Chapter 9
Adrienne
My legs are still shaking when I push up on my elbows.
The couch cushion bears a handprint where he pinned me, and my thighs wear the rest: his finger marks, a scrape from stubble, the kind of afterward feeling that tingles all the way to my knees.
Round two wasn’t gentle. It was filthy and hard and exactly what I’d been begging for.
His T-shirt is draped over the arm of the couch. I snag it and tug it on, the hem brushing high on my thighs as I stand. I wince a little, my body enjoying the ache, then pad barefoot across his living room and into the kitchen.
The back door is propped open. Through the screen, I can see him at the grill.
Sweatpants ride low on his hips, the waistband slung so indecently that heat flickers in my belly all over again.
He’s barefoot, focused, one forearm braced on the lid while he checks the steaks.
The outline in those sweats is impossible to ignore.
He’s still half hard, still not fully recovered from what we did on this couch minutes ago.
I rest my fingers on the doorjamb and watch him.
Quiet. Unseen. It feels like I’ve slipped behind the curtain to a part of him nobody gets to see.
Scotty at home, working a grill, moving easy like he didn’t just fuck me into another dimension.
I’ve never had this with him. Access. The ordinary glow after the chaos.
My chest tightens, traitorous. Careful. I’ve already told myself the rules: this isn’t forever. He won’t promise things he can’t give, and I won’t ask for them. Take it a day at a time. Don’t overthink. Enjoy the moment.
A hinge creaks when he lifts the lid again, and his head turns, like he feels me looking. His gaze snags on me through the screen; a slow grin hits his mouth.
“There’s a bottle of red on the counter,” he calls.
“Thank you,” I say, mostly to myself, but I’m already moving.
The bottle sits near the sink beside two clean glasses. I twist, pour, and take a long drink. I take a second to steal a glance at my reflection in the dark window: hair a mess, mouth swollen, Scotty’s shirt swallowing me whole.
I’m going to get in trouble for how much I like this.
I carry the wine outside. The evening is cool against my bare legs; I get goosebumps and pretend it’s the breeze. He flips the steaks like a pro and tips his chin at the glasses.
“Trying to get me drunk?” he asks.
“Hydrating the talent.” I hand him a glass. The way his fingers brush mine is nothing like the way they were a few minutes ago. His touch is soft and gentle, lingering an extra second. Unlike the way gripped my thighs on the couch, leaving bruises.
His eyes drag down and then up again, taking in the shirt, the bare legs, the fact that I’m not wearing a single thing under this. The corner of his mouth kicks higher. “You look a helluva lot better in that than I ever did.”
“Yeah?” I give a small twirl, and he juts his hand out, grabbing my bare ass when I turn.
“Mmm,” he bites down on his bottom lip. “Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“You say that like a man who’s seen me from every angle,” I tease, sipping.
He huffs a laugh. “Not yet, I haven’t.”
My breath catches. I want to ask him what that means, but I don’t. Instead, I just take a seat at the small table and enjoy my wine and the view of his back flexing with each movement.
The soft sounds of late summer settle between us.
Crickets. A faint sizzle from the grill.
Somewhere out in the pasture, a soft thud of hooves.
It’s domestic in a way that makes me ache like we do this every Friday night after we ruin each other on his couch and then argue about how he over-salts the steaks.
“Don’t burn them,” I tease.
“Timer in my head,” he says, tapping his temple. “We men just know grill time.”
He takes a slow swallow of wine, eyes on me over the rim, and gives me a wink. The look isn’t hungry so much as satisfied, like a man appreciating the aftermath of a job done right. Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I attempt to hide in my own glass.
“You good?” he asks, quietly.
I nod, then add, “Yes,” because I know if I tell him that I’m completely turned on by everything he does right now, he’ll toss the steaks and the trash and haul me back inside. “Starving, actually.”
“Good.” He lifts the lid again and pokes around. “Two minutes.”
Two minutes to pretend I’m not thinking about last night and wondering if he was with someone else. Two minutes to decide that I won’t ruin this by asking what happens next.
He closes the lid and steps a little closer. The porch light cuts a warm edge along his jaw. “You keep looking at me like that, Barbie, and dinner’s gonna be real late.”
“Then you better hustle,” I say, trying for breezy and landing somewhere around wanton.
His grin goes slow and lethal. “Yes, ma’am.”
I roll my eyes and walk to the railing, set my glass beside me, and breathe. One night at a time. One impossible night.
He hands me a plate, just steak, nothing else, and drops into the chair across from me.
“That’s it?” I ask, one brow up. “No sides? No salad?”
He cuts into his, unbothered. “Protein. Keeps it simple.”
I laugh, sawing off a bite. “God, that is such a man meal. You’ve got grill marks and zero vegetables. Somewhere, my mother just felt a disturbance in the force.”
He smirks, chewing slowly. “Guess I could use some domestication.”
“Please,” I say, pointing my fork at him. “You’re a lost cause.”
“Maybe I just need the right woman,” he says quietly without looking away.
My heart stumbles. The line hangs there, heavier than it should. He doesn’t elaborate, just takes another bite like he didn’t just throw a live wire between us. I lift my wineglass, hiding behind a sip, pretending the air didn’t shift.
He leans back casually, the wood of the chair creaking under his weight. “You sore?”
I choke on my wine. “What?”
He’s smirking now, eyes sharp with amusement. “Don’t act surprised. I was there, remember?”
“I think you get off on the thought.”
“Hmm?” He drags the word out, lazy and low. “It’s a fair question. I went a little wild earlier.”
“A little?”
He gives a small laugh, deep in his chest. “Fine. A lot.” He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim. “So… are you?”
I try to glare at him, but the warmth creeping up my neck gives me away. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, huh?” He shifts his chair back a few inches and kicks one leg up, ankle resting on his knee. “That’s not a no.”
I glance down at my plate, scared to be too honest in the fear that he won’t do it again. “You certainly didn’t hold back with round two.”
He grins. “You told me not to.”
“Because you were holding me down and talking dirty, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“That’s kind of the point.” His voice drops. “And for the record, I warned you it might hurt.”
My stomach tightens at the sound of his voice like that: rough, teasing, but threaded with the same care he had when he slowed down earlier. “Yeah, well,” I tease, trying to sound unaffected, “maybe next time you can show a little restraint.”
His brows lift. “Next time?”
I realize what I said was too late. “That’s not— I meant hypothetically.”
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, gaze steady and dark. “Darlin, there’s no need for big words. If you want me to fuck you again, I’ll fuck you again.”
I roll my eyes, attempting to sound unaffected, but it comes out breathless. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah, and for some reason, you seem to like me that way.”
“So, are you always this attentive afterward? Attending to your flavor of the month’s muscle soreness afterward?
” I try to sip my wine again, but my hand shakes enough that I set it down instead.
Ugh, I sound pathetic again, mentioning other women, but the jealousy keeps wanting to rear its ugly head, and I let it.
He smirks. “Only the ones who make me forget how to breathe.”
I kick at him under the table, more to cover the flutter in my stomach than to argue. He catches my ankle before I can pull back, palm warm around it.
“Hey,” I warn, trying to sound stern.
“Hey, what?” His thumb drags slow, lazy circles along the inside of my ankle, and my voice forgets how to work.
“That’s cheating.”
He grins. “All’s fair when you’re tryin’ to distract a woman who’s clearly thinking about something else.”
I scoff. “I’m not thinking about anything.”
“Liar.” His tone softens. “You’ve had that look since we sat down.”
Before I can stop myself, the question tumbles out. “Where were you last night?”
His thumb pauses mid-circle. The night air seems to still with it. I blink, realizing what I just said, and rush to fix it. “Forget I said that.”
He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. His smirk spreads lazily. “Why? You jealous?”
“No,” I say too quickly. “I was just curious.”
“Curious.” He draws the word out, his thumb tracing higher over my skin in a deliberate motion. “About what, exactly?”
“Nothing. I—” I swallow. “You weren’t home.”
He leans back in his chair, still holding my foot. “Wasn’t I?”
I glare, but it’s weak at best. “Apparently not.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough, vibrating through the night air like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “You got yourself worked up over that?”
“I did not.”
“You did.” He takes a sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. “Relax, sweetheart. I was at The Place. Had a beer with Ranger.”
“Oh.” The single syllable comes out smaller than I meant it to.
“Oh?” His brow lifts. “Why, were you followin’ me?”
My jaw drops. “What? No!”
He laughs, and while I’m embarrassed, I’m also fully relieved that he isn’t freaking out over it. And at the fact that he wasn’t on a date or at someone else’s house.
“You sure about that?”
“I just—” I stop, because the truth sounds worse. “I stopped by your house. Once.”
“Once.” He shifts, pretending to think about it. “You mean once before or once after you drove past the garage?”
My mouth falls open. “How do you—”