“Not really.” His laugh holds no humor. “You were just there,” he shrugs.
The lie hangs between us, visible in the way his eyes drop to my mouth before snapping back up. I take another step forward, backing him toward the oak tree without touching. “Just there?” My voice drops lower. “Like I was just there in Burlington? Like I was just there in your living room?”
His back hits the rough bark, but he lifts his chin in defiance. “Exactly. Convenient. Available. Nothing more.”
My hands find his waist, and before he can dodge, my fingers slip beneath the layers of his clothes to find skin that burns against my cold touch. He tries to push away, but I follow, using my height advantage to crowd him against the tree.
“Liar,” I breathe against his ear, feeling a shiver run through him. “Your body gives you away every time. The way you lean into my touch, the sounds you make when I kiss you, how hard you get just from me being close…”
“Bastian.” My name comes out as a warning and a plea. His hands press against my chest, but don’t actually push. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I let my teeth graze his earlobe, drawing a gasp that sends heat straight to my core. “Don’t point out how much you want this? Don’t remind you how perfectly we fit together? Don’t?—”
His mouth crashes into mine with a force that makes my head spin, anger and need mixing in a kiss that feels like we’reredrawing battle lines. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt as he takes control. I let him, welcoming the pain, the passion, the proof that he wants this as much as I do.
The kiss turns deeper, hungrier, all pretense of resistance abandoned. My hands roam under his clothes, mapping territory I’ve memorized but can’t get enough of. His skin burns against my palms despite the cold, his muscles flexing as he arches into my touch.
When we break for air, his eyes are filled with desire and resignation. Before he can speak, I drop to my knees, my hands already working at his belt. His protest dies as I free him, replaced by a moan that travels across the frozen lake when I take his cock in my mouth.
I don’t give two shits about the stones digging into my knees or the snow seeping through my jeans. It’s completely worth it to hear the sounds he makes, to feel his fingers clenching in my hair, to taste him on my tongue.
I take my time, drawing it out until he’s practically sobbing my name with lust and raw honesty. I won’t stop until he can’t pretend this means nothing, until he can’t hide behind anger or sarcasm or distance.
When he comes, it’s with a force that makes him slam his head back against a tree trunk. I swallow everything he offers, keeping his cock in my mouth until the aftershocks fade. Only then do I pull away, looking up to find him watching me with half-lidded eyes.
I rise slowly, letting him feel every inch of contact as our bodies align. “Tell me you don’t live for this, Taylen.”
“Just because I like it,” he manages finally, his voice wrecked in a way that makes me want to drag him back to my cabin immediately, “doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I murmur against his mouth, tasting a hint of blood where he’s bitten his lip. “Maybe eventually one of us will believe it.”
He pushes me away with shaking hands, tucking himself back together. But I catch him watching me as he walks to his truck, his gaze carrying heat that promises this isn’t over.
The engine turns over with a familiar growl, and then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the snow, hard as a goddam rock but with the biggest smile.
I touch my lips, still feeling the ghost of his kiss. The taste of him lingers on my tongue. Whatever he claims, whatever lies we tell ourselves, the truth lives in the way our bodies respond to each other. In how perfectly we fit together, the sounds we draw from each other’s throats, and in the heat that builds whenever we’re close.
“You can run away, Taylen, but I’ll keep up with your pace until you realize we’re as inevitable as snow, calving season, and maple syrup in March.”
20
TAYLEN
There’snothing like an honest day’s work to keep unwanted thoughts at bay. Especially thoughts of a certain rockstar with talented hands and magical lips that are as addictive as the cider I’m bottling today.
So much for keeping those thoughts at bay.
It’s a good thing I’ve done this process so many times that I know I’ll catch myself before I miss a step.
The cider flows golden through layers of filtration, each pass removing more impurities until what remains runs clear as spring water. If only my emotions could be filtered so easily. But Bastian lingers in my system like unfermented sugar: sweet, volatile, and impossible to remove.
I absolutely love the science of making cider. Turning simple juice into something more complex is like my own brand of magic, and I must be doing something right because I have multiple clients competing for my brews.
Still, my traitorous brain keeps wandering to the frozen lake, to Bastian on his knees with his mouth on my skin. The taste of him lingered on my tongue as I drove away, pretending each encounter would be the last.
“Six point eight percent,” I mutter to myself, so I can force my brain back to the task at hand. “Right where it should be.” I record the alcohol content and then line up the bottles.
I place the Howard Orchard label perfectly on each bottle. There’s no room for crooked applications or bubble flaws. Maybe one day I can expand the orchard and automate some of the process, but today, this is the therapy I need.
