19. Paige
— ? —
Paige
Two weeks after the family meeting. The divorce came through yesterday - Cole had signed within days of the meeting, once his parents made it clear whose side they would stand on if he dragged it out, and the paperwork did the rest. The papers are on Wes’s kitchen counter, next to a bottle of champagne I haven’t opened because I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.
Relief, probably. Freedom. The end of something that poisoned twelve years of my life.
Instead, I feel restless. Electric. Like there’s something still waiting to happen.
It’s late - almost midnight - when I realize Wes isn’t in the house.
The workshop light is on, visible through the kitchen window, and I know he’s been out there for hours.
He does that when he needs to think: goes out to the converted barn where he builds furniture, loses himself in the rhythm of sanding and shaping until whatever’s bothering him settles.
I grab a sweater and walk out to find him.
Halfway across the dark yard, the thought arrives with Cole’s voice on it: this is exactly what he said we were.
His brother’s wife, crossing wet grass at midnight toward the workshop light.
Every lie he told about us, and here I am, about to make yesterday’s slander into tonight’s truth, and I should turn around - the signatures are a day old, people will count the days, they’ll say it was always this.
Let them count.
I keep walking, and the second thought is worse than the first, because it isn’t shame at all. It’s that I want him to hear me coming. It’s that twelve years of that man’s restraint are on the other side of that door and I am done, entirely done, being the only thing he’s ever refused himself.
The barn door is propped open, spilling warm light into the dark yard.
Inside, Wes is bent over a table he started months ago - a table he promised someone months ago, or maybe just for himself.
The sleeves of his henley are rolled to his elbows, his forearms flexing with each stroke of the sandpaper.
There’s sawdust in his hair, clinging to his shoulders, and his shirt is damp with sweat where it stretches across his back.
I lean against the doorframe and let myself look.
Really look, for the first time without guilt or hesitation. At the way his hands move - strong, capable, purposeful. At the tension in his shoulders. At the line of his jaw, shadowed in the low light.
“You’re watching me,” he says without looking up.
“I’m done pretending I’m not.”
He stops sanding. Sets down the paper. Turns to face me.
“That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”
“The divorce was finalized yesterday.”
He goes very still. The sandpaper dangles forgotten from his fingers.
“I’m not his wife anymore.” I step into the workshop, my bare feet quiet on the sawdust-covered floor.
“I’m not anyone’s wife. I’m just me. And I want you.
I’ve wanted you since the truck, maybe since the motel, maybe since you unzipped my dress and didn’t touch me even though I could feel how much you wanted to. ”
“Paige-”
“I’m done waiting.” I keep moving toward him, closing the distance.
“I’m done being careful. I’m done letting Cole have any more of my time or my guilt or my hesitation.
” I stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I want you to touch me the way you’ve wanted to touch me for twelve years.
And I want you to stop being noble about it. ”
Wes exhales, a sound that vibrates through my chest, tasting of relief and a total, crushing surrender.
The air between us is thick, charged with a decade of unspoken hunger and the heavy scent of cedar and old regrets.
When he moves toward me, the hesitation that had plagued him for years vanishes, replaced by a raw, predatory intent that makes my skin prickle.
His hands lock onto my hips, fingers digging into my flesh with a bruising grip. He lifts me effortlessly, hoisting me up onto the workbench. I feel the grit of sawdust scratching against the backs of my thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body.
The workbench is cold and hard, but I am burning. He steps between my legs, forcing them wide, his heavy boots clicking against the concrete floor.
One last ghost of the old rules moves through me - his brother’s ex-wife, spread out on his workbench, the ink on the divorce barely dry. It should stop me. It doesn’t. If this is wrong, it’s the first wrong thing that has ever been entirely mine.
His palms slide up my ribs, his touch possessive and demanding, claiming every inch of skin he can reach.
“Twelve years,” he rasps, his voice a low growl against my lips. “I’ve wanted this for twelve years. I’ve dreamed about the way you’d look under me on this table.”
“Then stop talking and show me,” I breathe, my voice trembling. “Please, Wes… just fucking show me.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking for, Paige,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening. “I’m not going to be gentle. I can’t be.”
“I don’t want gentle,” I moan, arching my back. “I want you. All of you.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. His mouth crashes onto mine, not with a gentle reunion, but with a starving desperation.
It’s a collision of teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance that leaves me breathless.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me, needing to feel the hard line of his cock pressing through his denim, straining against my center.
“God, you taste better than twelve years of imagining,” he groans into my mouth, his tongue sweeping deep inside. “So sweet… so fucking perfect.”
“Fuck… Wes…” I whimper, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
His hands leave my ribs to tear at my clothes, the fabric ripping with a satisfying snap.
He doesn’t care about the lace or the silk; he only cares about the skin beneath.
When his calloused palms finally hit my bare breasts, I arch my back, a sharp moan escaping me.
He kneads my flesh, his thumbs flicking over my nipples, sending jolts of electricity straight to my clit.
“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back to admire me, his breath hitching. “Look at these beautiful tits. I can’t believe you’re actually here. You’re so fucking gorgeous, Paige.”
“I’m yours,” I sob, my chest heaving. “I’ve always been yours.”
“Yes you are,” he growls, his voice thick with possession. “Every inch of you. Every single fucking curve.”
He breaks the kiss to bury his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and ragged.
He sucks a mark into my shoulder, a claim that makes me cry out, my fingers clawing into the muscles of his back.
I can feel the sweat dampening his shirt, the scent of him - musk, woodsmoke, and pure man - filling my senses until I can’t think of anything but the void between my legs that needs to be filled.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his voice vibrating against my skin. “Are you scared? Or just desperate for me?”
“Desperate,” I gasp, my hips bucking instinctively. “I’m so fucking desperate for you, Wes. Please… touch me. Touch me right now.”
“I’m going to make you scream my name,” he promises, his voice a dark promise. “I’m going to make you forget every other man who ever dared to touch you.”
His hand slides down, pushing aside the remnants of my underwear.
He finds me drenched, my pussy pulsing and open for him.
When his fingers slide inside me, I gasp, my head hitting the workbench with a dull thud.
He’s thick and rough, his fingers mimicking the rhythm I’m craving.
He hooks a finger deep inside me while his thumb grinds relentlessly against my clit, driving me toward a peak I’ve been starving for.
“You’re so wet for me, Paige,” he groans, his voice vibrating against my skin. “So fucking wet. You’ve been waiting for this just as much as I have, haven’t you?”
“Yes! Oh god, yes!” I cry out, my eyes fluttering shut. “Right there… don’t stop… please, Wes, don’t fucking stop!”
“You’re so tight,” he pants, his fingers working faster, deeper. “So tight and warm. You feel like heaven. You’re a fucking goddess, Paige.”
“I want more… I need you inside me,” I moan, my voice breaking. “I can’t take it… I need your cock, Wes. Now!”
I reach down, my fingers fumbling with his belt, the leather creaking under the tension.
I rip the button open and slide my hand inside his jeans, gripping his cock.
He jumps, a choked sound leaving his throat.
He is massive, pulsing and hot in my grip, the head already leaking a bead of pre-cum that smears across my palm.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his head snapping back. “Your hand… god, your touch is killing me.”
“You’re so big,” I whisper, sliding my hand up and down the shaft, feeling the heat of him. “I’ve imagined this… you have no idea how many nights I’ve imagined this.”
“I’m going to ruin you,” he groans, his eyes darkening to a shade of obsidian. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. Until the only thing you can remember is how I feel inside you.”
“Do it,” I challenge, my voice a needy whimper. “Ruin me. Please, Wes… just fuck me.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his expression a mix of agony and adoration.
He reaches down, guiding his head to my opening.
I feel the blunt pressure of him stretching me, the slow, agonizing slide as he begins to push inside.
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, as he fills me completely.
The sensation is overwhelming - a fullness that erases every ghost of the last twelve years.
“Oh… oh god,” I moan, my voice trailing off into a long, shaky exhale. “You’re… you’re so deep…”
He freezes for a moment, his forehead resting against mine, both of us shaking. He is buried deep, his cock hitting my cervix, anchoring us together.
“God, you feel perfect,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Too perfect. I don’t know if I can handle this without losing it.”
“Don’t hold back,” I plead, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Don’t you dare hold back. Give it all to me.”
“You’re so fucking tight, Paige,” he groans, a low, guttural sound. “You’re squeezing me so hard… fuck, I love how you feel.”
Then he begins to move.
It starts slow, a rhythmic grinding that makes me whimper. He pulls back until he’s almost out, then plunges back in with a force that knocks the wind out of me. The friction is electric, the sound of our bodies slapping together echoing through the quiet workshop.
“Yes! Right there!” I scream, my head tossing back. “More… give me more!”
“You like that?” he pants, his pace quickening. “You like how I’m filling you up? Tell me how it feels, Paige. Tell me.”
“It feels… oh god… it feels like I’m finally home,” I sob, my hips meeting every thrust with desperate hunger. “You’re so big… you’re stretching me so wide… fuck, Wes!”
“You’re taking it all so well,” he praises, his voice a rough caress. “Such a good girl for me. Such a beautiful, needy little thing.”
“I am… I’m yours… oh god, yes!” I moan, everything low in my body tightening around him.
Every thrust is a reclamation. He isn’t just fucking me; he’s erasing the distance, the silence, and the pain. I can feel the muscles in his arms bulging as he holds me steady, his movements becoming faster, more primal.
“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he groans, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. “I’ve wanted to do this every single night for twelve years. I’m going to fuck you into this table until you’re mine.”
“I’ve always been yours!” I scream, the pleasure building into a blinding white light. “Fuck me harder! Harder, Wes!”
“You want it harder?” he roars, his movements becoming violent, desperate. “Here! Take it all!”
The tension builds in my lower belly, a tight coil of heat that threatens to snap. I can feel him nearing his own limit, his rhythm starting to fray. He shifts his weight, driving deeper, his cock rubbing against the most sensitive spot inside me.
“I’m close… oh god, I’m so close!” I wail, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Wes! I’m coming! I’m coming for you!”
“Come for me, Paige!” he commands, his voice a guttural shout. “Let it go! Give it all to me!”
I scream, my internal muscles clamping tight around him, triggering a wave of pleasure that crashes over me like a tidal wave. I feel my walls pulsing, squeezing him in rhythmic contractions.
“Fuck… you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groans, his body stiffening. “I’m… I’m right there… god, you’re so fucking perfect…”
The sensation triggers him; he lets out a roar, his body stiffening as he delivers several final, powerful thrusts. I feel the hot, thick jet of his cum hitting the back of my womb, filling me up, overflowing.
“Yes! Give it to me!” I moan, my body still shaking from the aftershocks. “Fill me up… fill me completely…”
“I’m… I’m yours…” he pants, his voice a broken whisper as he collapses against me.
He stays there, his weight heavy and comforting, our hearts beating in a frantic, synchronized rhythm. We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the ragged synchronization of our breathing and the distant drip of a faucet.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he whispers against my skin, his voice raw. “Never.”
“Good,” I breathe, closing my eyes. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The sawdust is still rough beneath me, the workbench is still cold, but as he kisses my forehead, I know that for the first time in twelve years, I am exactly where I belong.
My phone buzzes on the floor where it fell from my pocket.
I reach down, expecting a spam notification or an email.
It’s a text from Tara: Cole came to my apartment tonight. He was drunk. He said some things. I think you should know what he’s planning.