She cries out, her climax cresting, breaking, and her body tightening around me. I keep stroking her as I guide her through every wave, until I follow her over the edge, groaning against her skin as I spill into the condom. We stay like that—breathless, tangled, quiet.
Then I kiss her shoulder again, softer this time.
“You okay?”
She turns her head, her cheek brushing mine.
“More than okay,” she whispers, voice soft and full of something that feels like wonder.
I grin, nuzzling the curve of her neck before giving it a gentle nibble.
“On second thought … maybe we should just stay in bed all day.”
She laughs, low and warm, the sound vibrating through both of us.
“Tempting,” she says, stretching like a cat in the sun. “But if we don’t get up soon, we’re going to end up plastering the bookshop in our underwear.”
I groan dramatically.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She rolls her eyes, then wriggles out of my arms with a playful smirk.
“Come on, Cowboy. Time to face the day.”
I watch her as she walks across the room, bare and unbothered, with her hair in a tousled halo down her back. She disappears into the bathroom and just before she’s out of sight, she glances over her shoulder with sultry eyes and lips curved in a wicked smile.
“Well?” she says, voice teasing. “Are you coming?”
I don’t answer. I just leap out of bed, grabbing the sheet to wrap around my waist as I chase after her, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion.
The bookshop smells of sawdust and fresh timber, but the air feels lighter now. We’ve cleared the shattered shelves, swept away the debris, andsunlight spills through the newly clean front windows like a quiet promise. The memory of Will and yesterday hovers at the edges, but it’s behind us now, mostly. I still want to kill him, but that’s a problem for another day.
Stormy walks in from the back, pausing in the centre of the room like she’s about to make a grand announcement. She’s holding a bucket of plaster mix in one hand and a trowel in the other, like she’s prepping for surgery rather than wall repair.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she declares, brow furrowed in concentration. And damn if she doesn’t look adorable as hell, standing there with that bewildered expression, like the tools might bite her.
“I Googled it,” she continues. “Watched like six tutorials. Bought all the stuff …” She lifts the trowel like its proof of her commitment. “And I still feel like I’m about to ruin everything.”
I lean against the nearest wall, arms crossed.
“You watched tutorials?”
She nods. “TikTok. YouTube. Even one from a guy named Plaster Pete.”
I laugh.
“Sounds trustworthy.”
She groans.
“Don’t mock me, I’m trying.”
I push off the wall and walk over, taking the trowel from her hand.
“Fortunately for you, Sunshine, I helped build the cottage you’re living in. Including plastering the walls. So, I know what I’m doing.”
Her eyes light up. “Seriously?”
