Chapter 42 Wren #2
I’m close again, the tension building, my body burning. He feels it, too—I can tell by the way his thrusts get rougher, more urgent, his breath ragged against my ear.
“Come for me,” he commands in a low growl. “I want to feel you pulse around my cock.”
Just like that, I do—hard and fast, my body shuddering beneath him, the orgasm tearing through me like a wave I can’t outrun. He follows with a guttural groan, his body tensing, his hips stuttering before coming to a complete stop for a few seconds.
When it’s over, he collapses on top of me, both of us breathless, our skin damp, hearts racing.
We stay like that for a long time—tangled, sweaty, quiet.
Eventually, he rolls onto his side, pulling me with him, his arm heavy around my waist, his lips pressing lazy kisses to my shoulder.
“You’ve ruined me,” he mutters against my skin, “for anyone else. I hope you know that.”
Same—only I don’t tell him that.
He pulls me tighter.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing, the chirping of the crickets and bullfrogs outside, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ear.
I’ve never felt more wanted, more desired in my life.
He holds me close for what feels like forever, his hand stroking my hair, his lips brushing my temple.
I never want this to end—but I know too well that all good things always do.
“You’re addictive,” he says, still catching his breath. “Every time I get a piece of you, I want even more.”
I smile, letting his words soak into my desert-dry soul. I hope he means it, but odds are he’s just a man saying what men say when they’re basking in the afterglow of an intense bedroom session.
Still, I allow myself to enjoy it—carefully.
We stay tangled in each other’s arms for a while, neither of us moving, both of us pretending time isn’t ticking by faster than we want it to.
I’m half tempted to text Natalie and cancel, just so I don’t have to leave this bed.
My head is on his chest, his hand lazily tracing circles on my back, when a thought pops up and won’t leave.
“Hey,” I say. “Those old toys . . . from the other night. The ones Atticus found in the closet.”
His hand stills.
I lift my head, catching the shift in his expression—softening, clouding. He stares at the ceiling for a beat, his jaw tightening like he knows exactly where this is headed.
“Those were mine,” he says, voice low. “Mine and my brother’s.”
I blink, sitting up a little. “Ben?”
His gaze flicks to mine, surprised. “How’d you know?”
I push some hair out of my face. “I saw some drawings. In the closet in Atticus’s room. They had his name on them.”
He lets out a breath, like the memory’s settling heavy on his chest.
“You grew up in this house, didn’t you?” I ask, gently.
He nods.
“That why you wanted this land so bad?”
His eyes drift to the window, the fields stretching wide and endless under the afternoon sky. “Yeah.”
I almost tell him I’m sorry. That I didn’t know. That I wouldn’t have bid on the place if I’d known what it meant to him. But I bite my tongue because he’s not done. His eyes are somewhere else—years away, distant but vivid.
“I was sixteen. Ben was twelve,” he starts, his voice steady but faint. “We were outside . . . right down by the river that runs past the back of the property. Ben was messing around, skipping rocks, doing whatever he could to get my attention.”
He pauses, his lips pressing thin.
“I didn’t pay him any mind. I had a girl over. My first real girlfriend. Big deal at the time, I suppose. At that age, I was more interested in her than my kid brother. She wanted to go sneak around behind the grain bin . . . so I went.”
I can already feel an ache boiling in my chest because I have a feeling where this is going, but I don’t interrupt.
“When I came back, he was gone,” Hunter says, staring hard at the ceiling. “At first I thought he just wandered off to chase frogs or something. Then I heard screaming.”
His voice wavers, just barely.
“The current was strong that day. Fast. We’d had a lot of rain that spring. I saw him bobbing . . . going under and coming back up. Flailing. Screaming.”
He swallows hard, voice tightening.
“I kicked off my boots and jumped in. My girlfriend ran for help. But the water . . . it was too fast. Too damn fast. I couldn’t get to him.”
His eyes turn glassy and he goes quiet, too quiet.
I remain in this silence with him, my chest tight, my pulse hammering.
“We didn’t find his body until the next day,” he finally says, barely above a whisper. “Five miles downstream. Washed up on some riverbank.”
I swipe at my eyes, tears I didn’t even realize were spilling over.
“Hunter,” I say, my voice breaking. “I . . . I can’t imagine how horrific that must’ve been.”
I think about the day he pulled my son from that river. The fury in his eyes, the way he snapped at me, the way his hands shook. It all makes sense now. Every piece of it.
“My mom couldn’t bear to stay here after,” he says, staring blankly ahead.
“Too many memories. Too much tragedy. Every time she looked at the river, it reminded her of what it stole from her. Wasn’t long before my parents sold the place to Rich Sanders for dirt cheap, and we moved to the other side of town. Away from the river.”
He shakes his head like he’s still pissed about it, all these years later.
Knowing what I now know about Hunter and the kind of man he is, I imagine this is why he owns all the riverfront land in the county . . . he wanted to do what he could to keep that water from stealing another life.
“I always told myself I’d buy it back. Despite everything . . . this land, this house—it reminds me of Ben. Every inch of it. It’s all I have left of him.” His voice is soft, reverent. “It’s sacred ground to me.”
I press my lips tight, willing myself not to cry harder.
“Before my mother passed, she told me she regretted selling it. She said she was too heartbroken to think straight at the time. But she wished she’d never let it go. I promised her I’d get it back someday.” He turns to me then, eyes heavy but kind. “Then you showed up.”
My heart aches at the way he says it.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
He nods, a faint, sad smile pulling at his mouth. “I know you didn’t.”
Without thinking, I throw my arms around him, holding him tight, burying my face in his neck. He smells like skin and warmth and something distinctly him.
For a while, neither of us says a word. We just hold each other, the weight of the past sitting with us while the comfort of the present wraps itself around us like a warm blanket.
In this moment, he doesn’t feel like a friend with benefits or the moody farmer next door.
He feels like a complicated, misunderstood, beautiful man who’s trying everything in his power to win me over . . . and I fear it’s starting to work.