Chapter 45 Hunter
Hunter
It’s late when I pull into Wren’s drive, the lights in the house dim except for the porch light I’m pretty sure she leaves on when she wants me to know she’s home.
She texted earlier—Atticus is down for the night. You coming over?—which is basically a polite version of a booty call. And yeah, I’m not stupid. I’d never turn that down. But I’m still working on more than that. I’m working on her. On us.
I stopped and grabbed a bottle of her favorite wine on the way—something sweet and fruity I can’t pronounce, but the lady at the store swore by it. It wasn’t cheap, either, but this woman’s worth it. I’d slap down my last nickel if it made her happy.
When Wren opens the door, she’s wearing this linen thing—gauzy, loose but barely there. She looks like a dream, like something out of one of her own books.
“Brought you something,” I say, holding up the bottle.
She grins, stepping aside to let me in. “Bribing me with wine?”
“I like it when you’re a little tipsy. You’re easier to throw around, like a little rag doll,” I say with a wink.
We don’t even make it to the couch before she’s pulling me to her, kissing me like she’s been starving for it all day.
“You’re sure Atticus is asleep?” I ask.
She nods, voice light. “Out cold.”
That’s all I need to hear.
I back her against the wall and take her mouth with mine—slow at first, just enough to make her gasp, then deeper, rougher, until I feel her melt against me. One hand fists in my shirt like she needs to hold on. The other slips under the hem, nails dragging against my stomach.
I tug her chin up and look her straight in the eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this all damn day.”
My hands slide up her thighs, gripping her ass as I lift her.
She wraps around me like she’s done it a hundred times before—legs tight at my waist, mouth against my neck.
I carry her through the living room, past the kitchen, up the stairs and straight into her bedroom, where I toss her onto the bed like a man done pretending he doesn’t want something.
She scrambles up onto her elbows, a coy little smirk on her juicy lips.
“You gonna take your boots off, Tractor Daddy?”
Her nickname makes me smirk for a split second. But her playfulness has a time and a place. I’m here to do some serious damage . . . of a specific variety.
“Eventually.” I was so eager to get her up here I hadn’t thought to do that.
She laughs, but it dies the second I crawl over her.
I yank the linen nightgown over her head. No bra. Perfect fucking breasts, nipples already pert. My mouth is on her a second later, kissing down her chest, dragging my tongue over soft skin, biting just enough to make her squirm.
Her hands thread into my hair, and I can feel the tension already brewing in her body, which only serves to make my cock harder than it already was.
I work the elastic waistband of her pink lace panties down, mouth following the path—kissing, biting, teasing her thighs until she’s whispering my name like a prayer.
“You wet for me already?” I slide two fingers over her slit.
She whimpers. “Hunter . . .”
“You want me to stop?”
She glares down at me. “Do you want to get punched?”
“Tiny and ferocious. I fucking love it,” I say, dark and low. “That’s my girl.”
I drag my tongue through her folds, and she arches off the mattress.
I take my time—slow, deliberate licks, holding her thighs open, teasing her clit with just enough pressure to make her curse me and beg in the same breath.
She grabs the pillow behind her head like it’s the only thing anchoring her.
And when I feel her about to break, when her legs start shaking and she’s whispering please, I pull away.
I watch as her eyes snap open.
“Hunter,” she pants, desperation on her warm breath. “I swear to God—”
“You’ll come when I’m inside you,” I say, standing and peeling off my shirt. “And not a second before.”
I drop my jeans, kick off my boots, and climb over her again.
“Wait.” She places a palm against my chest. “I want the boots on.”
“They’re dirty.”
“I know.” She slams her mouth against mine, nails dragging down my ribs. And that look in her eyes? It’s not just hunger. It’s trust. It’s vulnerability. It’s surrender. It’s a woman who wants me exactly the way I am.
And it’s going to be my undoing.
I waste no time sliding my feet back into my boots, lining my hips up with hers, then plunging into her with one deep thrust.
She moans—loud and guttural—and I curse under my breath before clamping a hand over her mouth.
“Fuck, you feel good, honey,” I purr into her ear. “Tight. Wet. All mine.”
A few more thrusts and she’s not just wet, she’s soaking.
I grab her wrists and pin them above her head, hips rolling slow and deep, watching her face as I drive into her again and again. Her mouth falls open. Her eyes flutter closed.
“No,” I tell her. “I want you looking at me.”
She opens her eyes and stares right into me like she’s afraid of what she might find but also afraid to disobey.
She should be.
My control slips a little when she clenches around me, gasping as I push harder, faster, until her legs are trembling and she’s whisper-crying out my name like it’s the only word she remembers.
I feel her fall apart beneath me, and that’s all it takes.
I bury myself to the hilt and release every last drop I have with a low grunt, resting my forehead against hers, still holding her hands tight above her head like letting go might wreck me.
For a while, we don’t move.
Just the sound of our breathing in the dark.
Eventually, I roll to my back and she curls into me, both of us naked under her soft white quilt, her head on my chest as her fingers trace lazy circles along my stomach.
“I’m a hopeless romantic,” she whispers.
I don’t say anything.
“I write about love for a living,” she adds. “So I know how it’s supposed to feel. And I know better than to expect it from someone who’s never promised it.”
I tense beneath her, but she keeps talking, soft and slow.
“I’m having a lot of fun with you . . . but just so you know, I don’t need anything from you, Hunter. I’ve learned not to need things from people who can’t give.”
I stare at the ceiling. My chest is tight in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
A woman said something like that to me once, years ago. She was trying to play hard to get. Make me chase her. Prove something. The more she acted too cool to care, the more I knew she felt the exact opposite.
But from the moment I met Wren, she’s not been one to play games. She’s brutally honest, unafraid of the kinds of topics that make most people uncomfortable. She’s unapologetically herself. I believe what she’s saying . . . except it only makes me want her more.
I want to say something. Tell her she’s wrong. That I can give her more. That I want to. And I plan to.
But I don’t.
Because I can’t shake the feeling that maybe she’s right.
Maybe I can’t.
I’ve never been able to give anyone all of me. Not the women before her. Not even the ones who waited years for a fraction of what I gave her tonight.
I disappointed every single one of them.
But Wren?
God.
I don’t think I could live with myself if I broke her heart.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
I glance at her, playing dumb because part of me wants her to take the lead on this. I’ve never been good at talking about my emotions, especially when they’re terrifyingly out of my control.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“This.” She gestures between us. “If we keep doing this, someone’s going to catch feelings.”
I give her a slow half smile, brushing her hair back from her face. What I really want is to tell her “Too late.”
She tilts her head, studying me. Sometimes I think this woman can read my mind. It sure feels that way when she looks at me like this.
I kiss her bare shoulder.
She goes quiet, directing her eyes on the ceiling like she’s sorting through a million complicated thoughts at the same time.
“I don’t like sneaking around,” she says after a couple minutes of silence. “But I also don’t want Atticus getting attached or confused. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
I trail my hand along her hip, teasing the curve until she squirms just a little. “I don’t know what it’s gonna take to show you I’m serious about making you mine. I don’t care how long it takes. But I’m not going anywhere.”
She watches me, suspicious but softening. “How do I know you’re not just telling me what I want to hear?”
“Honey, I barely have time to get all my work done in a week. You think I’ve got time to play games?”
She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Then how do you keep managing to make time for me?”
I kiss her cheek, then her jaw, before moving lower. “Because I always make time for the things that are important to me.”
She melts a little, sinking into the bed, curling into my side with her head in the crook of my arm. We stay like that, the quiet humming between us.
After a while, she speaks up again. “I want to understand your . . . reputation.”
I glance down at her. “Yeah?”
“Tell me about your exes. All of them. I want a full postmortem.”
I let out a slow breath, eyes on the ceiling. I really don’t want to do this, but if it means she might give me a chance, so be it.
“Some of them, I can barely remember,” I begin.
I give her the rundown. The woman I dated casually for a few months, who started driving by my house late at night long after we ended things.
The woman before that—wanted a baby with me even though we were more off than on, and I never once told her I loved her.
She was sweet and kind, but her desperation made me feel like a means to an end.
“Before her,” I add, “there was a local woman. Owned a boutique. You might’ve gone to school with her. Prom queen back in the day. Peaked in high school. Never quite got over it. Still thinks she’s a big fish in a small pond.”
Wren sits up, eyes wide. “Natalie Dinsmore?”
I wince. “Ah, so you know her.”
“That’s one of my oldest friends. We’ve been hanging out.”
I rub the back of my neck. “So she’s the one filling your head with stories about me?”
She doesn’t answer, just stares at me, her mouth pressed tight.
“Natalie meant nothing,” I tell her. “We dated a little over six months. She wanted to move fast—marriage, babies, the whole thing. But I wasn’t feeling it.
I kept hoping maybe I’d catch up, maybe the connection would show up, but it didn’t.
There was never a spark. It was always surface level, performative.
I never really felt like I knew the real her. ”
Wren is quiet, contemplative.
“She seemed . . . desperate. Her clock was ticking, early thirties, ready for the next chapter whether I was or not. She didn’t get my humor.
She hated my long hours. Always starting fights about me not making enough time for her.
” I shake my head. “It was never gonna work, so I ended it. I didn’t want to waste her time. ”
Wren watches me, her expression unreadable.
“She didn’t take it well. Tried for months to get me back. Blew up my phone every day. Left me crying voicemails. Texted me big, long paragraphs. She must’ve been more attached than I thought. Took her a few years to get over me—least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
I meet her gaze, my voice steady. “It’s in the past, Wren. It means nothing. You need to know that.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I’m not upset about that.”
“No?”
She looks down, frowning. “I’m upset that Natalie never mentioned it. We’ve talked about you multiple times. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling that answer isn’t gonna make this easier.