Chapter 8
Hudson
The maintenance cabin isn’t built for temptation. It’s built for shovels, trail markers, rope, old lanterns, and the kind of emergency supplies tourists never think anyone needs until the weather turns mean. Right now, it’s failing at its job. Badly.
Rain hammers the roof hard enough to drown out half the thoughts I should be having. Wind shoves branches against the small window with a scraping sound. Thunder rolls over the ridge, still too close for comfort.
The storm came in fast. Too fast. I should have turned us around sooner. I should have watched the clouds instead of watching Layla’s face when she saw the waterfall. Instead of noticing the way she said “I want” like she didn’t realize those two words could take a man apart.
Now we’re here – alone and wet. Probably standing too close. And I’m trying to remember every reason I should keep my hands to myself.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I look down. A thin red line runs across the back of my hand, probably from a branch during the run up here. Nothing deep.
“It’s nothing.”
Layla gives me that look. The teacher look.
“It is not nothing. It’s blood.”
“Barely blood.”
“Barely blood is still blood.”
“Is that an official medical category?”
“No, but it should be.”
She glances around the cabin. “Do you have a first-aid kit in here?”
“Top shelf. Blue box.”
She turns toward the shelves, and watching her move in that black bathing suit is not helping me become a better man.
The suit clings to her curves like it was made to punish me.
The wet fabric follows every soft line of her body -- the dip of her waist, the fullness of her hips, the generous curve of her breasts.
Her blond hair is darker from the rain, strands sticking to her cheek and throat.
She reaches for the kit, stretching onto her toes, but she can’t quite get it. I move before she can try again.
“Here.”
She turns at the same time I step in behind her. My chest brushes her back. Both of us go still. The shelf is right there. The kit is right there. All I have to do is reach over her head, grab it, and step away like a responsible man.
My arm lifts and my body leans in just enough to catch the box. Her breath catches -- soft and sharp -- and that tiny sound goes through me like heat lightning.
I pull the first-aid kit down and force myself to step back. One full step. Maybe two. Not enough.
Layla turns slowly. “Thank you.”
Her voice is quieter now.
“You’re welcome.”
She takes the kit from my hand and sets it on an overturned crate. When she opens it, her fingers tremble. Not from the cold. I know cold. This isn’t that.
She pulls out an antiseptic wipe and a small bandage.
“Hand.”
“Layla.”
“Hudson.”
I hold it out anyway. She takes it, turning my hand palm-down. The wipe stings when she cleans the cut, but I barely feel it because her thumb rests near my knuckles and her brow is furrowed in concentration.
She touches me like I matter. Not like I’m useful or a temporary thrill in a mountain town. Her touch is like I matter. That’s a dangerous thing to think about while rain traps us in this cabin.
“It really isn’t bad,” she says.
“I told you.”
“Yes, but I needed to confirm that myself.”
“Teacher habit?”
“Maybe.”
She smooths the bandage over my skin. Her fingers linger for half a second after it’s done, and then she lets go. I already miss her touch.
“Do you have a towel or anything?”
I turn toward the supply bin, grateful for something practical to do.
“There should be one in here.”
I find an old but clean towel sealed in plastic, plus a folded emergency blanket and the dry sweatshirt I keep here for exactly this kind of weather.
Not this kind of situation. I’ve never been storm-trapped with a woman I nearly kissed beside a kayak rack and then almost kissed again in a waterfall pool.
I hand her the towel and sweatshirt.
“Here.”
She takes them.
“What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shirtless and soaked.”
“I’ve been worse.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
Her eyes narrow. There she is again -- soft, curvy, nervous, and brave underneath all that politeness.
“Turn around,” she says.
I do. Behind me, fabric rustles. The towel moves over wet skin. I stare at a coil of rope like it holds answers to every problem in life.
“You know,” Layla says, her voice a little too bright, “this is exactly the sort of situation people warn divorced women about.”
I close my eyes. “Is it?”
“Oh, yes. Hidden waterfall. Sudden storm. Tiny cabin. Shirtless man.”
“You forgot younger.”
Silence. I shouldn’t have said it. The word sits between us, heavy.
Then she lets out a soft breath. “I didn’t forget.”
I turn my head slightly. “Does it bother you?”
“It should.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
More silence.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “It bothers me that it doesn’t bother me enough.”
My hand tightens on the shelf edge.
“Layla.”
“I know.” Her voice trembles, but she keeps going. “I know all the reasons I should be sensible. I’ve listed them several times in great detail.”
I smile despite myself.
“Sounds like you.”
“It is me. Or it used to be.”
That wipes the smile off my face. I turn. She’s wearing my sweatshirt. It hangs big on her, slipping off one shoulder, the hem brushing high on her thighs. Her wet hair is pushed back from her face. Her cheeks are pink. Her green eyes are too honest.
My body reacts first. My heart follows right after.
The sweatshirt was supposed to make this easier.
It doesn’t. It makes her look like she belongs in my life -- in my cabin, in my mornings, in my truck with her bare feet on the dash while we drive south before the first snow. I shove the thought away hard.
“You should sit,” I say.
She looks at the narrow workbench, then back at me. “I’m fine standing.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You point that out a lot.”
“Because you lie when you say it.”
Her lips part, but no argument comes. Instead, her expression shifts. She takes one step closer.
“Do you want me to sit because you’re worried about me,” she asks, “or because standing this close is making you nervous?”
I stare at her. There’s the brave woman from the cliff. Not fearless. Better than that – honest.
“I don’t get nervous,” I say.
Layla gives a raised eyebrow with a smile. “Liar.”
That does it. Not the word. The smile. The challenge in it. The way she’s still shaking but stepping closer anyway. I close the distance between us, slow enough for her to move back if she wants. She doesn’t. When I stop in front of her, there’s barely any air left.
“Standing this close to you is making me want things I should be smart enough not to want,” I say.
Her breath catches. “What things?”
My hand lifts. I give her plenty of time to stop me. She doesn’t. I touch her cheek, my palm against soft, rain-cooled skin. My thumb brushes near the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flutter and she leans into my hand before she can think better of it.
“You,” I say, voice rough.
The word comes out lower than I mean it to. Her green eyes open wide – vulnerable but filled with want.
“I’m not good at temporary,” she whispers.
That should stop me. It almost does. I’m good at temporary. Good at leaving. Good at making sure no woman gets too comfortable imagining me in the life she wants when winter comes and I’m already gone.
But Layla isn’t asking me to stay forever. She’s standing here, trembling in my sweatshirt, telling me she doesn’t know how to make this small. Neither do I.
“Then don’t make it temporary,” I say.
Her lips part. The words surprise both of us. I see it in her eyes because I feel it in my chest. I don’t take them back.
Outside, thunder rolls farther away now. Layla lifts one hand and lays it against my bare chest. Her fingers are cool. My skin burns under them.
“Hudson.”
Just my name. But it sounds like yes. I lower my head slowly. This time, nothing interrupts. No child on the dock. No excuses. Only Layla. Only choice. I pause, close enough to feel her breath on my lips.
“Tell me no,” I say, “and I stop.”
Her hand curls against my chest.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
I kiss her. The first touch of her mouth is soft, almost shy.
The second isn’t. She rises onto her toes and kisses me back with quiet desperation.
My hand slides into her damp hair, tilting her head so I can take more.
She opens for me with a small, broken sound that goes straight through my brain and travels to my groin.
I walk her backward until the backs of her thighs meet the narrow workbench.
Without breaking the kiss, I lift her onto it.
She gasps against my mouth as I step between her knees, crowding close.
The sweatshirt rides up her thighs. My hands find her waist beneath the heavy fabric, thumbs stroking warm skin.
She tastes like rain and something sweeter. Her fingers slide up my chest, over my shoulders, then into my hair, tugging hard enough to make me groan. I kiss her deeper -- slow, thorough, hungry. Our tongues meet and the heat between us flares hotter.
Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me in until there’s no space left.
The hard ridge of my cock presses against the thin fabric of her bathing suit through my shorts.
She whimpers into the kiss and rocks against me once, instinctively.
I answer by grinding forward, letting her feel exactly how badly I want her.
One of my hands stays at her waist while the other slides up under the sweatshirt. My palm spans the curve of her ribs, then higher, cupping her breast over the damp bathing suit. Her nipple is tight beneath my thumb. I rub slow circles and she arches into my touch with a soft moan that I swallow.
I kiss down the line of her jaw to her throat, tasting rain on her skin. She tilts her head back, offering more. My teeth graze the sensitive spot below her ear and she shivers hard, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Hudson…”
It comes out half plea, half warning. I lift my head just enough to look at her. Her lips are larger, eyes dark with need, cheeks flushed. The sweatshirt has slipped further off one shoulder. She looks wrecked already and we’ve barely started.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, then shakes her head, then nods again. “I don’t know how to do this halfway.”
“Good.”
I kiss her again, slower but no less intense, pouring everything I’ve been holding back into it. My hand stays on her breast, thumb teasing her nipple while I rock my hips against her in a steady rhythm that has her gasping into my mouth.
The bench creaks beneath us. Rain still drums on the roof, but it feels far away now. All I can focus on is the way she moves with me, the soft sounds she makes when I suck gently on her lower lip, the way her thighs tighten around my waist like she never wants to let go.
I want to strip the sweatshirt off her. I want to peel that black bathing suit down and taste every inch of her. I want to lay her back on this bench and bury myself so deep she’ll feel me for days.
Layla’s trembling again, but it’s not from cold. I force myself to slow down, to give her room to breathe even while my body screams for more. Resting my forehead against hers, both of us breathe hard.
“Layla,” I murmur. “We can stop. Or we can keep going. Your call.”
Her hands frame my face. Her green eyes are glassy but clear.
“I don’t want to stop,” she whispers. “But I’m scared of how much I don’t want to stop.”
I kiss her again -- gentler this time, but still deep -- then rest my hands on her thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles.
“Then we go as far as you want,” I say against her lips. “And we stop the second you say the word. No pressure. Just this.”
She searches my face for a long moment, then nods and pulls me back down into another kiss. This one is slower, sweeter, but no less hungry. Her tongue slides against mine as her hips roll forward again, seeking that friction we both need.
I groan and meet her movement, grinding against her in a way that makes us both shudder.
My hand stays at her breast while the other grips her hip, guiding her rhythm as the kiss deepens into something hotter, wetter, more desperate.
The storm outside can rage all it wants.
Inside this tiny cabin, the only thing that matters is the woman in my arms and the way she’s coming apart against me, one slow, perfect roll of her hips at a time.
And I’m right there with her -- losing every last reason I ever had to stay away.