23. Taven
TAVEN
The inn settles into a deep, groaning quiet.
Long after the taillights of Jason’s car vanished into the rain-slicked darkness, the silence feels heavier, filled with things unsaid.
Downstairs, the last of the fire collapses into a soft, orange pulse, casting long shadows that creep up the walls like they’re tired of the day.
Ben left and Lachlan retreated to his rooms with quiet nods, an unspoken agreement to give the night air to breathe.
I watch Chasity’s silhouette disappear up the winding staircase, her shoulders still carrying the weight of a conversation that hollowed her out.
Every rational part of my brain screams at me to leave her alone.
She needs space. She needs to process whatever final, painful words were exchanged.
But my feet betray my head, carrying me up the creaking steps, my own logic drowned out by a current of worry I can’t seem to fight.
I stand outside her door for a long time.
The polished wood grain seems to swim in the dim hallway light.
My hand rises, hovers, my knuckles a breath away from the surface.
A war rages in my gut—go back to your room, give her the peace she deserves—but the thought of her in there, alone, staring at the ceiling and reliving a decade of quiet misery, is a physical ache.
I finally knock, the sound two soft thuds against the old oak, barely loud enough to hear.
The door opens a moment later. It’s not the put-together, trying-so-hard Chasity I’m used to.
Her chestnut hair is a wreck, piled loosely on her head with strands falling around a face scrubbed raw and pale.
She’s swimming in an old, grey t-shirt that hangs off her shoulders, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed.
For the first time, she makes no effort to hide the damage, to smooth her expression into something more presentable. She just looks broken.
I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, keeping my distance. I give her an out. “Do you want me to go?” My voice is lower than I intend. “Or do you want company?”
Her whole body seems to deflate, a wave of exhaustion and something else—relief—washing over her features. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek. She doesn't wipe it away. Her lips part, and the word is a barely-there whisper of sound, rough and fragile.
“Stay.”
Her gaze holds mine, completely unguarded, and the simple, vulnerable plea hits me like a fist to the chest.
I can't resist. The second I step inside, my hand brushes her shoulder—just a fleeting touch, but she leans into it like she’s been starving for contact.
The room smells like lavender and rain, the lamp casting a warm glow over the mess of blankets she must’ve twisted herself in while replaying every word of that conversation.
I sit on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside me. She doesn’t hesitate.
Her weight settles next to me, her head dropping onto my shoulder with a sigh that feels like it’s been trapped in her ribs for years.
"I keep thinking—" Her voice cracks. "He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t deserve to be blindsided like that."
I let the silence stretch, giving her words room to breathe.
"Choosing yourself isn’t cruelty," I finally say. "It’s survival."
She goes still against me. Then a shudder runs through her, and she lifts her head enough to meet my gaze. Her eyes are red-rimmed but clear. "I spent so long thinking love meant cutting pieces off until I fit."
Something hot and sharp lances through my chest. "That’s not love. That’s just slow destruction."
The air between us changes—no more teasing, no deflection. Just her ragged honesty and mine, raw as an open wound.
Her fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt. "I don’t know how to stop feeling guilty."
I cup her face, my thumb brushing the dampness under her eye. "Then let me be furious for you."
Her breath hitches. The lamp flickers, shadows dancing across her face, and I can’t hold back anymore. I kiss her like I’ve been waiting to since the moment she spilled coffee on me and laughed instead of apologizing—deep, desperate, and full of everything I haven’t let myself say.
She kisses me back like she’s finally letting herself want something.
I push her down onto the mattress, the springs groaning beneath us. The lamplight paints her skin in gold—flushed, trembling, her hands already pulling at my belt with frantic urgency.
"You’re sure?" My voice is grit, rough as gravel. My restraint is fraying, but I need to hear it.
Her fingers press into my hips, her nails biting through fabric. Demanding. "Don’t you dare stop now."
That’s all the permission I need.
The thin fabric of her shirt gives way with a sharp tear as I wrench it apart, dropping the frayed pieces on the floor.
She gasps—not in protest, but in startled pleasure—as I toss the ruined remnants aside without a second thought.
My mouth finds the delicate column of her throat, tasting salt and heat as I scrape my teeth against her pulse point.
She arches beneath me like a bowstring drawn taut, her fingers tangling in my hair to hold me there.
Every sound she makes—every choked-off gasp, every breathy whimper—sends electricity crackling down my spine. I can feel her heartbeat fluttering wildly against my lips, as frantic as a trapped bird.
Then her hands are pushing at my shirt, impatient and demanding.
The worn cotton catches for one agonizing second on my shoulders before she finally wrestles it off me completely.
Her palms slide down my chest with possessive certainty, calloused thumbs brushing deliberately over my nipples just to watch my stomach muscles jump.
That smirk of hers—all wicked satisfaction and knowing amusement—makes my blood burn hotter.
Before I can retaliate, she rolls us with surprising strength, pinning me beneath her as she settles astride my hips.
The heat of her presses against me through thin layers of fabric, already damp with want, and I groan at the undeniable proof of how much she wants this. How much she wants me.
I groan, my hands locking around her waist, thumbs digging into the softness there. "You’re gonna kill me."
"Good."
She rocks against me, slow and torturous, her head tipping back. I watch the way her throat works as she swallows, the way her fingers thread into mine to pin them above my head.
But I’m done playing.
I flip her onto her back, covering her before she can protest. My mouth slants over hers, swallowing her surprised gasp as my fingers slide down—parting her soft pussy, testing how ready she is. The wet glide of her against my fingers makes me curse.
Her legs open wider, heels digging into the mattress. "Jesus, stop teasing."
"Or what?" I press a fingertip just inside, watching her muscles tense.
"Or I’ll—fuck?—"
I silence her with a deep, claiming kiss as I finally push into her, burying myself to the hilt in one relentless stroke.
The sudden fullness makes her gasp break apart into a ragged moan, her spine curving off the mattress as her fingers scramble down my shoulders, leaving burning trails in their wake.
I can feel every inch of her tight heat wrapped around me, the way her body instinctively clenches in response.
"Still think I tease too much?" My voice comes out rough and uneven, strained with the effort of holding still when all I want is to move.
Her answer isn't words—it's the deliberate roll of her hips, taking me even deeper, her throat working around a shattered sound that goes straight to my already throbbing cock. The sight of her like this—flushed and desperate, lips parted around those breathy moans—is better than any praise.
I catch both her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head as she writhes beneath me.
The struggle only makes her tighter around me, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts that fan hot against my collarbone.
Every slow drag out and thrust back in has her trembling violently, her whispered pleas and broken words spilling against my skin like prayers.
She's so damn responsive it's maddening—every tiny hitch of her breath, every unconscious flutter of her inner muscles gripping me tighter, every bitten-off curse that turns into a whimper when I find that perfect angle that makes her see stars.
I can feel the tension coiling tighter in her body with each thrust, her thighs trembling violently where they bracket my hips, her nails digging crescent moons into my palm where I've got her wrists pinned above her head.
The knowledge that I'm the one who reduced her to this—this gorgeous, trembling, desperate mess—sends a primal surge of satisfaction straight through my veins. My chest tightens with something deeper than lust, something possessive and raw, knowing she's unraveling because of me.
"Say my name." My voice is rough, nearly unrecognizable, as I nip at the delicate curve of her shoulder, tasting salt and heat.
She shakes her head, stubborn even now, lips pressed together in that defiant little pout that drives me insane.
So I give her exactly what she wants—what we both want—slamming into her harder, deeper, until she gasps, her back arching off the mattress.
"Taven!"
Her cry is my undoing. The sound of my name breaking from her lips, raw and wrecked, shatters whatever control I had left.
My rhythm falters, thrusts turning uneven, desperate, as she clenches around me, her moans climbing higher, tighter—until suddenly, she shatters.
Her body locks around mine, her nails sinking in deep as she comes with my name spilling from her lips like a prayer.
I follow her over the edge with a groan that tears from deep in my chest, burying my face in the crook of her neck as I lose myself inside her completely.
Every muscle locks tight as pleasure crests, so intense it borders on pain—wave after wave rolling through me until I'm shaking with it, until I can't tell where she ends and I begin.
For a long, suspended moment, there's nothing but the sound of our ragged breaths mingling in the quiet room, the aftershocks still humming between our bodies like live wires. My pulse pounds in my ears, my skin oversensitive everywhere she touches, everywhere we're still connected.
Slowly, carefully, we collapse together—limbs tangled, sweat-slick bodies pressed impossibly close.
The sheets are a wreck beneath us, twisted and damp, but we don’t move to fix them.
Moonlight spills through the half-open blinds, painting her flushed skin in silver as our breathing gradually slows, as the frantic heat between us settles into something softer, warmer.
She shifts first, curling into my side with a contented sigh that makes my chest tighten. Her fingers trace idle circles over my sternum, following old scars and new scratches alike with featherlight touches that still manage to spark under my skin.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with sweat and sex.
No words needed—not when her body says everything, not when the quiet between us feels fuller than any conversation could.
Just this: her weight against me, the steady rise of her ribs under my palm, the way she fits perfectly in the space I didn't know was empty until her.
The moon spills silver across the tangled sheets, across Chasity’s bare shoulder pressed warm against my chest. Her breath slows, matching mine in the quiet, but neither of us moves to fill the silence.
The weight of what just happened—what we just did—hangs between us, thick and tender as a bruise.
I trace the ridge of her spine with my fingertips, committing this to memory: the soft hitch in her breathing when I graze a certain spot, the way she shivers despite the heat of our tangled limbs.
I shouldn’t say it. Should let her sleep.
But the words claw their way up my throat anyway, raw and unfiltered.
"Would’ve helped you pack, if you’d asked.” My voice is rough, too damn revealing. “But god, Chasity—watching you leave will gut me.”
Her exhale stutters against my collarbone. She tilts her head just enough to meet my gaze, eyes wide and searching in the dim light. The trust there—the quiet certainty—unravels me more than anything that came before.
"I keep waiting to feel guilty," she whispers. "For staying. For wanting this. But all I feel is… relief."
The confession ignites something fierce in my chest. My fingers tighten against her hip, pulling her closer until no space remains between us. "Maybe this place wasn’t just a detour,” I murmur into her hair. “Maybe you crashed your damn car right where you were supposed to be."
She huffs a laugh against my skin, but her fingers dig into my side like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. I kiss her temple, lingering. Letting my lips say what I can’t—that she fits here. With me. That every stubborn, messy, breathtaking part of her belongs in this town, in these mountains, in this bed.
When she finally drifts off, her breaths deep and even, I stay awake. Watching. Memorizing. The way her lashes flutter against her cheeks, the way dawn slowly gilds the curve of her shoulder.
I don’t dare hope out loud. But for once, I let myself imagine it—her laughter in my kitchen every morning. Her boots kicked off by my front door. Mine, in every way that matters.
And the terrifying, exhilarating truth?
She already is.