She’s trying to pull me under with her.
And I can’t hold back. I thrust once, twice, and then my orgasm slams through me—white-hot, ripping the breath from my lungs. It feels like crashing into shore, like surrendering everything I’ve held too tightly for too long.
I bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. Coffee, cinnamon. Everything good.
We lie there tangled, slick with sweat and heat, the quilt half kicked off, the fire still burning low. I curl my hand around her hip, thumb stroking the curve of her waist.
“Stay close?” she whispers.
“Of course.”
I gather the quilt around us both, pull her flush to my chest, and press a kiss into her hair. Her breath fans warm over my collarbone. I wouldn’t leave her side if the house itself tried to tear me away.
The storm hasn’t eased. The windows still rattle. But inside this space—wrapped in firelight and her quiet, steady breathing—everything feels, briefly, impossibly, still.
22
ELSIE
I thoughtthe calm was meant to come before the storm, but like everything else in life, I got the order wrong. The house is impossibly quiet now.
I sit at the kitchen table, wrapped in a quilt, legs tucked beneath me, cradling a mug of tea that’s gone tepid. The fire’s long since died. The power must’ve come back on sometime around three or four—there’s a faint hum under the floorboards again, and the stove clock is blinking, confused but alive.
I don’t think Wells has woken up yet.
When I slipped out of the den, his nose was pressed to the side of my neck. I had to peel myself away slowly, careful not to wake him. One arm was banded around my waist, palm heavy and warm at my hip. The other was tucked under his head, muscles loose in sleep but still hard as carved oak.
His back rose and fell in easy breaths. A piece of hair curled damp across his brow. He looked unfairly good for someone who’d spent the night on the floor. Wrecked, warm, peaceful in a way that made my chest twist.
And his body—long and lean and solid. Shoulders like sculpture, that sharp cut of muscle at his hips framing the thick line of his cock, resting heavy against his thigh beneath the quilt.
Even in sleep, he’s indecently graceful.
Sex, for me, has always been ... distant. Something I did because I thought I should. Not cold, exactly, but never like this. Never heat. Never hunger. Never that pull that starts behind your ribs and drops you to your knees.
Last night, there were no thoughts. No checklist. No pretending.
Justyes. Justmore. Justhim.
But now it’s morning, and the storm has passed.
It’s been maybe twenty minutes since I slipped out of the parlor, so maybe he has woken up and didn’t follow me in here. Maybe he’s quietly walking the perimeter, making sure the storm didn’t rip off half the roof while we were too distracted to notice.
Too distracted.
I stare into my mug and try not to think about it anymore. The way he looked at me, touched me, kissed me, moved inside me. I try not to think about what I said, what I promised even before that. That I’d agree to the trust. That it would make everyone happy. That I could live with it.
I still don’t know if I can.
It would make things easier—for Wells, for the town. It would mean the inn stays in the family, that the legacy is preserved, that no one has to worry it’ll be acquired for profit alone. A neat solution. A good choice, on paper.
But what does it give me?
A portion of the proceeds, sure, but not a lump sum. Not steady or secure. Just enough, maybe, filtered through signatures and oversight. A future I didn’t choose, wrapped in obligation and someone else’s hope.
Isn’t that just as stressful as the life I left behind? The same pressure dressed in patchwork and pine. What if saying yeswasn’t brave at all, but another way of folding, of giving in before I’ve even figured out what I really want?
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve mistaken relief for clarity.
