Chapter 4 Brooks
Chapter four
Brooks
My mouth finds the curve of her shoulder before she's fully awake.
The taste of her skin, vanilla and something uniquely Elorie, floods my senses, and desire hardens my cock.
My arm tightens around her waist automatically, pulling her flush against my chest. She arches into the touch without thinking, still caught in sleep, and the unconscious trust in that movement sends possessive satisfaction racing down my spine.
Aftershave and smoke cling to her curls. She smells like me now. The knowledge brands itself into my ribs, primal and certain.
I kiss her shoulder again, then her neck, and she stirs. She turns in my arms with a soft murmur that makes my jaw clench. Her eyes flutter open, soft with sleep at first, then darkening as they focus on my face.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning." She stretches, the movement pressing her body against mine in ways that make my pulse kick hard. "What time is it?"
"Early." I brush a curl from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in ages." Her smile is small but genuine. "You?"
"Same." I cup her jaw, thumb tracing her bottom lip. "I like waking up together, knowing you're safe. That you're mine."
The possessiveness bleeds through despite my efforts to keep it under control. But instead of pulling away, she leans into my touch.
"Yours," she confirms, and the word settles over me like a vow.
I kiss her then. Slow and thorough, my hand sliding into her hair to angle her head exactly where I want it. She opens for me with that same trusting ease, and when we finally part, we're both out of breath.
Her hands are on my chest, fingers splayed over my heartbeat. "Brooks."
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to move."
"Then don't." I kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. "We can stay here all day."
She laughs softly. "Sophie would kill me."
"I'd protect you."
"My hero." There's teasing in her voice but warmth underneath. She traces one of the scars across my ribs, and I catch her hand gently.
"I need to get up before I do something we're not ready for." The truth of it sits heavy in my chest. I want her badly enough that staying in this bed is dangerous. But rushing this feels wrong. She deserves better than me taking what I want without making sure she's ready to give it.
I roll out of bed with visible reluctance. Her eyes track every movement, the flex of muscle in my back, the scars that map stories I'm still learning to tell. When I turn to grab my jeans from the chair, I catch her staring.
"Like what you see?" I ask, pulling the denim up my hips but leaving them unbuttoned.
Pink floods her cheeks, turning her skin that warm, flushed color I love. "Maybe."
"Good." I cross back to the bed and lean down, caging her in with my hands on either side of her head. My mouth hovers just above hers. "Because I like what I see too. I can think of about a million ways I want to put my hands on you. Show you exactly what I want to do to you."
Her pupils dilate. "Brooks."
"But first—" I kiss her once, hard and claiming. "Breakfast. Because if I don't leave this room right now, we're not leaving it at all."
I grab one of my shirts from the dresser and toss it to her.
She catches it, confusion flickering across her face until she realizes what I'm offering.
When she slips it on, the fabric hangs low on her thighs, and my hands curl into fists at my sides.
She looks perfect in my clothes. Like she belongs here. In my space. My life. Mine.
"You're staring again," she says, but there's no nervousness in it now. Just awareness.
"Can't help it." I force myself to turn toward the door before I change my mind about breakfast. "Come on."
The kitchen fills with morning light, warm through windows that frame the mountains. I start coffee while she wanders to the mantel, studying the photos there. Her fingers trace the frame holding the picture of Grant and his wife Emma at their place in a small town called Granitehart Ridge.
"That's my brother, Grant," I say, bringing her a mug. Steam rises between us, and I let my fingers brush hers when she takes it. The contact lingers longer than necessary. "He lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Mountains and does search and rescue. His wife owns a chaotic herd of goats people rent out to clear brush from their land if it’s impossible to mow.”
"You're close with him?"
"I am now, but we didn’t used to be." I lean against the counter, watching her over the rim of my coffee. "We’re pretty different, but we’ve learned we have more in common than we thought.”
“You guys found your way back."
"Yeah." The word comes easier than I expect. "We did."
She doesn't push for more, and I'm grateful. I think about the other photo I keep in my desk drawer. Marcus in his gear, grinning like he had all the time in the world. The letters I’ve written to him, packed away and unaddressed. The guilt that sits in my chest like a stone I can't swallow.
But she doesn't know about any of that yet. Doesn't know the full shape of what I'm carrying.
She doesn't push for more, and I'm grateful. She turns back to me with that soft smile and asks about Grant's goats like she knows I need the lighter conversation. Like she's learning my silences, the way I process things by touch and time instead of words.
Showing me I can trust her with my broken pieces.
The eggs sizzle in the pan. When I set the plate in front of her, my hand finds her thick thigh automatically. Warm skin under my palm. The muscle there jumps at my touch, and I let my thumb trace a slow circle against the inside of her knee.
She covers my hand with hers. Squeezes. Her nails are short, practical, but the pressure of them against my knuckles makes my pulse kick.
"This is good," she says after the first bite.
"My one domestic skill." I watch her eat, tracking the way her throat works when she swallows. "That and making coffee strong enough to strip paint."
She laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. Fills me.
We eat in comfortable silence, our knees touching under the counter. The eggs are perfectly seasoned, the toast buttered just right. When I reach over to wipe a crumb from the corner of her mouth, my thumb lingers against her bottom lip. Her eyes darken, and heat flares between us.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Grant's name appears on the screen.
I almost ignore it, but Elorie nods toward it. "You should answer."
I grab the phone and accept the call, keeping one hand on her thigh. "Yeah?"
"You still breathing?" Grant's voice comes through warm with amusement. "Because you never call anymore. I’m starting to think something happened to you."
"I'm fine."
"You sound different." There's a pause, and I can practically hear him grinning. "Happy. You met someone."
Not a question. A certainty.
"Her name's Elorie," I say, and my hand tightens on her leg. "Works at a bookstore in Pine Valley."
"And you've totally fallen for her."
The statement hits me square in the chest. I glance at Elorie, who's watching me with soft eyes and a small smile. "How can you tell?"
"Because you sound like I did when I met Emma. Like someone finally reminded you you're allowed to be happy." Grant's laugh is quiet. "The goats got out again, by the way. Took us two hours to round them up, but they cleared out the brambles we’d been meaning to get to."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Sounds like you've got it handled."
"Emma’s got it handled,” he corrects. “Someone has to keep this place running." He pauses. "You coming up when you get your next leave? Bring your girl. Emma would love to meet her."
"Maybe."
"That's a no. But the offer stands." His voice softens. "Brooks? Don't run from this. Whatever you're feeling, don't let the past talk you out of it."
The words lodge in my throat. Don't run. The fear is still there, lurking underneath everything else. The certainty that I'll fail her the way I failed Marcus. But looking at Elorie now, trusting me, choosing me, sitting in my kitchen wearing my shirt, the fear feels smaller. Manageable.
"I'm not running," I say and mean it.
"Good. Because from what I'm hearing in your voice, she's worth staying for."
He's right. She is.
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important: Granitehart Ridge, the weather, Emma's latest project. When we hang up, I set the phone down and kiss Elorie's temple.
"Your brother sounds nice," she says.
"He is. You'd like him." I tilt her chin up so I can see her face. "And he'd like you."
"You think so?"
"I know so." I kiss her softly. "He’s got a brotherhood on the mountain, three other ex-firefighters turned search and rescue like him who all watch out for each other. Everyone's going to like you. Because you're perfect. And you're mine."
She smiles against my mouth. "Yours."
She finishes her coffee and slides off the stool to set the mug in the sink. When she turns, I'm right there. Close enough that her vanilla scent wraps around me, mixing with the lingering scent of coffee and morning.
"I want to take you back to bed," I say, and the confession comes out rough. "But only if you want that too."
Color rises in her cheeks. "I want that."
The words snap the last thread holding me back.
I lift her onto the counter in one smooth motion, the same counter where I just made breakfast, where we just ate together like this is normal, like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
She gasps at the sudden movement, and I step between her thighs, crowding close.
She's still wearing my shirt. Nothing underneath. The knowledge makes my hands unsteady.
"Last night was about you," I say. "This is still about you. I need you to understand that."
"Brooks—"