I couldn't pin it, not exactly. She was more than parts—a storm contained in precision, a puzzle that begged solving. The inn amplified it, its sagging beams and waiting breath mirroring something in her story, in mine.
Before the thought fully formed, my hand was moving, wrapping around my cock—already thick and heavy from my thoughts, from her. Engorged now, pulsing in my grip as I stroked once, slow, the friction igniting a low fire in my veins.
The fantasy bloomed unbidden, vivid as if she'd slipped through the wall herself.
Hazel, standing at the foot of the bed, moonlight spilling over her skin. That T-shirt clinging damp from the day's work, jeans gone, leaving her bare and unapologetic. Her eyes locked on mine, green darkening with want as she crawled up the mattress, the dip pulling me toward her.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she murmured, voice like smoke over water, her hand covering mine—small but sure, guiding the stroke. "Like this. Slow. Let me watch."
I followed in the dream, pace deliberate, the slide building heat that coiled tight in my gut.
Beautiful—her flush rising, breath quickening as she leaned in, beard brushing her cheek when she nuzzled my neck. Graphic too: her fingers tracing the ridge along my length, thumb swirling the bead of pre-come at the tip, spreading it slick.
"That's it," she whispered, lips grazing my ear. "Feel how hard you are for me."
My hips lifted involuntary, free hand fisting the sheet as she shifted, straddling my thigh—the heat of her pressing down, wet and ready.
"You do this to me," she said, rocking once, the friction electric through us both. Her voice turned commanding, that order she craved bleeding into desire. "Faster now. For me."
I obeyed, strokes rougher, the pressure mounting relentless.
She leaned closer, breasts brushing my chest through the thin shirt, nipples hard points. Moonlight carving shadows on her curves, arching as she ground against me. Nails raking down my abs, leaving faint trails I'd feel tomorrow.
"Imagine inside me," she breathed, hand squeezing with mine. "Tight. Hot. You'd stretch me perfect."
The coil snapped taut. She sensed it, eyes flashing.
"Come, Gideon," the command soft, but unbreakable. "Now. Let go."
I obeyed, come spilling hot over my fist in thick pulses, body arching off the bed as pleasure ripped through—deep, consuming. The room blurred, breath ragged in the aftermath, the fantasy dissolving slow like mist at dawn. Heart thundering against ribs.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the truth settling heavy: A couple walls away, and she'd claimed me without ever crossing the imaginary line.
9
HAZEL
Sun found me before the alarm did—thin bands through salt-streaked glass, bright enough to force my eyes open and my spine into something like resolve.
Determination isn’t a feeling—it’s a list. I reached for my notebook on the pillow, flipped to yesterday’s scrawl, and drew a hard line under the top three items.
• Porch rail (loose/rotted)
• West room leak (temporary patch)
• Shutters (rehang two, maybe three)
I wrote coffee above all of it, underlined twice, then took a quick shower. When I got out, I pulled my wet hair into a bun so tight it stole a heartbeat and gave it back sharper. Jeans. T-shirt. Sneakers already dusted from yesterday.
Downstairs, Maude was already moving—tea kettle sighing, radio low, the morning news mangled by static. She slid a mug toward me the second my feet hit the kitchen tile.
“You’ve got that look,” she said, amused. “The one that says you’re fixin’ to wrestle the island.”
“Just the porch,” I said, blowing on steam. “Maybe a shutter if the porch doesn’t kill me.”
“Hardware store’s on Johns Island,” she said, as if I’d already asked. “Take the main out, turn right at the second light past the bridge. Looks like a shack that’d sell bait, but the man inside will know what you need. His name’s Burl.”
“Burl?”
