Willa #3
When his length nudges between my legs, he locks eyes with me—a silent, confirmation.
I nod, and as he pushes inside, there's a thick, dizzying stretch that makes me gasp—the force and fullness of it, every inch of him anchoring me against the barrel like I’m the only thing left in this cold, fermenting world.
I wrap my other leg around his hip, hooking my heel above his ass, holding him right there as he sinks deeper and deeper until there’s nowhere left to go. I dip my head and pant against his shoulder, fingers digging into his biceps with more want than sense.
He doesn’t move at first. Just lets me feel him, lets me get used to the impossible, perfect pressure of him inside me.
Even the quiet is full—his sweat damp on my shoulder, the tremor in his arms as he braces himself so he doesn’t crush me.
There are so many things people forget to mention about sex.
The heat, the strangeness, the hilarity of it all, and how greedily honest it makes you.
Brooks groans, low and thick, and holds perfectly still when he’s all the way inside, letting my body decide when to move. Only when I rock my hips does he start up a rhythm, gentle and sure and devastating.
He kisses every inch he can reach: my jaw, my throat, the hinge of my shoulder. The sharp scent of wood and autumn sap swirls under the deeper musk of sweat and cider, making my whole body feel drunk on something wilder than alcohol.
“Harder,” I cry, my voice cracking like a snapped twig. “Brooks, please.”
He obeys, driving into me with a force that sends the ladle shelf rattling against the wall.
“God, you’re incredible,” he mutters into my hair, his pace stuttering as I clench around him.
It’s just friction and heat and pressure, turned up and up until I’m clawing his back and biting my own wrist to keep from crying out loud enough to alert the entire orchard.
The orgasm builds so fast I have almost no warning—just a strange tightening, a gathering of sensation that starts in my toes and ricochets up my spine.
He answers with a ragged groan, and all at once neither of us is quiet, or careful.
My body pulls taut, every muscle bracing for impact as I tip headlong into something hot and endless and entirely out of my control.
I clutch at his body, leverage myself against his hips, ride out the wild, animal shock of release while he buries himself deeper than before, grinding in circles that make me see stars.
He shudders, grip fierce on my hips as I clench down around him, the pressure so intense it nearly blanks me out.
I shake apart over him, a bright, shattering pulse that digs out a whimper from somewhere deep in my chest. He lets go at the exact same moment, a curse punched through his teeth, and I feel the thick, guttural pulse of him buried in me, even through the latex, the primal heat of it making me clutch him closer instead of letting go.
He holds me for a few seconds or maybe forever.
There’s nothing left in my brain but sparks and the salt of his skin pressed flush to mine, our bodies locked together, legs trembling, lungs scraping for breath.
At length, I open my eyes. I’m not sure when I closed them—somewhere between my second orgasm and his, I think maybe I left reality for a full minute.
Brooks is staring down at me, dazed and reverent, like he’s seen a ghost and it’s the only miracle he ever wanted to witness. He brushes a thumb across my cheekbone, then pulls back, just enough to check my face as if making sure I’m really here and haven’t blinked out into nothingness.
I try to say something clever, something to light the mood, but all I manage is a laugh.
I smooth a hand through my hair, only realizing too late that I’ve nearly lost the tie keeping it in a braid. “Wow,” I say. My voice sounds like I’ve just run a mile. “That was—”
He catches my chin gently. “Yeah. It was.”
I let myself look at him—really look at him, take in the spots of color on his cheekbones and the uncertain curve of his mouth. “We could be in so much trouble,” I murmur.
“Could be?” He slides his thumb along my jaw, and my eyes flutter closed again. “We’re already there.” After a pause, he adds, “Mostly because I forgot to lock the door.”
My eyes go wide. “Brooks!”
With another soft kiss, he chuckles and bends to hand me my clothes back. We both quickly dress, me glancing at the door every two seconds, terrified Jace or Evan or god forbid a random customer might wander in.
I wrap my hands around the collar of his flannel, tugging his mouth to mine once more. “Can I use your restroom?”
He smiles and brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “Of course. You know where it is.”
I press my lips together and slowly shake my head. “Actually, can I use your bathroom at the house? I want to… um, clean up a little so I don’t go home smelling like… well, you.”
His eyes go wide and knowing as he nods. “Ah. Yes, of course.” He starts to grab some of his things, packing up his bag.
“Aren’t you still working on the competition batch?”
He gives me a weary nod. “Yeah, but I can come back down here in a bit.”
“You stay and work. I’ll just be fifteen minutes. I’m not fully showering, it just feels weird to clean this up in your tasting room bathroom… if you know what I mean.”
He smiles as I slide down off the barrel. “I know what you mean.”
As I’m heading toward the door, Brooks grabs a stack of labels and groans. His jaw tightens, and he exhales sharply through his nose before muttering something under his breath. "Damn."
"What?" I ask, straightening from where I'm holding the doorknob.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the window like he can somehow see the cabin from here. "I left tomorrow's gravity log up at the cabin. I was updating it this morning before we opened. I need it before I finish the competition batch."
I smile. "Well, it’s a good thing I’m heading to the cabin, then. I can grab it for you."
His head comes up immediately. "You don't mind?”
"Not at all. You also have about four things happening here at once." I gesture toward the half-labeled barrels, the clipboard he'd abandoned, and the fermenter quietly burbling in the corner. "Just tell me where it is."
Brooks drops the labels and crosses to me, cupping my jaw tenderly. “How’d I get so lucky?”
I shake my head, but also I can’t help the stupid grin that spreads along my face. “I’m grabbing you a notebook, not changing the world for you. Now where is it?”
"Upstairs. First door on the left. I left it on my mirrored dresser.”
I give him another quick kiss before he takes a few steps back. “I’ll be right back,” I say.
“Hey, Willa,” he calls out, stopping me as I pull the door open.
“Who says you’re not changing the world for me?”
We freeze, locked in our eye contact for a full three seconds before he jerks his chin toward the cabin with a quiet, “Go on, then.”
His house is quiet when I let myself inside, so different from the other night. The first time I'd crossed this threshold, I'd been soaked to the bone and trying very hard not to notice how handsome Brooks looked standing in his own kitchen.
Now...
It smells faintly of cedar and coffee, with a hint of cinnamon lingering somewhere in the air. His flannel from yesterday hangs neatly over the back of a chair. A muddy pair of work boots waits by the door beside an apple with two unmistakable little raccoon bite marks.
I smile. Scrumpy. Or maybe one of her babies.
I go into his bathroom and quickly use the facilities, wash my hands and clean myself up a little. Hopefully Patty won’t notice how disheveled I look when I get home.
Then, I make my way upstairs and find the notebook exactly where Brooks said it would be.
I reach for it—then stop.
A scrapbook lies open beside it, one faded photograph peeking out between the pages as though someone had been looking through it not long ago.
I shouldn't snoop. I know I shouldn't.
But the little girl in the picture immediately catches my eye…
Almost without thinking, I slide the photograph free. The caption beneath it is written in looping blue ink.
Orchard Falls Harvest Festival — Brooks and his future wife.
A skinny little boy with dark hair grins at the camera, a bandage stretched crookedly across the bridge of his swollen nose.
Beside him stands a little girl with two braids, clutching an apple nearly too big for her hands sticks her tongue out at the little boy.
My breath catches…
Because that little girl is me.