Melissa
“If you're thinking of marrying me and running away with all my money, you'd be mistaken,” he says with a smirk, his eyes tracking my expression as I continue my visual feast. “I paid for it with cash. Seventy percent dirty, thirty percent clean.”
Water washes against the sandy shoreline where trees spread their branches over the current. There's a small bridge that connects the two sides, twisted with tiny fairy lights that connect and thread through the tree. This isn't a stream. It's a damn current in a pool.
I look back at Hella with fresh eyes. “It's beautiful here.”
He smiles. “It's not bad. The lights were Garret's idea. He likes bringing his little shithead friends out here some weekends. I don't mind as much. It gets him off the fucking iPad and out climbing trees and building shit.”
I chuckle, pointing to the other side of the house. “Big enough field for rugby training too?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no doubt.”
“The stream goes around the house?” I ask absently, trying to find where it ends.
“Yeah. You'd know if you'd hurry the fuck up.”
“Sorry.”
He tugs at my hand again, leading me to the front door.
“Wow!” I breathe.
He closes the door behind me, the lock clicking into place with finality.
His arm sweeps toward the stairs like he's presenting a fucking museum exhibit.
“It's simple. Upstairs are the bedrooms, downstairs is the living room which overlooks the stream through the windows with an open-plan kitchen leading off of it, which then leads to the backyard through French binding doors.”
French binding doors. Jesus Christ.
His eyes roll skyward, and I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“I had to add French or Yana would kick my ass.” The admission comes out grudging, like it physically pains him to admit she has that kind of power.
He’s right though, Yana would kick his ass and then stamp her architect degree over his forehead.
“And then there's a game room down the back, behind the garage.
It's low-key with a little multimedia system and all that bullshit in there.” He pauses, his jaw working.
“I had them build that room for Garret.”
His gaze fixes on me then, studying. Not just looking—dissecting. Taking me apart piece by piece to see what makes me tick. I hate how exposed it makes me feel, like he can see straight through my skin to all the broken parts underneath.
Something thick rises in my throat. I swallow it down, focusing on the details instead. The polished hardwood floors gleam under recessed lighting. Arch frames mold every doorway like something out of an architectural wet dream.
My fingers curl against my palms.
He continues. “Bedrooms are upstairs. One's Garret's. The shithead has his own shower and toilet. His reasoning?” His face lights up as he walks toward the refrigerator, pulling out two bottles of water and tossing one to me.
“Was that he'd need it when he started bringing girls home.
Don't tell Jada, but I agreed; the little man needed his space.” He stops, sips his water, keeping those blue eyes fixed on me.
The bottle hits the counter with a soft thud. “Aside from all that, this is it.”
A small snort escapes me. “This is not just 'it', Hella. This is beautiful, I had no idea.” I'm in awe and, knowing my luck, the evidence is smeared all over my face.
He walks towards me, his hands coming under my armpits as he lifts me and places me on top of the black breakfast bar.
He moves the steel stools out of the way. “Have I freaked you out enough to have you run?” he asks, his eyebrow cocked. He runs his nose down the side of my temple, and my legs widen for him. “Because if you did,” he whispers into my ear, his cocky smile pressing against my cheek, “I'd chase you.”
That wasn't a threat. That was a promise. I might be in over my head with him. Why doesn't that scare me? It should. If I were smart, it would scare me. Right now, I'm not smart, not when it comes to him.
“I'm really stupid,” I whisper aloud.
“Hmmm?” he murmurs, his tongue tracing a slow, wet line across my collarbone. Heat flares between my thighs, and my eyes flutter back, lost in the rush.
“Forget it,” I mutter, my fingers twisting into his hair, yanking his head back just so I can crash my lips into his. I think I've got the upper hand, but the second our mouths meet, he steals it.
He pins me down, my back hitting the cold granite of the counter, and I widen my legs for him to settle in.
His head dips, forehead brushing mine, his breath coming in heavy, ragged pulls. Fuck. I am so screwed with this man.
My hands slide down his sides, greedy, desperate, as his tongue flicks out, dragging over my lips with a tilt of his head that's pure challenge.
My fingers find his knife holster. The sharp click of it unfastening echoes in the charged silence, and a wicked grin curves against my mouth.
“Wanna play? Fine, let's play,” he growls, his hand covering mine, easing it free. All the while, his mouth is on mine, licking, sucking, claiming every gasp I give up. It's not too much, but damn it, it's not enough either.
I'm burning for him to take me apart, to ruin me, to brand every inch of me with his touch. I'm a goddamn mess, spiralling, and Hella's the Woodsman I can't quit.
The familiar cold metal presses against my hard nipple, and I hiss, my eyes opening slowly to find Hella's beaming blue eyes shaded by lust and darkened with need. He stretches my legs wider with his, his eyes searching mine the whole time.
“Do you trust me?” he growls, watching me closely as the knife travels past my risen, hard nipples and down my ribcage.
Each time it descends over one of my ribs, electricity sparks beneath my skin, traveling straight to the middle of my thighs.
I swallow, my chest rising and falling, the silence between us prickling and filling with our electric energy of lust, passion, and obsessiveness.
“In this context, yes,” I answer truthfully.
His eyes narrow briefly. “I'm not touching that right now, but I will.”
As quickly as the subject was raised, it's forgotten.
Sharp edges continue down my ribs. His body lifts off of me as he peers up from under his thick lashes, his stare Woodsman-ish and needy.
He licks his bottom lip before running the tip over the area where the top of my thigh meets my centre, and I throw my head back, taking in the sensations, the danger.
Do I trust him with a weapon down there?
Not really, but I figure if he wants it to be fully operational, he won't damage anything.
Then his mouth covers my clit, cloaking it with its warm, slick blanket, and my back arches. The blunt side of the knife presses against my inner thigh as he opens my thighs wider.
His tongue slides over my clit, his bulky arms rippling under the pressure of keeping my legs open.
I relax.
“Shut your eyes, baby,” he whispers, the vibration of his deep voice pressing against my thigh.
I sink back, my spine pressing into the hard surface beneath me as my eyes flutter shut. Cold silver glides over my most sensitive spot, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt of fear through me.
His finger slips inside.
“Hux,” I breathe, my voice barely a sound. “I'm... I'm...”
Warmth replaces the cold steel, hot and relentless, and then the wooden end of the knife sinks inside me.
My toes curl, thighs quivering against the cold granite as lightning races through my veins. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, my vision swimming behind clenched eyelids.
The metal slides away, leaving emptiness.
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, surprising us both.
I slap my palm over my mouth. Hella flicks his wrist—the knife skitters across the floor with a metallic scrape.
His hands find my hips, calloused fingers digging into soft flesh as he drags me forward, leaving a damp trail across the polished surface.
I plant my palm against the wall of his chest. “Wait.”
He freezes. A muscle in his jaw twitches beneath stubble. His pupils swallow the blue of his eyes, leaving only a thin ring of colour. Sweat beads along his hairline, plastering dark strands to his forehead.
My bare feet hit cold wood as I drop to my knees. His skin radiates heat against mine. I hold his gaze while working his jeans open, finding nothing underneath but him.
Figures.
His fingers twist in my hair with just enough pull to make me gasp.
I lick my bottom lip, teeth catching it, tilting my head to take him in. He glistens with moisture, and I take him between my lips, circling the smooth surface of his head with my tongue, savouring the salt-sweet taste mingled with a trace of soap.
A moan escapes me, sending vibrations through his flesh as I cradle him with both hands. I set a measured rhythm, careful and deliberate.
His sharp intake of breath breaks into a guttural sound that ignites something primal inside me.
I want to dismantle him piece by piece.
I increase my pace, feeling him pulse against my tongue.
The first hint of his release slides down my throat.
I tighten my grip, matching my mouth's movements to my hand's, feeling every ridge and vein.
He's too much to take completely, but I'm drunk on the need to witness his unravelling.
His surrender. And I want to be the cause of it.
Each groan I pull from him, each moment his eyes cloud with heat, it feeds something starving inside me.
I'm addicted to this control.
To him. To us.
Hot cum hits the back of my throat, and I take every bit of it. I wait until he's done, then ease off with a soft pull on the tip of his still-hard cock, catching every last drop that might've slipped out.
His eyes peel open. “I need to kill whoever taught you how to suck cock like that.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Chill, it was porn.”
“Porn?” he asks, surprised.
“Well, let's pretend it was.” I pat his chest softly.
His eyes narrow as he pulls his jeans back on. I'm impressed that he's still hard. Scared a little, but impressed, nonetheless.
I quickly shove on my Levi's and t-shirt. After raking my hands through my hair and pulling it into a high ponytail, he takes my hand in his, tugging me toward the stairs. “Come. I'll show you where you won't be sleeping.”