Chapter 8
Clara
I can’t believe this is happening to me.
Not because I’m some delicate, innocent thing—please. I’m thirty-five.
I pay taxes.
I’ve had sex.
I’ve made decisions sober that my friends would call questionable but iconic.
But this? This is the kind of moment that only happens to women in books.
The kind of moment that feels too cinematic to be real—like the universe accidentally hit shuffle and landed on a scene that should’ve come with a warning label.
And yet here I am, pressed against the solid heat of Greyson’s body as he carries me down a narrow hallway like I weigh nothing.
His strength isn’t showy.
It’s functional. Earned.
The kind of strength you build because you have to split wood and haul supplies and survive winters that don’t care about your feelings.
It makes my stomach flip in a way I refuse to be embarrassed about.
My entire body is buzzing with awareness—skin hyper-sensitive, nerve endings lit up like sparklers.
My mind is racing and weirdly clear at the same time, like all the noise I usually carry has gone quiet so I can hear one thing and one thing only.
I want him.
And I’m not going to treat that like a crisis.
I’ve spent too much of my life second-guessing myself.
Policing myself.
Negotiating with my own desire like it’s something I need permission to have.
Not tonight.
Tonight I’m a grown woman who just survived a thunderstorm, a dead car, and a bear on a mountain road.
I am allowed to want warmth.
I am allowed to want hands on my skin.
I am allowed to want a man who looks at me like I’m not too much.
Greyson pushes open a bedroom door and the air changes—warmer, quieter, softer.
A lamp glows on a nightstand.
The bed is big and made in that utilitarian way that says nobody comes in here except the person who sleeps alone.
He sets me down on the mattress like I’m something precious he doesn’t trust himself to be rough with.
My knees sink into the blankets.
I swallow.
He stands there for half a beat—towering, breathing hard, eyes dark and intent—like he’s still deciding whether he’s about to jump off a cliff.
Then he steps closer, and the decision is made.
The robe belt is still knotted at my waist. I slide my hands to it, fingers trembling, and shrug the robe from my shoulders.
The cool air kisses my skin.
Greyson’s gaze drops—slow, hungry, reverent—and my pulse stutters.
No one has ever looked at me like that.
With so much blatant hunger.
He doesn’t look at me like my body is there to critique.
He looks at me like a man looks at the woman he wants.
I can see it in his eyes. He wants all of me.
And it’s intoxicating.
The heat of that gaze floods through me, loosening something inside my chest that’s been tight for years.
His hands make short work of his flannel. Buttons pop in a quick, impatient line.
The shirt hits the floor.
And—Holy Christ.
The man is a work of art.
Bearded, yes. Hair too long and wild, yes. But it only makes him sexier.
And his body?
It’s hard and muscled in a way that makes me think of old statues and modern sin.
Broad shoulders. Strong arms.
A chest that looks like it’s been built by labor and solitude and sheer stubbornness.
His hands—God, his hands—that’s what really gets me.
They’re callused, capable, the kind that leave marks on wood and leather and metal.
I want those hands on me.
Not as a fantasy.
Not as a someday.
I want them on me right fucking now.
He shucks his jeans down with a sharp tug, like he’s trying not to think too hard.
Like if he slows down, he’ll stop.
I don’t want him to stop.
I reach for him, palms skimming over his stomach, feeling the heat and the tension, the way his body is braced like he’s holding himself back.
His breath hitches.
His eyes snap to mine.
There’s a question there.
A carefulness that doesn’t match his gruff voice.
I appreciate it more than I can say.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, because he needs to hear it. Because I need to say it. “I want this.”
Greyson’s jaw clenches.
His throat works like he’s swallowing something heavy.
Then he leans in and presses his forehead to mine, just for a second—grounding, steady.
His big hands reach out, they ghost over my neck, my shoulders, down farther until they find my breasts.
I shudder as his palms graze my nipples, moisture floods between my thighs.
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I got you.”
The words land in me like a promise.
Not a forever promise.
Not a romance novel vow.
It’s more an at this moment promise.
And somehow that feels even safer.
He leans in and kisses me again—deep, slow, sure—like he’s taking his time now that he’s allowed to.
Like he’s memorizing me.
My mouth. My breath. The way I melt when he tilts his head and pulls a soft sound from the back of my throat.
My hands slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against my lips.
His hands move, palms skimming my sides, warm and steady, then they glide back up—cupping, holding my breasts, as if he can’t help himself.
Like he’s making sure I feel how much he wants me without saying it out loud.
I arch into him, shameless and delighted by my own boldness.
Because this isn’t me being reckless.
This is me choosing.
I’m not a teenager. Not some starry-eyed virgin.
I’m thirty-five, clearheaded, and fully aware that desire can be immediate and still be real.
That attraction can be sudden and still be safe.
That two adults can want each other without turning it into a moral debate.
Greyson eases me backward until I’m lying in the center of the bed, the blankets rumpling beneath me.
He follows, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me, hovering above me like a shelter.
His kisses move from my lips to my neck, my aching breasts and my belly.
He travels down further, and my thighs are shaking.
It’s been so long since I felt this—since anyone has—”Oh my God!” I gasp as his tongue finds me.
He lifts up, his gaze searches my face again—checking, reading.
“You okay, Trouble?”
I nod, breathless.
“Yes,” I whisper, because my body is already answering for me—warming, softening, opening to the idea of him like it’s been waiting.
His expression tightens—something like hunger, something like awe.
“Good girl,” he grunts. Then he lowers his mouth to my pussy.
The next kiss is gentle. Almost careful.
The second is deeper, lingering.
By the third, my whole body is thrumming, pleasure pooling low and hot as he maps a slow trail across my sex—and I feel it everywhere.
I reach for him, grasping his hair, leaning up on my elbows as he works me over with his talented tongue.
God, he’s so hot.
So damn handsome.
There’s a mirror on the side of the bed, and I watch him eat me.
His jaw opens, his tongue slides out of his mouth, and his lips cover mine as he licks into me.
I moan at the thousand and one sensations batting against me—unsure where to look next.
His hands flex on my thighs as they hold me open for him, the curve of his shoulder—fuck, it’s too good, too intense.
He groans as he makes out with my pussy, his breath a warm drag that makes me squirm and buck helplessly against him.
My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in.
Then it hits me, hard and fast.
A pleasure so intense I think I might die from it.
I don’t, but I do fall back against the mattress—satisfied, boneless.
Somewhere in the periphery of my brain I hear the telltale sounds of foil ripping and the condom unrolling as he sheathes his cock.
He crawls over my body, licking a trail from my belly to my mouth. He kisses me and I can taste myself—and fuck me, nothing has ever felt so sexy,
His voice comes out against my skin, a low rasp. “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”
I laugh, breathless and shaky.
“I don’t want you to stop. I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me. Please, Greyson.”
A sound leaves him—half growl, half surrender.
And then he’s back at my mouth, kissing me like he can’t help it.
Like he’s trying to pour everything he refuses to say into the way he touches me.
The storm keeps raging outside, but in here there’s only heat and desire and the steady strength of a man who looks like he’s been alone too long.
His hand slides down, fingers threading with mine, pinning my hand gently to the mattress as his mouth moves to my ear.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“It’s not fear,” I breathe.
His lips brush my cheek, softer than I expect.
“Good.”
I pull him closer, because I’m done being careful with my own desire.
“I want you,” I say, and the words feel powerful instead of shameful. “Tonight. Just for tonight, be here with me.”
Greyson goes still for one heartbeat.
Like he’s never been asked for something so simple.
Then he nods, once, like he’s accepting a truth he can’t fight.
“Okay,” he says, voice wrecked. “Okay, Baby, I got you.”
The next part isn’t frantic.
It’s not rushed or messy in a way that makes me feel out of control.
It’s deliberate.
A slow unfolding—kisses and touches and quiet sounds, my body answering his in a language older than logic, my mind finally going blessedly blank except for sensation.
He fits himself to my entrance, eyes open and on mine, then he pushes in, and I can’t look away.
I watch it happen.
Feel him fall into me like a stone falling in water.
Heat.
Pressure.
Warmth everywhere.
We both groan and I cling to him as the world narrows to the bed beneath us and his breath against my skin, his hands learning me like he’s reverent.
Like I’m something to be cherished, and he’s amazed I’m real.
And this time, when I finally break—when pleasure rolls through me in waves so intense I can’t hold my voice back—I realize I’m laughing and gasping at once, tears pricking my eyes for reasons that have nothing to do with sadness.
“Oh God,” I moan.
“You feel so goddamn good, Trouble. Gonna stay buried in you all night,” he vows.
Afterward, Greyson gathers me closer, heavy and warm and steady.
His arm locks around me like he’s decided I’m not going anywhere, at least not right now.
My cheek rests against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat—strong, uneven, human.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, like it surprises him that he’s capable of tenderness.
I exhale, boneless and warm, the storm a distant thing now.
And in the quiet, the thought arrives—not panicked, not dreamy.
Just clear.
Whatever happens tomorrow.
Tonight, I chose this.
And I don’t regret it.