl. You are using a DOG as an excuse to stay with a man you met 3 days ago. I am calling your mother.
Me:
Don't you dare
Tasha:
Is he fine?
Glancing at Beck, watching a bead of sweat trace his collarbone before disappearing into chest hair.
Me:
He's adequate.
Tasha:
LIAR
Pocketing my phone, I grab both coffee mugs and head inside. Wash them. Dry them. Start pulling out eggs.
By afternoon, something has shifted. Beck's building a new bookshelf to replace the warped one.
Didn't announce it. Just started sanding a piece of reclaimed wood he found behind the cabin.
His hands move over the grain with precision that makes my stomach tighten.
Long fingers. Broad palms. He feels the wood, adjusts the sandpaper, works a knot smooth with his thumb.
"Want help?"
He looks up. Surprised. "You know woodworking?"
"I know how to sand. My granddaddy built furniture in his garage. Made me hold the boards while he planed them."
Something in his expression shifts. That guarded look loosening a quarter turn. He hands me a sheet of sandpaper and nods toward the second plank. We work in silence for twenty minutes. Comfortable silence. The kind I didn't know existed before this mountain.
"Your grandfather built furniture?"
"Tables mostly. Church pews once. He said every piece of wood already knows what it wants to be. You just gotta listen."
Beck stops sanding. Stares at the plank in front of him. "My mentor used to say something similar about buildings. That the structure already exists. You're just helping it show up."
"Sounds like a smart man."
"He was." Quiet. The past tense doing heavy work. "He retired three years before I quit. Called me when everything fell apart. Said 'a building is not its architect. What it becomes after you hand it over is not your fault.'"
The most he's told me. About anything. My hands slow on the sandpaper but I don't stop working. Don't look at him. Because this man is a deer at a salt lick. One wrong move and he bolts.
"Was he right?"
"I don't know yet."
We sand for another hour. Shoulders close. Sawdust on my fingers, on his forearms. When our hands reach for the same plank, his fingers brush mine. Neither of us pulls away.
By evening, something has cracked open. We're on the porch. Sun going down, the sky turning orange then pink then deep purple. Duke asleep between our chairs. Beck has the Rilke book in his lap, lips moving slightly over the words.
"Read it to me."
He looks over. Hesitates. Then his voice, low and rough: "Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage."
My breath catches.
"Beck."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad my car failed me."
He closes the book. Sets it down. Looks at me with those gray eyes and I see it. Everything he's been holding back. The looking away. The tightened jaw. The careful distance he keeps between us in the cabin, which is impossible because the cabin is small and I am everywhere in it.
"Jada. You're going to leave. Everybody does. Goes back to their life, their road trip, their plan."
"My plan is no plan. Remember?"
"That's what scares me."
"Why?"
"Because it means you might stay. And I might want you to. And wanting things is how I ruin them."
Standing from my chair, I walk to his. Stand between his knees. His hands grip the armrests. Knuckles white. Chest rising on a long breath.
Reaching down, I take his hand off the chair. Press his palm against my hip. His fingers spread wide. Grip hard. A sound comes out of him, low, raw.
"I'm not a building, Beck. I'm not going to collapse because you care about me."
He pulls me onto his lap. One motion, both hands on my hips. My knees bracket his thighs. His face inches from mine. Close enough to see silver threading through his beard. His hands slide from my hips to my ass, pulling me tight against him. He's hard. Full length pressed against my center.
"You make me want things I buried," he growls against my mouth. "Every goddamn morning you make coffee and hum in my kitchen and I want things I swore I was done with."
"Then have them."
He kisses me. Not gentle. His mouth takes mine, tongue pushing past my lips, one hand fisting my tank top while the other holds me exactly where he wants me.
My hips grind against him and he groans into my mouth.
My fingers rake through his hair, pulling his head back.
His hips roll up, cock pressing against my clit through every layer between us. A moan rips out of me.
"Inside," I breathe.
He stands. Takes me with him. My legs wrap around his waist, and he carries me through the front door, kicks it shut, walks to his bedroom. Duke doesn't lift his head.
My back hits the mattress. He pulls my shorts down, hooks my underwear with them. Sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed. Parts my thighs with both hands. His mouth is on me before I'm ready for it. Hot, wet, his tongue flat against my clit, stroking slow.
"Oh my God." Back arching off the bed.
He grips my thighs. Pulls me closer. Eats me like he's been thinking about this for three days, tongue circling my clit then dipping inside before coming back up. One finger slides in. Then two. Curling forward, stroking that spot while his mouth works tight circles.
My hand finds his hair. Pulls. His groan vibrates against me. The orgasm builds fast, coiling tight, his fingers pumping, his mouth relentless.
"Beck. Fuck. Right there..."
It crashes through me. Thighs clamping around his head. He doesn't stop. Tongue gentling but staying on me through every pulse, fingers slowing, drawing it out until I'm shaking.
He stands. Pulls his shirt off. Unbuckles his belt. His cock springs free, thick, hard. He rolls on a condom with one hand while pressing my thigh open with the other.
Pushes in slow. Stretching me. Filling me. My nails dig into his forearms.
"Christ, you're tight." Full to the hilt, he holds. Then rolls his hips. Deep. Grinding against my clit with every stroke. One hand plants beside my head. The other grips my hip, angling me so he hits exactly right.
"Harder."
His hips snap forward, filling me with long thrusts that knock the headboard against the wall. My breast bounces free from my tank top. He dips his head, takes my nipple in his mouth. Sucks. Bites gently. My pussy clenches around him.
"Fuck." His voice wrecked. "Do that again."
My walls squeeze him on purpose. He groans against my breast. Drives into me faster. His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts.
The second orgasm starts deeper. Where his cock strokes me inside, radiating outward.
"Come for me." Ground out against my neck. "Let me feel it."
It takes me apart. Completely. Crying out against his shoulder, my body clenching around him. He follows with a guttural sound, hips jerking hard, burying deep.
Silence. Our breathing. Crickets outside.
He rolls to his side. Pulls me against his chest. One arm heavy across my waist. His heartbeat pounds under my cheek. Slowing. Steadying. He presses his lips to the top of my head.
For the first time since I started this trip, I don't want to be anywhere else.