Chapter 8 - Claire
I don't know how to thank him.
The words feel inadequate, *thank you* for saving my life, for protecting my son, for making Derek disappear like he was nothing more than a bad dream. How do you express gratitude for something that monumental?
Jackson is asleep in the bedroom, his breathing deep and even, finally calm after the terror of tonight. And I'm here in the living room with Tom, this man who keeps doing impossible things, who keeps showing up exactly when I need him.
We're sitting in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. He's in the armchair, I'm on the couch, both of us holding cups of tea that have gone lukewarm. The TV is off. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood.
I should say something. Anything. But when I turn to look at him, the words die in my throat.
Is Derek really gone? Tom said his friends took him, that they'd make sure he understood not to come back. But I've spent five years learning that Derek doesn't give up, doesn't let go, doesn't accept defeat. What if this isn't enough? What if he comes back with more men, more violence, more—
"Claire?"
Tom's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He's watching me with those steady blue eyes, concern written across his face.
"How are you feeling right now?"
I consider lying. Saying I'm fine, everything's fine, I'm totally handling this. But I'm so tired of lying. So tired of pretending.
"Better," I say honestly. "A lot less scared than I was an hour ago. But there's..." I pause, trying to find the right words. "There's a lot of healing to do. A lot of damage that won't go away just because Derek's gone."
Tom nods like he understands. "You'll get there.
It won't be easy, and it won't be quick.
But you'll get there." He leans forward slightly.
"And you won't be doing it alone. You have support now.
Everyone in Blackwater Falls will probably know about this in a few days.
Small town, word travels fast. But that means they'll all be watching out for you.
Defending you. Making sure no one hurts you again. "
The tears come before I can stop them. Hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks.
"I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't know what that feels like. Having people on my side. Having a community that cares. I can't even imagine it."
"You will," he says. "Soon, you'll see. This town takes care of its own."
"I'm so glad I chose Blackwater Falls." The words come out between sobs. "So glad I got off that bus here instead of somewhere else."
I move without thinking, crossing the space between us, leaning my face against his shoulder. He's solid and warm, and he doesn't push me away. Doesn't tell me I'm being too emotional or too needy. He just wraps one arm around me, holding me steady while I cry.
"Your life is about to change for the better," he murmurs. "I promise you that."
I lift my head to look at him, to thank him again, to say something that might convey even a fraction of what I'm feeling.
But I don't say anything.
Because suddenly we're kissing.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us, drawn together by something neither of us can name.
His lips meet mine with urgency, not rough but determined, like he's been holding back and finally let go.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by cupping my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones as our mouths move together.
It's not sweet. It's hungry. Desperate. Years of isolation and pain pouring out of me, meeting something equally raw in him.
His tongue traces my lower lip, and I open for him, tasting coffee and shrimp.
The kiss deepens, becomes more intense, and I'm climbing into his lap without consciously deciding to, straddling him.
His hands move to my waist, gripping tight, and I feel wanted in a way I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.
We break apart, both breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and I know I must look the same, wrecked and desperate and needing more.
I should stop here. A kiss is enough. More than enough. I barely know this man, and I've just escaped an abusive relationship, and there are a thousand reasons why going further is a terrible idea.
But I need this. Need to feel cherished and touched and chosen. Need to feel like my body belongs to me and no one else.
My hands move to the hem of my shirt. "Take this off."
Tom's eyes widen, clearly surprised. His mouth opens like he's going to say something, but no words come out.
"Please," I add, holding his gaze. "Take it off."
He stands, and for a terrifying second I think he's going to walk away. Tell me this is wrong, that I'm vulnerable, that we shouldn't. Instead, he grabs his own shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it to the floor.
Oh.
Oh God.
His body is incredible. Broad chest covered in the kind of muscle that comes from real work, not gym vanity. Defined abs that ripple as he moves. Scars crisscrossing his torso, jagged lines that speak of pain survived and battles won.
I reach out, running my hands down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, feeling the warmth of his skin under my palms. He's real and solid and here, and he's looking at me like I'm something precious.
My hands move to his belt. I fumble with the buckle, my fingers clumsy with need.
"Claire." His voice is rough. "What are you doing?"
I freeze, the buckle half-undone. Did I misread this? Did I push too far?
"I'm sorry," I start to say, pulling my hands back. "I thought—"
"I want this," he cuts me off, his hand catching mine, holding it against his stomach. "God, I want this. But I need to know if you're sure. If you want this because you want me, not because you think you owe me something. Not because the adrenaline's still pumping and you're not thinking clearly."
Derek never asked what I wanted. Never cared if I was comfortable or willing or even present. He took what he wanted when he wanted it, and my feelings were irrelevant.
But Tom is asking. Making sure. Giving me control.
"I want this," I say, my voice steadier now. "I want you. I want to please you, to feel in control for once. To choose what happens to my body."
He sits back down on the couch, settling into the cushions, his legs spread slightly. "Then you have control. You can do everything you want to me. Whatever you want, however you want it. What are you going to do with that power, Claire?"
The question sends heat flooding through my body. I slide off the couch and kneel between his legs, my hands moving back to his belt. This time he doesn't stop me. The buckle comes undone easily, and I unbutton his jeans, pulling the zipper down.
"Lift up," I murmur.
He does, and I pull his jeans down to his ankles. He's wearing grey boxers that do absolutely nothing to hide his erection straining against the fabric, thick and hard.
I look up at him, finding his eyes locked on me, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. He's letting me lead, giving me the control I asked for.
My hand moves to palm him through the boxers, and he groans, his head falling back against the couch.
"Fuck, Claire."
The curse sounds good in his mouth. Real. Not the calculated cruelty Derek used to wield words like weapons, but genuine reaction, genuine need.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and perfect. Bigger than Derek's, which shouldn't matter but somehow does. Because this is mine. My choice. My control.
I wrap my hand around him, feeling the heat of him, the weight. His hips jerk slightly at the contact.
"Jesus," he breathes.
I stroke him once, twice, watching his face. His eyes are closed now, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the couch cushions like he's trying to ground himself.
"Look at me," I say.
His eyes snap open, meeting mine. There's something vulnerable in that gaze, something that makes my chest tight.
"I want to taste you," I tell him. "Can I?"
"Christ, yes." The words come out strangled. "Whatever you want. Take whatever you want."
I lean forward, my tongue darting out to lick the tip of him. He tastes clean, slightly salty, masculine. His whole body tenses.
"Claire—"
I don't let him finish. I take him into my mouth, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock and sucking lightly.
The sound he makes is everything. Deep and broken and needy. His hand moves to my hair, not pushing or pulling, just resting there like he needs to touch me.
I take him deeper, working my way down his length, using my hand for what I can't fit in my mouth. I've done this before. Derek demanded it regularly, but this feels different. This feels like a gift I'm choosing to give, not a service I'm required to perform.
Tom's breathing is ragged now, his hips moving slightly, trying to stay still but unable to help himself. I look up at him while I work, watching his face contort with pleasure, and feel powerful in a way I never have before.
"God, your mouth," he groans. "So fucking good."
I hum around him in response, and his hips buck involuntarily. His hand tightens slightly in my hair.
"Sorry," he gasps. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
I pull off him just long enough to say, "Don't apologize. I like it. I like seeing what I do to you."
Then I take him deep again, deeper than before, relaxing my throat the way I learned years ago. His cock hits the back of my throat and he curses, long and creative.
"Claire, I'm not going to last if you keep—fuck—"
Good. I want him to lose control. Want to be the one who makes him come apart. I speed up my movements, sucking harder, using my tongue along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is coming in pants now, his whole body tensing.
"Claire, I'm close. If you don't want..."
I hollow my cheeks and take him as deep as I can, making my intentions clear.
"Fuck, fuck, Claire"