Chapter 5 – Wendy
The howling wind has gentled to a low murmur, and the cabin no longer creaks and groans under the assault. The fire has burned low, glowing embers casting faint orange light across the room.
I sit up slowly, the blanket sliding off my shoulders, and blink into the dimness. Bolt is still curled at my feet, undisturbed. The air is cooler now, the warmth from the fire fading into the edges of the room.
I glance toward the hallway and see him.
He's standing in the doorway to his room, one hand braced against the frame, watching me.
Wearing only sleep pants that hang low on his hips, and even in the dim light I can see everything—the solid planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the thick cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders.
Dark hair dusts his chest and trails down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband.
My breath catches.
"You're awake," he says quietly.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I expect. I clear my throat. "The storm—"
"It's easing."
He steps into the room, moving with that same confidence, and I realize I'm staring. At his chest. At the way the muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves. At the faint shadows the firelight casts across his body.
I force my gaze back to his face.
He stops a few feet away, his pale blue eyes holding mine, and for a long moment neither of us speaks.
Then he says, "You should go back to sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"Wendy—"
"Are you?"
He hesitates, and I see it—the crack in his control, the flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face.
"No," he admits, his voice low and rough.
I stand slowly, the blanket falling away, and take a step toward him. Then another. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He doesn't move. Just watches me, his jaw tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself.
I stop just in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, and look up at him.
He reaches out and cups the side of my face, his palm rough and warm against my cheek. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and I feel the touch all the way down to my toes.
"This is a bad idea," he murmurs.
"Probably."
"You don't know me."
His eyes search mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation. He won't find it.
I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
He goes still for half a heartbeat, then he's kissing me back, hard, one hand sliding into my hair, the other wrapping around my waist and pulling me flush against him. His beard brushes against my face, softer than I expected, and his mouth is hot and demanding.
I gasp against his mouth, my hands finding his chest, solid muscle, warm skin, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my palm. His chest is firm and broad, and I feel the coarse hair beneath my fingertips.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, claiming, and I melt against him, my fingers curling into his shoulders. The muscles there are like stone beneath my hands.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my lips.
"Wendy," he says, his voice rough and strained. "If we do this—"
"I want to."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He searches my face one more time, his thumb stroking my cheek, then nods and takes my hand, leading me toward his room.
The space is small and dim, lit only by the faint glow from the main room. The bed is unmade, the blankets tangled, and the air smells faintly of woodsmoke.
He turns to face me, his hands settling on my hips, and I reach up to touch his beard, my fingers threading through the thick, soft hair. It's even softer than I thought, flecked with gray that catches the light.
"You're gorgeous," he says quietly, his voice low and sincere.
I laugh, breathless. "I'm a mess."
"No." His hands slide up my sides, slow and deliberate, his palms warm through the fabric of my sweater. "You're beautiful."
I pull him closer, my hands exploring the broad expanse of his back, the hard planes of his shoulders. His skin is warm and slightly damp, and I can feel the muscles shifting beneath my touch. He's so big, so solid.
His hands find the hem of my sweater and pause. "Can I?"
"Yes."
He pulls it off slowly, carefully, then the cardigan beneath it, and I'm left in just my bra and jeans. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, but his hands are warm as they trace the curve of my waist, my hips, the softness of my stomach.
He doesn't hesitate, doesn't pull away, just touches me like I'm something worth exploring.
"God," he murmurs, his voice thick. "You're—"
I kiss him before he can finish, rising onto my toes, and he responds immediately, his hands tightening on my hips, pulling me against him. I can feel him hard and insistent against my belly.
My hands fumble with the button of my jeans, and he helps, his fingers brushing mine as he eases the denim down my legs. When I step out of them, kicking them aside, I'm left standing in front of him in just my underwear.
He takes a step back, his eyes dragging over me slowly, and I feel the weight of his gaze. My cheeks flush under his attention.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sleep pants and pushes them down, stepping out of them without hesitation.
I stare.
I can't help it.
He's… he's everything. Thick thighs, powerful legs, and between them—
"Wendy."
I drag my gaze back to his face, and he's smirking slightly, one eyebrow raised.
"Sorry," I mutter, my cheeks burning. "I just—you're—"
He crosses the distance between us in two strides and kisses me, swallowing whatever I was about to say. His hands slide around my back, unhooking my bra with surprising ease, and then we're skin-to-skin, and I can't think anymore.
The feel of his bare chest against mine is electric.
The hair there is soft and slightly scratchy, and his skin is so warm I feel like I'm melting into him. His heart pounds against mine, matching my rhythm.
He guides me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, then lowers me down gently, his body covering mine.
His weight presses me into the mattress, and I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer. I can feel his chest, his stomach, and the hard length of him pressing against me.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.
"You won't."
He kisses my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast, and I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.
His beard brushes against my skin, sending shivers racing down my spine. His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue tracing patterns that make me gasp.
His hands move to my hips, hooking into the waistband of my underwear, and he pauses, looking up at me.
"Yes," I breathe before he can ask.
He pulls them off slowly, his knuckles dragging against my thighs, and I shiver at the contact. Then he's back, pressing against me, and the feel of his bulge makes my breath catch.
"Ezra," I whisper.
He kisses me again, deep and hungry, and then he's moving, positioning himself, and I feel the blunt press of him.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice strained.
"Yes."
He pushes forward slowly, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of him entering me inch by inch.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice tight with restraint. He's trembling slightly, every muscle taut.
"Yes. God, yes. Keep going."
He moves again, deeper this time, and I cry out softly, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Breathe," he murmurs, his forehead pressed against mine. "Just breathe."
I do, forcing myself to relax, and he slides in further, filling me completely. When he's fully seated, we both freeze, breathing hard, and I can feel every inch of him, hot and pulsing inside me.
"You feel—" He breaks off, his jaw clenched. "God, Wendy."
"Move," I whisper. "Please."
He does.
He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and the drag of him against my walls makes me whimper. Then he pushes back in, steady and controlled, and I arch into him, my legs tightening around his hips.
He sets a slow rhythm, his hands braced on either side of my head, and I lose myself in the feel of him. Each thrust sends sparks racing through my body, building something low in my belly that coils tighter with every movement.
"Ezra," I breathe, my hands clutching at his back.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you."
He shifts slightly, angling his hips, and the sensation changes—sharper, deeper, hitting something inside me that makes me see stars.
"There?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Yes. Right there. Don't stop."
He doesn't.
He keeps moving, and I feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust. My breath comes in short gasps, my body trembling beneath him.
"Wendy." His voice is strained, rough with need. "I need—I need to move you."
"Yes. Whatever you need."
He sits back suddenly, pulling me with him, and I gasp as the angle shifts. I'm in his lap now, straddling him, my legs wrapped around his waist, and his hands grip my hips, steadying me.
I cry out, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
"Move," he says, his voice low and commanding, his eyes dark with desire.
I do, rocking against him experimentally, and the sensation is overwhelming, deeper than before. I can feel him everywhere, stretching me, filling me, and the friction against that spot inside me makes my vision blur.
His hands slide up my back, into my hair, and he kisses me hard, swallowing my moans. His tongue moves in rhythm with his hips, claiming my mouth the way his body claims the rest of me.
"God, you feel good," he murmurs against my mouth, his breath hot and ragged. "So good."
I move faster, chasing the pleasure, grinding down against him, and he matches my rhythm, his hips driving up to meet mine. The sound of our bodies coming together fills the room, wet, rhythmic and utterly obscene.
His hands move to my breasts, cupping them, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I gasp into his touch.
"Ezra, I'm—"
"Not yet," he growls. "Hold on."
He stands suddenly, lifting me with him, and I yelp in surprise, my legs tightening around his waist. He's still inside me, still hard, and the shift in position makes me moan.
He carries me to the small table near the window, lowering me onto the edge. The wood is cool against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body.
He pulls back slightly, adjusting my legs over his shoulders, and then he's thrusting again, harder this time.
I cry out, my hands scrambling for grip on the table's edge. I can feel him hitting that spot inside me with every thrust.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough.
I do, forcing my eyes open, and the intensity in his gaze steals my breath. He's watching me, his eyes dark and hungry.
His pace quickens, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency, and I can feel the tension building again, coiling impossibly tight in my belly.
"Ezra, I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he says, his voice firm. "Come for me, Wendy."
And I do.
The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, sharp and blinding, and I cry out, my body convulsing around him.
Pleasure floods every nerve, and for a moment I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
He follows moments later, his grip on my hips tightening, his breath ragged against my neck as he spills inside me.
We stay like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his heart pounding, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
Then he shifts, easing me off the table and back onto my feet. My legs are shaky, and he steadies me with one arm around my waist.
"Bed," he says quietly.
I nod, and he guides me back, laying me down gently before climbing in beside me. He pulls the blanket over us, and I curl into his side, my head resting on his chest.
I listen to the steady thud of his heartbeat, feel the warmth of his skin against mine, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel completely, utterly content.
"That was—" I start.
"Yeah," he says quietly, his hand stroking my hair.
I smile against his skin and close my eyes, letting the warmth and exhaustion pull me under.