Chapter 6
six
Isla
The bell chimes, and I look up from reorganizing the yarn wall to see Mac filling my doorway, looking harassed in a way that makes me want to laugh and kiss him at the same time.
"She's driving me insane," he says by way of greeting.
"Good afternoon to you too." I grin at him. "Let me guess. Birdie?"
"I took her heating pad away for ten minutes to make her tea, and when I came back, she'd somehow found her crochet hooks." He runs a hand through his hair. "With a sprained arm."
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine. Smug, actually." He crosses to the counter, and I notice the exhaustion around his eyes. Two weeks of living with a stubborn eighty-five-year-old is clearly taking its toll. "I swear, if she had to crochet with her toes, she'd do it."
I laugh, then round the counter and pull him into a kiss. He makes a desperate sound and hauls me closer, his hands gripping my hips like he's drowning and I'm air.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Missed you," he says roughly. "So fucking much."
"It's only been two weeks."
"Two weeks of falling into bed exhausted the second Birdie's asleep. Two weeks of no privacy, no time alone, no—" He stops, his jaw tight with frustration.
I get it. He's been staying at his cabin to take care of Birdie, and between his work and her needs, we've barely had five minutes alone. A few stolen kisses when he drops by the shop. A phone call late at night when he's too wound up to sleep. But nothing more.
My body has been aching for him.
I hand him the yarn, and when our fingers brush, heat shoots through me. Two weeks. It's been two weeks since I've had him inside me, and every cell in my body is screaming for him.
"You know," I say, my voice coming out huskier than intended, "I've been thinking."
"About?" His eyes darken like he knows exactly what I've been thinking about.
"Your work. The pieces you make." I force myself to focus on the actual words. "They're incredible, Mac. Museum quality. And people should know that."
His jaw tightens. "We talked about this."
"I know. But hear me out." I take a breath, very aware of how close he's standing. "What if we sold them here? In my shop? Under your name. Properly displayed, with information about the charity."
"Isla—"
"Business has been slow," I continue, my heart racing. "March is always dead. But your work could change that. People would come from all over to see it. And you wouldn't have to hide anymore."
"I'm not hiding." But his jaw is tight.
"Then what's holding you back?" I step closer. I shouldn't. We're supposed to be having a serious conversation. "People already know about us. They saw you at the hospital. You've been coming here. This is just letting them see your work. Your talent."
"What if it changes things? What if people start treating me different?"
"Mac." I reach up and touch his face. "You're an artist. What you create is beautiful and meaningful. The people who matter already respect you."
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then his gaze drops to my mouth. "What if they don't understand why I do it?"
"Then I'll make them understand." My voice is fierce. "But the work speaks for itself. You know it does."
The words break something in both of us. He pulls me against him and kisses me hard, desperate, like he's been starving for it. Which he has. Which we both have.
I melt into it immediately, my hands fisting in his flannel shirt. When he breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard.
"I'll think about it," he says roughly.
"That's all I'm asking."
He glances toward the front windows, then at the door to the back room.
"How long until you close?"
"Two hours." But I'm already reaching for his hand. "Or I could close early."
"Isla." It comes out strangled. "I've been going crazy. Two weeks of wanting you and not being able to touch you properly. Of falling asleep alone knowing you're across town."
"Then stop talking," I say, flipping the sign to CLOSED, "and touch me."
That's all it takes. He pulls me toward the back room like the building's on fire, and maybe it is.
Maybe we both are. The lock clicks behind us, and then we're on each other like we've been separated for years instead of weeks.
But two weeks without him has felt like years.
Two weeks of aching, of wanting, of touching myself in bed and wishing it was his hands instead.
He backs me against the wall first, kissing me like he's trying to devour me. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding under my sweater to cup my breasts through my bra.
"Missed you so fucking much," he growls against my mouth. "Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think. Just kept imagining this."
"What?" I'm already breathless. "Imagining what?"
"You. Bent over this counter. On your knees. Screaming my name where anyone could hear."
Heat floods through me. "Mac!"
"I’ve been going to bed hard, waking up hard, working through the day with a constant ache." He bites my neck, making me gasp. "Tell me you felt it too."
"God, yes. Every night. I'd touch myself thinking about you, but it wasn't enough. It's never enough unless it's you."
He makes a rough sound and spins me around, bending me over the counter. My cheek presses against the cool surface, and I can feel him hard against my ass as he grinds into me.
"This what you imagined?" His voice is dark, possessive. "Me taking you like this?"
"Yes." It comes out as a whimper.
His hands make quick work of my jeans, shoving them down along with my underwear. The air hits my bare skin, and then his hand is between my legs, finding me soaking wet.
"Fuck. You're drenched." He slides two fingers inside me easily, and I moan.
"Please," I beg. "No teasing. I need you."
"What do you need?" He pumps his fingers slowly, torturously. "Tell me."
"Your cock. Inside me. Now."
I hear his belt buckle, the zipper, and then he's lining himself up. He pushes inside in one hard thrust, and I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, the sheer relief of finally being filled again.
"Fuck, you're tight." His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. "So fucking perfect."
He doesn't give me time to adjust. He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, setting a brutal pace that has the counter digging into my hipbones. I don't care. I push back to meet every thrust, taking him deeper, harder.
"Yes," I gasp. "God, yes, just like that!"
"I missed you wrapped around me, taking me so well." He leans over me, one hand sliding around to find my breast, the other sliding down to where we're joined. "Missed making you scream."
His fingers find my clit, circling roughly, and I do scream. The sound echoes off the walls of the back room, and I distantly hope no one's walking by outside.
"That's it. Let everyone know. Let them hear you taking my cock."
The dirty talk, the roughness, the sheer desperation of it all—it's too much. I'm already close, that coil of pleasure winding tighter with every thrust.
"Mac, I'm—I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He slows down, torturing me. "Not until I say."
"Please—"
"Beg me."
"Please." I'm not above begging. Not when I need this so badly. "Please let me come. I need it. I need you."
He pulls out completely and then he's turning me around, lifting me onto the counter. My jeans are still tangled around my ankles, but he doesn't bother removing them. He just steps between my spread thighs and thrusts back inside.
This angle is deeper, more intense. I wrap my legs around him as best I can, pulling him closer. He kisses me hard while he fucks me, swallowing my moans, his tongue claiming my mouth the way his cock is claiming my body.
"Look at me," he demands, pulling back. "Want to see your face when you come."
I force my eyes open, meeting that pale blue gaze. His expression fierce and possessive and full of need.
It only takes a few more thrusts before I'm shattering, my whole body going rigid as the orgasm crashes through me. I try to keep my eyes open, to watch him watching me, but it's too intense. My eyes squeeze shut as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me.
"Fuck, yes." His rhythm falters as my body clamps down on him. "Feel so good when you come. So fucking tight."
He thrusts three more times, hard and deep, before he follows me over with a groan that sounds like my name. I feel him pulse inside me, filling me, and some primitive part of me revels in it.
We stay frozen like that, both shaking, both gasping for air. Papers have scattered everywhere. Inventory tags litter the floor. A roll of ribbon has unspooled across the room.
"Holy shit," I finally manage.
He lifts his head from where it was buried in my neck, and despite everything, he's almost smiling. That real smile that makes my heart skip. "Birdie's staying at her own place from now on. I can't go another two weeks without this."
I laugh breathlessly, then wince as he pulls out. "What about her recovery?"
"She's fine. The doctor cleared her to live alone. I'm the one who's been hovering." He helps me off the counter, steadies me when my legs wobble. "But she doesn't need me there 24/7 anymore. And I need you."
"Good." I cup his face in my hands, suddenly serious. "Because I need you too. Every night. In my bed where you belong."
He kisses me softly, so different from the desperate urgency of moments ago. "Tonight?"
"Tonight," I confirm. "Come over after you get Birdie settled. Stay with me."
"Yeah." He kisses me again, deeper. "Okay."
We clean up in silence. When we emerge back into the shop, disheveled and flushed, I catch our reflection in the window and have to stifle a laugh.
We look thoroughly debauched.
"You have a..." Mac reaches out and picks a price tag out of my hair. "Here."
"Thanks." I'm biting my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
He picks up the yarn he came for, still sitting on the counter where he left it, and I ring him up properly this time. When I hand him the bag, his fingers linger on mine.
"I'll bring some pieces by," he says quietly. "Tomorrow. After work. We can talk about selling them. Figure out how to do this."
"Really?" I can barely contain my hope.
"Really." He leans across the counter and kisses me softly.
After he leaves, I stand behind the counter for a long moment, just staring out the shop window. My body is deliciously sore. Satisfied.
And under it all, I'm grateful for stubborn old women who insist on crocheting with sprained arms, for men who knit baby blankets and kiss me senseless in back rooms, and for the strange, perfect way life sometimes gives you exactly what you need when you least expect it.