Chapter 8
Blakelyn
I wait until the sky goes dusky and the heat starts to break before I knock on his door. Again… for the second night in a row.
I tell myself it’s just about dinner. We’re just two neighbors. I’m just making sure he eats more than beef jerky and beer, but I know that’s not true. And I think he does, too.
Something is between us. Something real.
He opens the door like he always does—half a second after I knock, no words, just that stare that makes my lungs forget how to work.
He doesn’t ask what I want. He doesn’t invite me in with words. He just steps aside and I walk in.
He has an old stereo playing low—something bluesy country and slow and raw enough it makes my chest ache. The kind of music you play when you’ve been hurting too long to cry about it.
I turn toward him, but he’s already moving to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge, popping the top like he’s done it a thousand times and today is just another day.
I want to say something. Thank him, ask if he’s okay. Say the words I’ve been circling since last night, when I saw the curve of his spine through his shirt as he stood guard outside my window all night. But I don’t because he wouldn’t answer. And maybe I don’t want him to.
Maybe I just want… this.
I make pasta.
He cuts up smoked sausage and throws it in a cast iron skillet.
We don’t talk. But we move around each other like we’ve done it before—quiet, comfortable, wordless.
I hand him a spoon. He passes me the salt.
It’s nothing and yet, it’s everything.
We eat at the little two-top by his window.
I ask about river season—what it’s like in peak July. He tells me about crowds that leave beer cans in the trees and kids who jump from the rocks they’re not supposed to. He calls it the “idiot parade.”
I laugh. He doesn’t, but the corner of his mouth twitches like maybe he meant to. I ask about tubing. He asks about teaching. And when I tell him I’m scared of getting it wrong, he looks at me like I’m the only one in the room and replies, “You won’t.”
Just those two words. Simple. Steady. And it means more than a five-minute speech from anyone else ever could.
I help him clean up.
I stack plates and scrape leftovers into the trash while he dries the pans with that rag he always throws over his shoulder.
His hands are rough. Capable. Hands that know how to build and carry and fix things. I catch myself watching them too long, captivated by the way they flex around metal, the way the veins rope under his skin.
I shouldn’t want him. But I do.
I shouldn’t feel safe with him. But I do.
“Do you ever float the river?” I ask after a while.
He pauses and wipes his hands on the rag, not meeting my eyes. “No.”
“Why?” I ask.
His jaw tightens and I realize what I just asked.
I want to apologize for speaking without thinking, but I don’t. I can’t. The silence stretches so long it aches. Then he says, “I can’t carelessly float down a river, my wife and daughter didn’t come out of.”
My breath catches.
He says it without inflection. There are no tears. There was no emotion. It’s just fact. But it hits like a gut punch. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I—I… that was thoughtless. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He nods once, his jaw set like concrete.
Without thinking, without planning it, I step forward and press my hand to his chest, right over his heart.
His body goes rigid, but he doesn’t pull away. His breathing accelerates and his nostrils flare.
“Do you ever miss being touched?” I ask softly.
His eyes snap to mine. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, almost a snarl.
I don’t move. “I’m not trying to fix you,” I say.
“I’m not looking for anything you can’t give, Gruene.
” My palm gently glides over the raised scars under the soft material of his shirt.
His breath hitches as I continue to touch him.
“I just want to feel something real.” He looks like he’s going to step back.
Run. Shut down. But then, he does the last thing I expect.
Cupping the back of my neck, he pulls me in. His lips cover mine as he kisses me like he’s starving.
It’s not tentative. It’s not cautious. It’s months— years —of silence, rage, guilt, and grief slamming into mine with all the force of something he never planned to let loose.
His mouth claims mine, rough and desperate.
His teeth scrape over my bottom lip. His tongue glides over mine like he’s uncertain if he wants to duel it or worship it.
He doesn’t know how to start slow, like he’s afraid if he waits even a second, I’ll vanish right out of his hands.
I open for him without hesitation… without conscious thought. I want this… want him… like I’ve wanted nothing else since I showed up in this town, too afraid to hope for anything good again.
He groans low in his throat when I grab the hem of his shirt and tug hard. It’s like a switch flips.
His hands are suddenly everywhere—under my shirt, over my skin, dragging my tank top up. His fingers are trembling but fast, as though he’s scared of stopping.
I lift my arms, and he pulls it off, tossing it aside.
When he sees me—braless, breathless—his chest stutters with a breath that punches the air out of the room.
“Fuck,” he rasps.
Just one ragged word.
Bending his head, he devours me . His mouth closes over one breast, hot and hungry. His tongue swirls over my nipple before he sucks it into his mouth… hard. His stubble scrapes my delicate skin, and I cry out— loud —arching into him as my nails dig into his back.
He lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist, my arms tighten around his shoulders, as he stumbles backward, his light eyes locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away.
I don’t.
He climbs the stairs, carrying me, then, lays me on top of the bed— his bed —and climbs over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing a line from my hip to my ribs.
He sees the scar from the chest tube when Tyler kicked me in the ribs so hard he punctured my lung, and then, told the nurse that I fell off my bike. She believed him as he lied and smiled charmingly.
His jaw clenches. He doesn’t speak. But his hand moves slower, softer, until he’s smoothing his palm over the mark like he can press it out of existence.
I whisper his name. “Gruene.” He looks at me.
“I’m okay,” I say, and I mean it. “You don’t have to go easy. I’m not made out of porcelain. I’ve endured hell and I’m here .”
His eyes darken as he asks, “You sure?”
In answer, I reach for his jeans and pop the button open, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. I suck my lip into my mouth before I reply, “Yeah, I’m sure.”
He kisses me again—slower now, but no less intense. Our tongues slide together, wet and desperate, until I’m writhing beneath him and panting into his mouth. He doesn’t let up until he breaks it only to tug off his shirt. Our mouths meet again as he rips off his belt and shoves down his jeans.
When he grips my shorts and pulls them down, ever so slowly, almost tortuously, he drags his hand over my ankle, up my calf, my knees, and my thigh before he finds me soaked through my panties. He growls low and feral, “You’ve been wanting this.” His voice is like gravel.
I nod, eyes wide and gasp, “Yes, I have.”
He runs a knuckle over my soaked center through the cotton, slow and tormenting. “You get this wet just thinking about me, Blakelyn?”
My breath shudders out as I moan, “Yes. Yes, Gruene.”
My confessions cause him to groan as he pushes my panties to the side, dragging a finger through my slick folds, finding me soaked, open, and throbbing.
“Fuck, Blakelyn…” His mouth finds my throat, biting gently down the column of my neck, while his fingers slide lower— inside of me —curling up to find that spot that makes my hips jerk and my moan break loose.
“Ohhhhhh.” I clutch his shoulder. “Gruene… Mmmmmm… please.”
“Tell me what you want.” He growls, still fingering me and rubbing my clit with his thumb.
My hips buck and I shamelessly grind into his hand as I moan, “You. I want you.”
He pulls back just long enough to yank my panties completely off. He’s hard, swollen, flushed, and thick. My mouth goes dry as my thighs open wider.
Then, he’s above me again, his eyes locked on mine, and I can barely breathe.
“Now,” I whisper, reaching for him. My hand wraps around him and I stroke him. His neck tightens and he grunts, “Blakelyn… Oh, shit…”
Guiding him to me, I arch my hips. He sinks into me with one hard, deep stroke.
I cry out—sharp and involuntary—because it’s so much. He’s so much. He’s so big. He’s stretching me. My pussy spasms as it sucks him in. He stops as I moan and pulls back, “I’ll stay shallow.”
I yank him into me with my ankles and moan, “No… fill me. I can take it. I want it. I want you.”
I don’t want less. I want all of it. All of him.
He groans as my body clenches around him, his arms shaking with restraint as he thrusts again, deeper, slower, taking his time. He bottoms out and I scream, “Gruene…” not from pain, from how good he feels and how full I am.
“Je—,” he grits. “You feel like…” He doesn’t finish.
I drag my nails down his back and lift my hips to meet him, and suddenly we’re moving —hard and fast. I moan, “Don’t stop… don’t hold back.” His hips slam into mine before he pulls out and slams back in. It’s frantic, not at all gentle. It’s perfect. It’s real.
I want it.
Sweat slicks our skin. The headboard slams, rhythmically, against the wall as he fucks me, and I fuck him back. His name falls from my lips like prayer and plea, over and over.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Please don’t stop.” My nails rake down his back. His skin splits and he moans, but it only causes his hips to jerk faster. I’m bouncing on the bed with the rhythm of his thrusts. He’s bottoming out. My clit is being brutalized, and I love it. I love every second of it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls. “Not tonight.”