Chapter 38 Wren
Wren
I’m already five chapters into Unsent Love Letters, and I still can’t decide if it’s brilliant or way too on the nose.
It’s a book about a romance writer with writer’s block who moves back to her hometown to start fresh, and wouldn’t you know it—she’s got a grumpy farmer neighbor. She writes him love letters she’ll never send, just to get her spark back.
It’s suspiciously familiar, but no one needs to know that besides me and my editor.
Hunter, if he ever found out, would probably have a fit about me putting personal details in my books.
But I won’t. Maybe a cute line or two, sure—but the things we do together, especially in the bedroom?
That’s ours. Just ours. I’d never put that in print, no matter how much the world might eat it up.
I finish polishing chapter five and email the first batch of chapters to Laurel before my stomach grumbles loud enough to startle me. Closing my laptop, I stretch before heading to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich.
Out the window, I spot Hunter’s truck rumbling past, headed toward his shop up the hill, a trail of gravel dust in its wake.
And just like that, my plans change.
I throw together a couple of ham sandwiches, toss in some chips, and grab two bottled waters. At the last second, I slip into a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a white tank—no bra because why bother—and slide on some leather thong sandals.
Ten minutes later, I’m pushing open the door to his shop. The space is massive, all high ceilings and steel beams, scattered with equipment in various states of disrepair.
Hunter’s crouched behind a tractor axle, and the second he looks up and sees me, his entire face shifts—softens, brightens.
“Brought you lunch,” I say, holding up the bag.
“How’d you know I was starving,” he quips, wiping his hands on a rag as he stalks toward me. His eyes are already dark, fixed on me like I’m dessert. Something tells me he’s not starving for food . . .
The door clicks shut behind me, and he’s on me before I can even set the bag down.
“You’re gonna walk in dressed like that and expect me to eat a sandwich?” he growls, gripping my hips, fingers digging into the waistband of my shorts.
I grin. “I was making myself a lunch. Thought you might be hungry.”
“Oh, I’m hungry all right,” he says, yanking the shorts down my legs in one swift, impatient move. Before I can say anything else, he lifts me effortlessly, propping me up on a nearby workbench where he then spreads my legs apart and angles himself between them.
“You sure we have time for this?” I tease.
“No. Not at all. Boys’ll be back any minute,” he says, dropping to his knees, looking up at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted. “But this won’t take long.”
The next thing I know he’s between my thighs, his mouth on my sex, his tongue dragging slow and deep like he’s truly famished.
I brace myself on the edge of the bench, gasping, my head tipping back as heat floods every inch of me. His hands are rough, palms spread wide on my thighs, holding me in place, his mouth working me over like he’s got something to prove.
He devours me with sharp, precise strokes that make my spine arch, my legs trembling. I bite down on my lip to keep quiet, but it’s no use—every flick of his tongue has me unraveling faster than I can hold together.
“Hunter—” I gasp, but he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going until I’m breaking apart, the orgasm ripping through me so fast and hard I have to slap a hand over my own mouth to muffle the cry.
By the time I catch my breath, he’s standing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he just won first prize at the county fair.
I re-dress as quickly as I can, tugging my shorts and panties up, barely managing to get my tank top straight when the door swings open.
Three guys stroll in, talking loud—until they see me. Then it’s crickets.
“Boys,” Hunter says, his voice casual. “This is Wren.”
They each nod, eyes flicking between us like they know exactly what they just walked in on. My cheeks flush warm. Hunter stays composed and unbothered with a hint of pride behind his bright blue eyes.
“That’s Cal,” Hunter says, motioning to the tall guy with a backward hat and a permanent shit-eating grin. “Truitt”—he gestures to a stockier guy with a dark beard and kind eyes—“and that’s Levi. He’s Cal’s cousin. Sometimes he helps out around here.”
Levi gives me a polite nod, young, probably late teens, shy smile on his face.
I give them a wave, cheeks still burning but trying to play it cool.
They’re rough around the edges, but polite. The kind of farm boys you can tell grew up being raised right, even if they can’t hide the knowing glances between them.
Hunter grabs the lunch bag from the counter and winks at me.
“Thanks for lunch,” he says, his eyes still eating me alive.
And all I can think about is the fact that I’m standing in a grease-stained shop, my body still buzzing, my stomach still growling. He got his fill, but I’m still hungry—for him.