Chapter 3
Chapter three
Elorie
The power dies with a sharp click, then a low whine that makes my heart lurch.
One second, the bookstore glows warm with overhead lights and fairy strings along the brick, the next I'm swallowed by darkness so unexpected my breath catches. Thunder shakes the building hard enough to rattle mugs on their hooks, and I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself.
Rain hammers the windows in sheets, turning the world outside into nothing but a black and gray blur.
Shadows press in from every corner, and my pulse climbs fast. The night I left Denver, thunder cracked overhead just like this while I drove through rain that blurred everything into streaks of gold and red.
I force myself to breathe. The bookstore smells like espresso grounds and old books, familiar and grounding, but the darkness swallows everything else. The dim illumination from the exit lights does little to make me feel comfortable without Brooks here.
I hum under my breath without meaning to, the melody soft and tuneless.
It's a habit I picked up somewhere along the way, a way to fill the silence when my thoughts get too loud.
Headlights sweep across the windows. A familiar truck pulls up outside.
Relief and want twist in my chest. Brooks.
He cuts the engine and climbs out, his jacket pulled up around his shoulders as he jogs through the rain toward the door.
I unlock it before he knocks, pulling it open and stepping back.
Water drips from the brim of his cap onto the floor, and his boots leave wet prints across the tile.
He fills the doorway, broad and steady, and the sight of him makes my lungs work easier.
"Power's out," I say. It's obvious, but I need to say something.
"I know." He pulls off his cap and runs a hand through his damp hair. Rain clings to his jaw, following the line of that faint scar. He sets the umbrella back in its spot with his other hand. "The whole block went dark. A transformer blew a few streets over."
"How long will it take to fix?"
"Couple hours, maybe more. Depends on when the linemen can get to it."
Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows. I flinch before I can stop myself, and his eyes track the movement. Sharp. Assessing. His jaw tightens.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he says, and his voice drops lower, rougher.
"I was just about to leave."
"In this?" He nods toward the windows where rain lashes against the glass hard enough to blur the streetlights. "Roads are flooded from all the rain we’ve had. You won't make it two blocks."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Stay here." He says it as if it's the only option. As if the idea of me driving through this storm makes him physically uncomfortable. "I'll stay with you until the power comes back on or the rain lets up."
My throat tightens, but this time it's not from fear. It's from the way he's looking at me as though he's already decided, and nothing I say will change his mind.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." His fingers curl at his sides, then release, in a deliberate, controlled movement.
"But you're going to anyway."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Yeah."
Words fail me. I don't want him to leave. I don't want to be alone in the dark with nothing but the storm and memories I can't outrun.
"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."
He nods and moves toward the counter, setting his cap down and shrugging out of his jacket. His uniform shirt hugs his shoulders. I force my eyes away before I catalog the way the fabric pulls across his chest and the flex of muscle in his forearms.
"You got candles?"
"Yeah. In the back."
I grab my phone and lead him down the hallway, the light from the flashlight casting long shadows. The tall pillar candles are on a shelf near the storage room door. I hand him a few, and he carries them back to the main room, setting them on tables and lighting them with a lighter from his pocket.
The bookstore transforms. Flickering candlelight softens everything, turning the space intimate and hushed.
I sink into one of the chairs near the window, watching rain stream down the glass.
He sits across the table from me, close enough that I smell aftershave and smoke and clean rain on his skin.
His knee brushes mine under the table, and the contact sends electricity racing up my thigh. I watch his palms rest flat against the wood, imagining them on my waist, my hips, sliding up my ribs. The candlelight catches in his eyes, turning them dark and warm. My stomach flips.
"You okay?" he asks.
Maybe it's the storm. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's both.
"Yeah. It's just the storm."
His gaze holds mine, and I watch something shift in his expression. Recognition. Understanding. For a second, his face goes distant, haunted, as if he's somewhere else entirely. Then, he refocuses on me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"You're safe. I'm right here."
A thunderclap rattles the windows. I jolt, air catching in my throat, and he moves.
He's out of his chair and crouching in front of me before I can process it, one hand resting on the arm of my chair and the other on the table in front of me. Caging me in without touching me. The scent of rain in his hair surrounds me, and his chest rises and falls with controlled breaths.
"You're safe," he says, low and steady. "I'm right here. Nothing's going to hurt you."
I nod, but my hands are shaking. He sees the fear, of course he does, and reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I don't, his hand closes over mine. Warm. Solid. Grounding.
"Breathe," he says.
I do. In through my nose, out through my mouth. His thumb brushes across my knuckles in a small, deliberate movement that sends heat racing up my arm and into my chest.
"Better?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out breathless. I don't know if it's from the storm or from him. Or from his gaze that strips me bare.
He doesn't move. He stays crouched in front of me, his hand still covering mine. The candlelight flickers across his face. His eyes are dark, intense, and the muscle in his jaw ticks like he's fighting something.
"Brooks," I say. I don't know what I'm asking for.
He knows anyway.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to stop him. To pull back. To tell him this is a bad idea. But I don't. I tilt my head up, and when his lips brush against mine, the storm outside fades to nothing.
The kiss is gentle at first. A question more than a demand. But I remember the way he first kissed me, the way his touch felt on my skin, and I need more. I grip his shoulders and pull him closer. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat that makes my pussy tighten with need.
He deepens the kiss, and it's not gentle anymore.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head to the angle he wants, and I open for him.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, claiming, and I meet him with equal desperation.
He tastes like rain and caramel and something darker, something that makes my spine tingle and my knees go weak.
He stands, pulling me up with him, and we take a step back until my back hits the wall.
Every inch of his solid warmth presses against me, and I feel the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms, the way his hips pin me in place.
The hard ridge of his cock presses into me. Deliberate. Possessive.
His knee slides between my thighs, spreading them, and a sound escapes my throat that I've never made before.
His hand grips my hip, thumb hooking into my belt loop, holding me exactly where he wants me.
His other hand cups the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, controlling the angle of the kiss.
His lips trail down my jaw to my neck. I whimper. My nails scrape against his scalp, and he groans against my throat. The sound vibrates through me, sending a spiral of heat into my pussy. His teeth graze my pulse point, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make me shiver.
"Brooks," I gasp, and his name sounds rougher, more desperate this time.
He lifts his head, his eyes locking on to mine. Hunger darkens his gaze. His jaw locks like he's fighting himself. "Tell me to stop."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, I'm not going to."
I search his face and see the war happening behind his eyes in the candlelight. Want versus fear. Need versus restraint. I don't want him to stop but to keep touching me, keep looking at me like this might mean something.
"Don't stop," I whisper.
His eyes flare, pupils dilating until the brown is almost black. Then his mouth crashes into mine again, harder this time, more demanding. He lifts me easily, and my legs wrap around his waist. He carries me through the shop, his fingers digging into my hips.
The old leather couch sits against the back wall in the reading area, soft and cool when he lays me down. He follows me, his weight pressing me into the cushions, and kisses me again. This one is claiming. Possessive. His touch is everywhere: on my waist, my hair, sliding down to grip my thighs.
He leans back. Our eyes lock. His fingers find the button of my jeans. "Tell me if it's too much. If you need me to slow down or stop."
"It’s not too much," I manage.
He works the button free. The zipper follows, and he hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging the denim down my hips.
I lift my hips to help him, and the denim pools on the floor.
Cool air hits my legs, and his hands run up my thighs, rough palms against soft skin.
The contrast makes my lungs work harder.
"You're so soft," he says, and his voice is rough with reverence. "So responsive. I love how you react to me."
Heat floods through me from my cheeks to my pussy, but I don't look away. His touch continues, thumbs brushing the inside of my thighs, and my legs fall open without conscious thought. He hooks his fingers into my damp panties and pauses, his eyes searching mine.
I nod.