Chapter 42 Wren
Wren
It’s Saturday, and Atticus is back at his grandparents’ for the rest of the weekend, living his best life. I’m pretty sure he’d move in with them if I let him—he’s got free rein, unlimited snacks, and all the grandparent spoiling a kid could want.
I’m supposed to meet Natalie for another girls’ night later, but the dress I’m wearing is .
. . more revealing than I’d usually go for.
She picked it out for me the other day at the shop and practically begged me to wear it tonight.
I didn’t want to be rude. Plus, it really is cute.
Baby blue, sleeveless, fitted in all the right places, the hem hitting just above mid-thigh, making my legs look longer than they actually are.
My mind wanders to Hunter, wondering what he’d think of me in this.
I bite my lip, imagining it driving him wild.
I’m almost done with my hair and makeup when the urge hits—the itch to write. I can’t not scratch it, not when the words have been coming so easy lately.
I abandon the bathroom counter, dash to my office, and grab my sunflower notebook, paging through all the scribbled letters I’ll never send, until I find the last one.
Then I crack open my laptop and start tapping out a frenzied sex scene for Unsent Love Letters.
Before I know it, an hour’s gone and I’ve got not one but two new chapters down.
I’ve still got two hours before I have to meet Natalie.
Perfect. More time to write.
I’m just about to start another chapter when there’s a knock at the door. I glance at the clock, frowning. Natalie’s not supposed to pick me up, and my parents learned after last time not to show up without calling first.
Peering out the bay window, I spot Hunter’s white pickup.
My heart leaps into my throat at the sight.
When I greet him at the door, he’s holding a small stack of mail, but his eyes are already on me—dragging down my body, lingering on my legs, my hips, the way the dress hugs and exaggerates my curves.
His jaw ticks, his nostrils flaring slightly like he’s trying to rein himself in.
But the more I study his expression, the more I don’t think he’s turned on so much as he’s bothered by the sight.
“Did you get my mail or something?” I ask, playing coy.
“What’s the occasion?” The tone of his question reminds me of a protective father. I realize now that he probably thinks I’m going on a date.
“Girls’ night out.” I spin in a circle. “It’s a little much for the Tipsy Turtle, but—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
Instead, he steps forward, wraps an arm around my waist, and tosses me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Hunter—what are you—”
“You’re not going out looking like that,” he mutters, carrying me up the stairs. “Not until I’ve had you first.”
My stomach flips, a breathless laugh catching in my throat as I swat at his back. But it’s useless. He’s all muscle and determination, and before I know it, he’s kicking my bedroom door open and tossing me onto the bed.
I bounce once, breathless, flushed, staring up at him.
His eyes are dark, hungry, devouring me.
“You can’t do this to me,” he growls, crawling over me, his hands sliding up my bare thighs until he reaches my panties.
“You answer the door looking like a snack, and you’re going to get eaten.
I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go out looking like this, not without me dripping out of you, reminding you no one else can give you what I can. ”
I grin. “You sound jealous.”
“I am.”
“And a little possessive.”
“You bring it out in me, honey.” His lips curl at one side. “Don’t act like it doesn’t turn you on just a little.”
In my thirty-nine years, I’ve never had a boyfriend be jealous or possessive of me, and I always thought those traits would border on creepy. But not with Hunter. It amplifies his sexiness.
And it only makes me wetter.
He kisses me, hard and deep, his hands moving under my dress, dragging it up my hips until it’s bunched around my waist. His mouth moves down my neck, sucking a mark just above my collarbone, claiming me with bites and nips.
“You have any idea how good you look right now?” He breathes his words against my skin.
I shake my head, dazed, wanting, wishing I could cancel my plans and have a night in—with him.
He sits back, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I’m straddling him, the dress pushed up, nothing between us but my panties and his jeans. His rough hands roam, palms skimming my thighs, my hips, my waist. He traces every curve like he’s memorizing them.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You have no idea,” he says, his voice thick. “I could come just looking at you.”
I shiver, his words sinking into my skin, wishing I could hear them for the first time all over again.
He pulls down the bodice of my dress. His gaze drops, drinking in every inch of me. His fingertips trace the stretch marks on my hips before tending to the soft curve of my stomach.
My eyes follow his hands . . . My tiger stripes now feel more illuminated than ever. It isn’t like he hasn’t seen my body before, but under the golden lamplight of my bedroom, they’re on full display. Without thinking, I rest my forearms over them.
He moves them immediately and drinks me in along with a long, slow breath and a steady gaze.
“I hope you know,” he begins, fingers ghosting over the lines, “that I fucking love these. Not only is your body a work of art, it brought a life into this world. You’re a woman in every sense of the word and it drives me crazy.”
I bite my lip, watching him, my chest tightening at how reverent he looks—like I’m some masterpiece he’s been waiting his whole life to see.
The first time Nick saw them, he had a micro-visceral reaction.
When I pointed it out, he assured me they didn’t bother him, but his eyes told a different story.
After that, he only ever wanted to make love in the dark.
If only I’d put it all together earlier . . .
Hunter’s hands are everywhere—rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where to touch first. The hem of my dress is still bunched around my waist, my panties now pushed aside. He palms my hips like he owns them, like I’m his to ruin, his to devour.
And then he’s between my thighs, the heat of his mouth demanding, reverent.
I fall back on my elbows, my breath catching as his tongue drags slow, delicious strokes that make my legs tremble around his shoulders. He holds me open, his grip commanding and steady, like he wants to make sure I don’t squirm away—not that I’d ever dream of it.
“Hunter,” I gasp, my hips tilting toward him, chasing the friction.
He groans against me, the sound sending a vibration straight through my core. I’m already close, already aching, and he knows it. He flattens his tongue, teasing the spot that makes me shudder, then pulls back just enough to look up at me.
“You taste so fucking good,” he whispers, lips glistening. “I think you should cancel your plans and let me spend all night right here, between your thighs, working this gorgeous fucking pussy.”
His words are gasoline on an already burning fire.
He dives back in, hungrier this time, his tongue circling, his mouth sucking just right. My body tenses, the orgasm inching closer, faster, and I can’t catch my breath.
“God—Hunter—just like that—” I breathe.
My body tightens, the pressure snapping as I come hard against his mouth, my back arching, a strangled cry slipping out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t let up—not until I’m trembling, too sensitive, pulling at his hair, begging him to stop.
When he finally rises to his feet, his grin is smug, his eyes dark with heat.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says, voice thick. “We’re just getting started.”
I don’t argue. I crawl to the center of the messy bed, discarding what’s left of my now-wrinkled dress and panties, my skin flushed, my wetness still throbbing. I watch as he strips, his body all sharp lines and solid muscle, every inch of him chiseled like he was built for hard labor—and for me.
He climbs onto the bed, his hands roaming my thighs, my hips, my stomach. He traces the faint stretch marks there, too, his touch gentle, his eyes locked on mine.
Hunter murmurs something that sounds like pleasure, his thumb brushing one of the lines.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. No one’s ever looked at me like this before. Like every part of me—every so-called flaw—is something to behold.
“You’re so goddamn stunning, Wren,” he says, his gaze worshipful. “Every inch of you. Every freckle. Every scar. Every curve. Every mark. Every angle. Every line.”
His words make me dizzy and warm. I pull him close, kissing him deep, tasting myself on his tongue. He pins me, pressing me into the mattress, his body heavy and hot, his cock hard against my thigh.
“Condom,” I whisper, breathless.
He reaches for his wallet on the nightstand, tears one open, rolls it on. Then he’s between my legs, his eyes never leaving mine.
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him closer.
He pushes into me slow, inch by inch, until I’m stretched full, gasping at the perfect pressure, the perfect fit. We stay like that for a beat—still, connected, eyes locked. The air between us is thick, charged, like we’re both waiting for the other to say something, to break the spell.
But there’s nothing to say.
I feel it in the way he moves—slow, deep, intentional. Like he’s savoring every second. Like he’s making a memory.
He thrusts deeper, hitting that spot in front of my cervix that makes me cry out, and his hand clamps over my mouth, his eyes darkening.
“Gotta stay quiet, honey,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine. “Don’t want anyone hearing you like this.”
Despite it just being the two of us for miles and miles, his words make me wetter, my body clenching around him, desperate for more. He moves faster, his hips snapping, his hand still over my mouth, his other hand gripping my thigh, holding me open wide so he can go deeper yet.