Willa #2
His lips part against mine and a slow, rich heat unfurls down to my bones.
The steadiness I expected from him is gone, replaced by something breathless and immediate, as if he’s as surprised as I am that neither of us is pulling away.
I wind my arms around his neck, and he lifts me lightly so that my toes barely skim the cool floor.
When my hands tangle in his hair, he shivers—actually shivers, like he’s not the one ten inches taller and twice as steady.
His kiss slides along my jaw, to the hollow just below my ear.
I don’t mean to say his name but I do, and it comes out so quiet it feels like a secret.
His hand is on my back, tracing a slow arc from just above my waistband up to my shoulder blades, and the weight of it dissolves any doubts that have clung to me since sunset last night.
He leans me gently against a barrel, one palm braced just above my head, the other sliding beneath the hem of my sweater. My pulse flutters wild at my throat and I catch his eye—dark, intent, a look so dangerously soft I want to crawl inside it and stay there forever.
I tug him in closer and he lets himself be pulled, hips pressed to mine, neither of us pretending at decorum anymore.
It’s been an ungodly amount of time since I’ve been with anyone and I though I don’t want to admit that, I also know I can tell Brooks just about anything safely.
His flannel is soft and dry beneath my palms. So is the cotton tee beneath it, though not for long. I can feel the outlines of muscle, the edge of a scar near his ribs, the abrupt stutter of his breath when I touch anything unexpected.
His hands are at my waist, fingers hot against my skin even with the barrier of fabric. This is maybe three steps away from a professional crime, but I don’t care. His nose nudges along my jaw, his mouth finds that place beneath my ear again, and my knees threaten to liquefy.
I return the favor, dragging my mouth along the edge of his pulse, breathing in the mix of apples and soap and man, a scent so rooted in this place that it could rewrite every rivalry in the world.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
My back is pressed to the barrel; his palm is flat against the wood, caging me in, but his expression is less wolf than something wounded.
As if he’s waiting for me to regret it, waiting for me to undo the spell and say it was a mistake.
He waits anyway, giving me the exit he thinks I want. But I don’t. So I take a hand and draw it to my collarbone and then, slower, lower, until his knuckles brush the skin just beneath the hem of my sweater. The air stirs, ripe with possibility.
“In or out, Calder?” My voice is rough ina way that even I don’t recognize.
He blinks, startled, a half laugh stuck in his throat. “All in, Willa.” And then he’s kissing me again, this time with an edge that’s all hunger and no apology.
He makes short work of my layers, hands careful but hurried, testing each button for its resolve.
My pulse hammers in my temples as the air finds my skin, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything: the stickiness at the base of my spine, the way my heart is thumping at my wrists, the whisper of my own breathing as he peels away the last practical layer and I’m standing in nothing but my bra and panties.
There’s a stubborn patch of old sunburn on my shoulder, and I almost cover it up, but then he puts his lips there, soft and reverent, like he’s saying grace.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, and I believe him, just for that moment.
He takes a step back, as if to memorize me—the orchard girl, half-undone in the cold sanctum of the barrel room. I almost laugh, but then his hands are on me again, splaying over my ribs. He falls to his knees, kneeling, like he’s at an altar and I’m his shrine.
The sliver of silk straps at my hips is no match for his resolve, or for mine. He hooks his thumbs into my panties and I help him, lifting myself up as he slides them down my legs, leaving nothing but the shock of breath against my heated core.
A silent question hangs in the chilly air that climbs my thighs in a shocking sweep, frosting me with goosebumps. He looks up at me, one brow lifting and I merely answer with a tilt of my chin; just the tiniest nod, but it feels like an earthquake.
Brooks braces his palms on my legs, just above the knees.
His hands, warm and steady, coax my legs apart and my balance vanishes so completely that I have to grip the edge of the barrel.
He kisses just above my kneecap. Then lower, then up again, sliding my legs open with strokes of his thumbs.
His mouth finds a spot on the hollow of my inner thigh that’s so tender, my vision flickers white for the beat that his tongue darts out against it.
I let my head thump back against the wall, the musky, fermented air tilting sideways around me, everything in the world dropping away except the rough wood at my back and the impossible heat of his mouth.
It’s all rougher and sweeter and almost too much—the thought of him down on his knees for me, the taste of cider on his lips, the gentle way he bites just enough to leave a mark.
He’s patient, bordering on reverent. I want to tell him to stop teasing, but all I can do is gasp when his tongue finds the seam of me, working with such careful, decadent slowness it nearly undoes me.
My hips rock, involuntary, but he just holds me steady, a palm on each thigh, fingers curled with a gentle but absolute command.
The edges of the world go soft. When his mouth closes greedily around me, I lose any pretense of self-control—or sound.
He laughs against my skin, low and wicked, as if he’s pleased I finally gave up the orchard stoicism for something raw and real.
I grip the barrel so hard my knuckles ache. My legs shake from it, from him. When he looks up at me again, his eyes are dark and demanding as his tongue flicks out, moving faster across my clit before pausing to press inside of me.
I groan, my eyes fluttering closed as he picks up speed, his pace and pressure unrelenting.
Then, my world caves in.
My back arches, vision going molten around the edges.
I cry out his name at least once, maybe twice—and I’m pretty sure I leave half moon divots in the flesh on his shoulders where I clutch him, desperate for something to keep me anchored while the rest of my body is nothing but raw electricity and heat.
Brooks doesn’t move until I stop shaking, stop pulsing against his mouth. He just holds me there, one hand spread across my belly, the other still pinning my knee open like a prize he’s not ready to give back.
When my eyes finally flutter open, he’s watching me like he wants to memorize every second, every shiver I can’t hide. I’m still braced against the barrel, legs trembling, when I pull him up to me for another kiss. I taste myself on his lips and, to my utter surprise, I like it.
He’s impossibly hard beneath his jeans, pressed to me, and when I grind against him he groans, deep and ragged.
I want more. Suddenly, dramatically, it’s not enough to be half-nude with the rest of my clothes twisted and bunched at my waist and elbows. I want skin, heat, no space left between us.
I don’t ask permission—I’m beyond that—I just start to undress him, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his flannel and pushing it down off his shoulders and past his thick biceps.
My bra is next and it catches, the straps a tangled mess, and he laughs, breathless with laughter and not a little desperation. He helps, sliding it off my shoulders with a tenderness I can hardly stand.
His eyes go bright, pausing to lean back and take me in, fully nude, sitting in front of him. “Willa,” he says, voice raspy. “You’re a sight.”
I swallow, not sure what to say to that and tug at his tshirt, pulling it overhead.
Now, shirtless, it’s my turn to stare at him.
He’s leaner than I expected. Tan from a season outdoors, and I realize that every orchard rumor about Brooks Calder’s back was criminally understated.
He's sculpted like a statue, torso and biceps cut with muscle that’s all utility and no vanity, the uneven tan lines and hay-bale scars telling his story in a wild, shy language.
He fumbles one-handed at his belt, still managing to keep his other arm steadying me, the movement urgent in a way that betrays the cool mask he so often wears. He sheds his jeans and boxers in a single practiced motion and oh my god, maybe orchard rumors don’t even begin to cover it.
There’s no time—or inclination—for embarrassment. I run a palm up his thigh, every rough callus and nick a testament to the sort of man who could build a life from nothing but soil and sweat.
I graze my fingers lighting over him where he’s already hard and straining. He lets out a breath that’s more of a hiss, a tightness that vibrates through every inch of him as I wrap my hand around his shaft and stroke him once from root to tip.
I want to memorize all of it: the tense line from hipbone to navel, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when I stroke his length, all of it smooth, heavy in my hand, veined and flushed dark beneath my fingers.
For a beat, I just trace my thumb along the tip. He closes his eyes, breathing through gritted teeth, racked with something that might be pleasure or torture or maybe a perfect combination of both. “Willa,” he says, more prayer than name, and the sound of it winds through my center like a dare.
But Brooks is nothing if not responsible. He manages to pull back from where I stroke him to fish a condom from his discarded jeans pocket, the silver square already so battered at the edges I want to laugh.
He rips open the foil with his teeth and slides the condom over his length.
He kisses me again, slow and hot, the kind of kiss you can feel down into your bones. He’s all hands, gripping my hips and then sliding one hand down the inside of my thigh, guiding it up around his waist.