6. Lance
Lance
I have dreamed about Cora Larsen in my bed.
None of those dreams came close.
Her curls spread across my pillow in a wild golden tangle. Her skin is flushed from my mouth, and her body lies soft, bare, and open beneath me.
But it is the trust in her eyes that gets through every defense I have left.
It scares the hell out of me.
I kiss her once, forcing myself to keep it slow when every part of me wants to take.
“You control this,” I tell her. “You say stop, and I stop. You tell me something hurts, and I change what I’m doing.”
“I know.”
“Say it.”
Her blue eyes hold mine.
“If I need you to stop, I’ll tell you.”
“Good girl.”
Her breath catches.
Heat flashes across her face, and her thighs shift beneath me.
I file that reaction somewhere permanent.
Then I sit back.
Cora watches as I stand and push my jeans and briefs down my legs. Her gaze follows every movement, curious and shy at the same time.
My cock springs free.
Her eyes widen.
Her teeth catch her lower lip.
The sight nearly destroys what remains of my control.
“Too much?” I ask.
“You seem very confident it will fit.”
A laugh breaks out of me.
She does that to me. Pulls sounds from my chest I thought were gone for good.
“We go slow.”
Her gaze drops again.
“Very slow?”
“As slow as you need.”
I kneel between her thighs.
Before I touch her, I look at the faint discoloration spreading over her hip.
“Tell me if this position bothers the bruise.”
“I will.”
“I mean it, Cora.”
“I know you do.”
Her hand settles against my chest.
“I’m okay.”
I stroke myself once, then guide the head of my cock through her wet folds.
She shivers.
The slick heat of her coats me, and my jaw locks.
“Look at me.”
Her gaze meets mine.
I press forward just enough to begin stretching her.
Her fingers grip my shoulders.
Every muscle in her body tightens.
I stop.
“Breathe.”
She pulls in a shaky breath, her breasts rising beneath me.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
I kiss her mouth.
Not because I need more. Because she does.
I stay still until the tension begins to leave her body and her grip loosens.
“You still want this?” I ask.
“Yes.”
There is no hesitation in the answer.
Her fingers slide behind my neck.
“More.”
I ease deeper.
She is tight and hot, clenching around every inch I give her. Sweat breaks across my back from the effort of holding myself under control.
Halfway inside, I stop again.
Her eyes close.
“Cora.”
They open.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Her hand tightens at the back of my neck.
“I trust you.”
The words nearly finish me.
Trust has never felt soft to me. It has always been something sharp enough to cut when it breaks.
Cora gives it without holding part of herself back.
I lower my forehead to hers.
“I won’t make you regret it.”
“I know.”
I push the rest of the way inside.
Her lips part on a gasp.
I go still, buried as deep as her body will take me.
Nothing has ever felt like this.
Her slick heat surrounds me. Her thighs rest against my hips, and her blue eyes remain locked on mine as she adjusts to the stretch.
Mine.
The word rises inside me, fast and primitive.
I want to put it against her skin. Want to hear her say it back.
I bite it down.
She is trusting me with her first time. This is not the moment to trap her beneath everything I want.
“How do you feel?”
“Full.”
Color spreads over her cheeks.
“Good full?”
She shifts her hips experimentally.
Pleasure shoots up my spine.
My hands tighten against the mattress.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
Her eyes brighten with something that looks a lot like mischief.
“Very good full.”
I draw back a few inches.
Her body grips me, reluctant to let me go.
Then I push inside again.
Every stroke becomes easier than the last. Her body softens beneath mine, opening around me instead of fighting the unfamiliar pressure.
A quiet moan slips from her lips.
The sound goes straight through me.
I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth while I move.
Her nails dig into my back.
“Lance.”
“I’ve got you.”
I circle the tight peak with my tongue, then suck gently as I push deeper.
Her body arches, but I keep one hand beside her bruised hip, making sure she does not put pressure on it.
The bed begins to move beneath us.
Cora meets each careful thrust with more confidence. Her legs slide higher around my waist, holding me closer.
I slip one hand between us and find her clit.
She cries out when my thumb circles it.
Her walls tighten around me.
“That’s it.”
I watch her face while I touch her.
Every flicker of pleasure.
Every flash of nerves.
Every moment she decides to trust me a little more.
“You feel so good,” I tell her. “So tight around me.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders.
“More.”
The word is barely a breath.
I keep the pace steady.
“Tell me what you need.”
Her eyes open.
“Harder.”
My control pulls tight enough to hurt.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I brace one arm beside her head and drive deeper.
Cora arches beneath me, a broken sound leaving her mouth. Her legs lock around my waist.
I kiss her hard and give her what she asked for.
Not everything I am capable of.
Not with her bruises and lungs still healing.
Enough to make the bed shift beneath us. Enough to pull a cry from her with every thrust.
My thumb moves faster over her clit.
Her body clenches.
“Come for me,” I growl against her mouth. “Let me feel you.”
Her breath catches.
“Lance.”
“I’ve got you. Let go.”
Her body locks beneath mine.
Then she shatters.
My name tears from her throat as she clenches around me in hard, pulsing waves.
The pressure breaks the last of my restraint.
I thrust deep once.
Then again.
I come with a rough groan, holding myself inside her while pleasure tears through me.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Cora’s heartbeat races against my chest.
Mine is no better.
I press my face into the curve of her neck and breathe her in.
Flowers. Warm skin. Cora.
Home.
The word hits harder than the release did.
I lift my head immediately.
“You okay?”
Her smile is dazed and beautiful.
“I think you ruined me.”
“Good.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“For anyone else,” I add.
She laughs softly.
The sound loosens something inside my chest.
I kiss the corner of her mouth, then ease out of her carefully.
She winces.
I go still.
“Pain?”
“Only a little sore.”
I leave the bed long enough to wash my hands and return with a warm cloth and a glass of water.
Cora has pulled the sheet over her breasts.
I set the water on the nightstand and tug the sheet down.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Looking.”
“You’ve seen everything.”
“Plan to keep seeing it.”
Her cheeks turn pink, but she does not reach for the sheet again.
I clean between her thighs, keeping my touch gentle when her muscles tense.
“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’re not.”
A faint streak of blood marks the cloth.
Something possessive and protective twists together inside me.
I shut it down before it can reach my face.
This is not about taking something from her.
She gave me her trust.
That matters more.
I set the cloth aside and check the bruise on her hip. It has not darkened. Her breathing is steady, and she has not coughed once.
Only then do I climb back into bed.
I pull her against my chest.
She comes without hesitation.
Cora places her bandaged hand over my heart.
“Still beating,” she murmurs.
“Barely.”
“Was I okay?”
The uncertainty in her voice makes anger flare toward every person who taught her to question whether she was enough.
I tighten my arm around her.
“You were perfect.”
Her body relaxes against mine.
I press my mouth to her hair.
“Better than anything I imagined.”
“You imagined this?”
“For two years.”
She tilts her face up.
“You really wanted me that long?”
“Wanted you longer than I was willing to admit.”
Her smile starts small and turns soft enough to hurt.
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be the only one who fell too fast.”
Every muscle in my body goes still.
Cora’s eyes drift closed before I can ask exactly what she means.
Within minutes, she is asleep.
I stay awake.
One arm rests around her waist. Her curls cover my chest, and her breathing warms my skin.
Love arrives without asking permission.
Maybe it has been here for two years, waiting behind every excuse I made to walk past Grandma’s Garden. Every flower I bought without needing one. Every time I slowed my truck because I saw her turning the sign in the window.
Now it spreads through my chest until there is no room for doubt.
I love her.
The truth should feel good.
Instead, I remember white chairs arranged outside the church.
An empty bridal room.
My best man’s phone going straight to voicemail.
I remember my father promising every morning that he would stop drinking, then forgetting the promise by dark.
People leave.
They make vows.
They ask for trust.
Then they find the part of you that needs them and tear it out on the way through the door.
Cora will rebuild her shop. Her apartment will be repaired. She will stand on her own feet again.
Then she will have a real choice.
She will not need my house, my protection, or me.
I hold her closer and hate myself for wondering whether she will still choose me when leaving becomes easy.
Morning brings coffee, pain medicine, and an insurance adjuster on speakerphone.
Cora sits at my kitchen table in one of my shirts while I make toast.
The shirt covers her to mid-thigh. Her curls fall loose around her shoulders. She is beautiful.
Looking at her in my clothes should not make me want to drag her back to bed.
It does.
“The commercial policy covers structural repairs, damaged inventory, and qualified business-interruption expenses,” the adjuster says through the phone.
“Your personal property claim will be handled separately. The temporary-housing portion may cover a furnished rental while the apartment is uninhabitable.”
I drag the knife through the butter.
“How soon?” Cora asks.
“We may have something available within two weeks.”
The knife pauses.
Two weeks.
My kitchen already looks different because of her. Flowers crowd the counters. Her tea sits beside my coffee.
Two weeks from now, all of it could be gone.
“That sounds good,” Cora says quietly.
I force myself to move again.
“You’ll have your independence back.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“Is that what you want?”
Say no.
Tell her I want her in my bed every night.
Tell her I want her dresses hanging beside my shirts and her flowers taking over every room.
Tell her this house was only a place to sleep before she walked into it.
Fear closes around my throat.
“I want you safe,” I say. “And I want your shop rebuilt.”
Something dims in her face.
“Of course.”
The answer is wrong.
I know it the second it leaves my mouth.
But the adjuster continues speaking, and the moment closes before I can force the truth past eleven years of old damage.
When the call ends, I retrieve the folder Jordan dropped off before his shift.
“Jordan spoke to a contractor he knows,” I say. “These are rough options. Nothing final.”
I spread the preliminary sketches across the table.
Cora leans closer.
“New wiring throughout,” I explain. “Fire-rated rear door. Updated alarm system. They could make the workroom larger if this interior wall isn’t load-bearing.”
Her fingers move over the drawing.
“You arranged this?”
“Jordan called the contractor. Zain spoke to the town about fast-tracking the permits once the insurance company approves the work.”
Her eyes fill.
I tell myself it is happiness because the other possibility hurts too much.
“You’ll have your home back,” I say.
“Right.”
She closes the folder.
Her phone rings again.
Mom appears on the screen.
Cora stares at the name.
Her shoulders pull tight.
I want to take the phone.
Want to block the number and make sure the woman never gets close enough to hurt her again.
I stay where I am.
Cora answers.
“Hi.”
Her mother’s voice is loud enough to reach me across the table.
“Did you find out about the insurance money?”
Cora looks down at the closed building plans.
Then she looks at me.
“Yes. It’s paying for the shop.”
“You could spare a little. I raised you.”
Cora’s bandaged hand tightens around the phone.
“Grandma raised me.”
Silence follows.
I do not move.
Every instinct I have tells me to take over. To put myself between Cora and anything that causes pain.
Zain’s words come back to me.
Protection turns into control when fear makes the decisions.
This choice belongs to her.
“I can’t keep paying for your emergencies,” Cora says. Her voice trembles, but it does not break. “I won’t send you any more money.”
Her mother begins to cry.
Cora’s face crumples.
I grip the back of the chair to keep from crossing the room too soon.
“I hope you figure things out,” she says. “I have to go.”
She ends the call.
The phone slips from her hand and lands on the table.
I cross the kitchen.
Cora turns into me before I reach her.
I pull her against my chest and hold her while she cries.
“I feel horrible.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“She’s my mother.”
“And you’re allowed to protect yourself.”
Her fingers twist in the back of my shirt.
“What if she really needs me?”
“She needs to learn that loving you does not mean using you.”
Cora presses her face harder against my chest.
I rub one hand over her back and wait.
There is nothing I can fix with tools, money, or force.
All I can do is stay.
Her breathing gradually evens.
When she leans back, her eyes are red.
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s easy to protect you.”
Her gaze searches mine.
“What happens when I don’t need protection?”
The question lands exactly where she cannot see the damage.
What happens when she does not need me?
I know what I should say.
I want you even when you need nothing from me.
The words are there.
Before I can force them out, my phone rings.
Jordan.
I step back and answer.
“What?”
His silence warns me before he speaks.
“Someone came by the station asking for you.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
“Who?”
“Vanessa.”
The name drags eleven dead years into my kitchen.
White chairs.
Unanswered calls.
An empty church.
I look at Cora.
She is gathering the building plans into a neat stack, unaware that the woman who left me at the altar has returned to Whispering Pines.