Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZAC
She appears in the doorway wrapped in flannel—my flannel—the edges drowning her, cuffs folded twice, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair falls wet and dark blonde down her back. She smells like cocoa butter and Epsom salt.
On the porch she was certain. Settled. Now her hands twist the cuff of my shirt and her bravery wobbles at the threshold.
“Hi,” she says. Small word. Enormous.
“Hi.” I cross the space between us. My hand finds her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye. “You okay?”
She nods. Tries a smile that wobbles at the edges.
I pick her up. She’s light, all soft curves and damp hair, and she wraps her arms around my neck without thinking. I carry her to the bed and set her down carefully—not like she’ll break, but like she matters that much. Her hands stay on my shoulders, fingers curling into the flannel.
“I’m nervous,” she says.
“I know.” I settle onto the bed beside her, hip to hip, and I take my time. This isn’t something to rush. “We go slow. You tell me if anything hurts, anything doesn’t feel good, we stop.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Any second. You say stop, we’re done.”
She nods again, but her eyes are on my mouth, her breathing shallow.
I lean in and kiss her. Slow, careful, the kind of kiss that says we have all night.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders and her mouth opens under mine, warm and shaking and brave.
When I pull back, she follows, chasing the kiss like it might disappear.
That’s when I know she’s mine. Not maybe.
Not in the trial period way. Now. In some fundamental, irreversible way, she’s mine.
“Take this off,” I say, tugging at the flannel. She stares at me. “Let me see you.”
Her hands shake as she unfastens the first button. I help, easing the fabric off her shoulders. She tries to cover her chest with her arms and I catch her wrists, gentle but firm, stretching them out to the sides.
“No. Look at me.” I wait until her eyes find mine. “Arms down. I want to see every inch of the body that’s been keeping me up at night.”
Her cheeks burn but she drops her arms.
I look. Her breasts are full, heavy, with pale pink nipples that tighten the moment the cool air hits them. I trail my fingers across her collarbone, down the inside of her arm, and goosebumps rise under my touch.
“This,” I say, and I palm one breast, feeling the weight of it, watching her breath catch. “This is what’s been destroying me since I met you.”
She goes still. Her breath catches.
I unhook the flannel entirely and peel it off her, slow, one shoulder then the other.
Now she’s bare except for pale blue cotton underwear, and her hands drift to her stomach.
I lower my mouth to her knuckles where they press flat against the soft curve, kiss them once, and lace my fingers through hers.
Then I ease her hand away, slow, and replace it with my palm.
“Don’t hide from me.” My voice comes out rough. “Eyes on me, Alana.”
She’s breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling, and her eyes stay fixed on mine.
“This belly,” I say, and I dip my head to kiss the soft curve of it that she hates, the part of herself she’s ashamed of. “These are the softest parts of you—the ones you’re worried I don’t want.” I kiss her again, slowly, deliberately. “I want these most. You understand me?”
She nods, and when I release her wrists, she doesn’t cover herself again.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of those pale blue panties and drag them down slow, kissing every inch of skin as it appears.
“These thighs.” I press my mouth to the soft inside of her left one, then the right, letting my beard scrape the tender skin. “Been dreaming about these wrapped around my head.”
She shivers. I find the freckle on her left hip and kiss it, tongue tracing the tiny mark.
“This freckle right here?” I look up at her. “I noticed it through that yellow sundress two years ago and almost lost my goddamn mind.”
Her whole body responds when I talk — her breath hitching, her hips lifting toward my mouth, her fingers twisting in the sheets.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” I say against her skin, dragging my lips lower. “Every curve. Every inch. You’re wrecking me, Alana, and I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”
Her fingers twist into my hair and pull — not gentle, not careful. “Then stop making me wait.”
The words land in my chest like a fist. This girl. This woman. Bare underneath me, shaking, and still brave enough to pull my hair and tell me to hurry up.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her, and she starts to shake her head and I grip her chin. “You are. For me. You’re perfect for me.”
“Then prove it.” Her voice is thin but her eyes don’t waver. Her hand comes up to my jaw, fingers tracing the beard like she’s memorizing the texture. “Stop telling me and show me, Zac.”
I strip off my jeans. The contrast between us is stark—my body scarred and weathered, rough with calluses and the rope-burn scar across my forearm, thick with the work of nineteen years. Her skin is soft, untouched, new.
She watches me undress, her eyes going wide when I’m fully bare in front of her. Her attention lands on my cock, hard and aching, and she swallows.
Her eyes keep dropping. Staring. Her throat works like she’s trying to say something and the words won’t form.
“That’s…” She swallows. “That’s a lot more than three fingers, Zac.”
The way she says it — half awed, half terrified — hits me right in the chest. I take her hand. Wrap her fingers around me. She gasps at the heat of it, the thickness, the way her hand barely closes.
“Feel that?” I guide her hand up, slow. Down. Her grip tightens and a bead of pre-come leaks over her knuckles, slick and warm. “That’s what you do to me. That’s how badly I want inside you.”
“Oh God.” Her voice is thin. Her hand keeps moving on its own now, stroking, learning the shape of me, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from thrusting into her fist.
I reach between her thighs. She’s soaked — dripping, swollen, so wet my fingers slide through her without any resistance. I groan.
“Feel how ready you are.” I hold up my fingers so she can see them glisten. “You’re drenched, baby. This pussy wants me.”
She whimpers. Her hips rock toward my hand.
I take her wrist — the one still wrapped around my cock, her knuckles slick with pre-come — and guide her hand down between her thighs. I press her wet fingers against her own clit. She gasps at the sensation — my pre-come and her arousal, mixed together.
“Spread it,” I tell her. Low. Commanding. “Get yourself nice and wet with it. Mix us together.”
She does. Her fingers slide through the mess of her arousal and my pre-come, coating herself, and the sight of her touching her own pussy with my wetness on her hand nearly finishes me.
“Good girl.” My voice is wrecked. “That’s it. Now you’re ready for me.”
I settle between her thighs. Her hands find my shoulders, trembling but not pulling away. I line myself up and press the head of my cock against her, slow, letting her feel the stretch before I give her any of it. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her nails dig into my back.
“Look at me,” I say. “I want to see your face.”
She opens her eyes and I push inside, careful and slow. She’s tight, so tight I have to grit my teeth against the feeling of her, and I watch her face as I ease deeper. There’s pain there, mixed with wanting, and I stop when I feel the resistance.
“Just breathe,” I tell her. “You’re doing so good.”
She takes a shaky breath and I push deeper, slowly. I’m fully inside her and she cries out against my neck.
“I’ve got you,” I say against her neck. “You’re okay. You’re so beautiful like this.”
I hold still, giving her time to adjust, my hands gentle on her hips. She’s gripping my back hard enough to leave marks, and I don’t mind. I want her marks on me.
After a moment, her breathing evens out. She presses her lips to the side of my neck — slow, open-mouthed, deliberate — and I feel her smile against my skin.
“Okay,” she whispers. Then her hips shift. Not away. Into me. A tiny roll that makes my vision blur. “More than okay.” Her teeth catch my earlobe and her voice drops to something I’ve never heard from her before — raw, sure, greedy. “I can feel all of you. Don’t you dare hold back on me, Zac.”
I start to move, pulling out slow and careful, barely an inch, then sinking back in with iron restraint.
She’s so fucking tight—hot, slick velvet gripping me like a fist, her virgin walls fluttering around every thick inch I give her.
I’m barely halfway inside and already fighting not to come like a goddamn teenager.
But Alana takes my face in both hands, palms sliding over my beard, and yanks my eyes down to hers. Those bright blue eyes are blazing.
“I’m not going to break,” she whispers, voice shaking but fierce. “Stop holding back. I want all of you.”
The last thread of my control rips clean in two.
I pull out almost to the tip and slam back in—hard.
She gasps, back arching, but her legs lock around my waist like she’s been waiting years for this exact moment.
I lose it. Four years of starving for her, of jerking off to the memory of her laugh and that beauty mark and the way her hips fill my hands, all of it pours out in one brutal thrust after another.
“Fuck, Alana—” I growl against her mouth, voice shredded. “This pussy is mine now. Been mine since you were eighteen and smiled at me like you had no idea you already belonged to me. Feel that? Every inch of this tight little cunt stretching around my cock—taking me so perfect. Say it.”
She whimpers, nails digging into my shoulders. “Yours—Zac, I’m yours?—“
“Louder.” I drive deeper, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the cabin walls. “Tell me who this virgin pussy belongs to now. Tell me who just ruined you for anyone else.”
“You,” she cries, thighs trembling around me, soft belly pressing against my abs with every punishing thrust. “Only you—my husband—oh God?—”