5. Skye
Chapter five
Skye
Ireach for him before I reach for the next order.
Hunter's at the worktable assembling planners with those large, careful hands, sunshine pouring through the windows behind him and catching in his dark hair.
Thirty-six hours left on the deadline. The number should trigger panic, but it settles quietly in the back of my mind, present without consuming.
The system he built is working with materials staged within easy reach, tools exactly where I need them, and completed orders stacking higher with every hour that passes.
The business isn't collapsing. It's stabilizing. Because I let him help.
"You're staring." Hunter's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I look up to see him watching me with that assessing look that makes my stomach flip.
"You're worth staring at." The words come out easier than they should, honesty bypassing the filters I usually keep in place.
He sets down his materials and comes around the table, moving into my space with intent. His hand finds my lower back, palm spreading wide, and I lean into the touch before my brain catches up to what my body already knows.
"How do you feel?" His thumb strokes small circles against my spine, reading tension I didn't realize I was carrying.
"Good. Better than I have in months." I look up at him, at the intensity in his dark eyes. "But I’m a little scared."
"Of what?"
The question opens my throat, and the truth spills out rough and unfiltered. "That when the deadline's done and the work is finished, this disappears. That I go back to my old life, to handling everything myself."
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his beard, and his fingers cradle my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His forehead lowers to mine, our noses nearly touching, and warmth ghosts across my lips with each exhale.
"I'm not going anywhere." His voice drops low, a command wrapped in certainty. "Not when the work's done. Not after. You understand?"
My throat closes around the words trying to form, and I manage a nod instead.
"Say it, Skye."
"I understand." The words are whisper-soft.
He kisses my forehead before stepping back and guiding me toward the couch, his hand firm at my back. "Break time. You've been working three hours straight."
"I'm fine—"
"Now." The single word carries enough weight that my legs move before I can argue, carrying me to the couch where I sink into the cushions.
He disappears into the kitchenette and returns with water and an apple, pressing both into my hands with a look that says he'll stand there until I consume them.
The apple's sweetness grounds me, crisp and cool against my tongue, and he settles beside me close enough that our legs touch. His arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me against his side, and I let myself melt into the warmth radiating through his flannel shirt.
"Better?" he asks after I've finished.
"Yeah." Curling closer, my head finds the hollow of his shoulder like it was carved to fit there. "You make this look easy. Taking care of people. Knowing what they need."
"It’s from working the fireline, then SAR. They’re places where people push past their limits, and someone has to notice before it becomes a problem." His hand finds mine, fingers twisting together. "You get good at reading the signs."
"What signs are you reading right now?"
Quiet stretches between us, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a rhythm that matches the pulse jumping at my wrist. "That you're waiting for me to leave when this is over. That you want to trust what we’ve been doing but you're scared to let yourself."
The accuracy almost makes me feel lightheaded, and I turn my face into his shoulder to hide the sudden burn behind my eyes. "You see too much."
"I see you." He shifts, turning so we're facing each other, and tips my chin up with gentle fingers until our gazes lock. "I see all of you. The competence and the exhaustion and the way you've been holding everything together with sheer stubbornness. And I'm staying."
My hand lifts toward his face, fingers trembling slightly before I can stop them, and he catches my wrist. His thumb presses against the rapid flutter of my pulse there, holding my hand suspended between us while his eyes search mine.
"You don't have to be careful with me," he says quietly.
"I don't know how to be anything else." The admission sends something behind my ribs unfurling: exposure without the usual shame chasing behind it.
He guides my palm to his face, pressing my hand against the scratch of his beard and the warmth of his skin. "Then learn. Starting now."
I trace the line of his jaw, feeling muscle shift beneath my fingertips. His eyes darken. The wanting there is naked and uncomplicated, and it calls to something deep in my belly that's been quiet for too long.
"Hunter—"
"Tell me what you want." His hand slides from my chin to cup my jaw, possessive weight anchoring me in place. "Not what you think you should want. What you actually want."
The question bypasses every logical objection my brain tries to construct, and the answer rises like the only truth I’ve ever known. "You. I want you."
The last word barely clears my lips before his mouth claims mine, fierce and hungry and stripped of gentleness.
I open for him with a sound that's half gasp and half surrender, his tongue sliding against mine to taste and explore.
My hands fist in his flannel shirt, pulling him closer, needing more contact than the kiss alone provides.
He pulls me onto his lap on the worn couch, the afternoon light streaming through the windows warming his skin. The new position puts me in control, straddling his thighs with my knees bracketing his hips, and warmth spreads low in my pussy at the shift in power.
I push the flannel off his shoulders myself this time, fingers clumsy with urgency, and he lets me.
He watches me with dark eyes while I explore the territory I've been staring at for what feels like forever, the breadth of his shoulders, the ridges of muscle along his ribs, the way his stomach tightens when my nails scrape lightly across his skin.
His hands grip my hips, holding me steady against the hard ridge of arousal in his jeans while I map him with touch and sight, learning the landscape of his body. I rock against him.
"Skye." My name comes out rough, and his fingers tighten hard enough to leave marks. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this." The words come out clear and certain, no hesitation threading through them. "I want you."
He shifts me easily, then lays me back on the couch cushions. The light catches in his eyes as he settles over me, bracing himself on his forearms, and the intensity there makes my pulse pound at my throat.
"You're sure?"
"Yes." I reach up and pull him down into another kiss, arching up to press my body against his. "I'm sure."
His hands find the hem of my shirt and pause, waiting for permission, which I give by lifting my arms above my head.
He pulls the fabric off and tosses it aside, then makes quick work of my bra until I'm bare from the waist up beneath his gaze.
Cool air hits my skin, but his eyes are pure heat as they travel over me, lingering on my breasts with appreciation that makes me want to cover myself and arch into his touch all at once.
My hands start to lift, instinct trying to shield what I've spent years learning to hide, and he catches both wrists. He pins them gently to the cushion above my head, his grip firm enough to hold but loose enough that I could break free if I wanted.
"Don't." His voice roughens, command layered with hunger. "Don't hide from me."
The vulnerability of being held like this, of being exposed and unable to cover myself makes my pulse race where his fingers press against my wrists.
He lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue circling before he sucks hard enough to make me cry out.
My hands flex in his grip, wanting to touch him, and he releases one wrist to let my fingers find his hair.
Pleasure sparks from my nipple straight down to my pussy where I'm already aching for him, electric and consuming and getting wet.
He lavishes attention first on one breast then the other.
His free hand slides down the soft expanse of my stomach to the button of my jeans, and he looks up at me with dark eyes.
"Can I?"
"Please." The word comes out breathy and desperate.
He pops the button and slides the zipper down slowly, then hooks his fingers in the waistband. I lift my hips, and he peels my jeans and underwear down my legs, leaving me completely bare beneath him on the couch.
"Gorgeous." He runs his hands up my inner thighs, spreading them wider, and the vulnerability of being exposed like this makes the pulse at my throat hammer.
"Look at you, Skye." His breath is hot against my skin. "I’m going to bury my face between your thighs and lick your sweet pussy until your legs shake so hard you can’t walk.
" He leans back, eyes hungry. "You’re going to come so hard on my tongue you’ll forget your own name. "
The promise sends liquid need pooling into my pussy. He cups my breasts again. "These perfect tits." His breath fans hot over one nipple. "So fucking soft and heavy, but right now I need to taste you lower."
My hips rock, seeking pressure, needing more.
"Lie back and open for me." The command is rough with his need.
His fingers stroke up the soft skin of my inner thighs, thumbs tracing the crease. He teases close to my pussy but never touches.
"Such a pretty, soaked pussy." His words are a low rumble against my skin. "Wet for me. Ready to be licked. Look at how your body opens for me. Hips so wide and soft. Every inch made to be worshipped."
He leans in, palms sliding under my ass. He lifts and spreads me wider, gripping the soft flare of my hips and squeezing the generous curves as his thumbs stroke my belly.