I want YOU.
The way your hands move when you’re working. The way your eyes catch the firelight. The quiet strength in everything you do. The man in the letters AND the man in the forge. They’re both you, and they’re both worth wanting.
I came here for you. I’m still here for you. And yes, I wanted you to kiss me today. If you come to my door tonight, I’ll be waiting.
Yours forever,
Maggie
P.S. In case my sign-off wasn’t clear enough, I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.
Heat rushed through him, pooling low in his belly. She wanted him. Not River with his easy charm. Not some better version of himself. Him—scarred, broken, awkward him.
He read it twice, then a third time, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. She wanted him to come to her. Now. Tonight.
Panic and desire warred in his chest, each fighting for dominance. He glanced down at himself—worn flannel with the sleeves rolled up, jeans with a tear at the knee, boots still dusty from the barn. He hadn’t showered. Hadn’t even combed his beard after working all day.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Bramble whined softly, head tilting in that way that somehow managed to convey judgment.
“What, you think I should just go like this?”
The wolfhound’s tail thumped once against the floor.
“Easy for you to say. You’re covered in fur.”
Bramble huffed and went to his bed, digging at it and circling until he found the perfect spot. When he flopped down, the floor shook under Anson’s boots.
And still he stood there, rooted to the spot. He read the letter again, fingers tracing her words.
I want you.
Three simple words that burrowed under his skin, lighting fires along his nerves.
The image of her face that afternoon—lips parted, eyes dark with invitation—flooded back with visceral force. What if he hadn’t pulled away? What if he’d closed that final distance between them?
He couldn’t go to her. He wasn’t ready for that.
But his cock had other ideas.
It hardened against his jeans, the pressure uncomfortable and insistent. He hadn’t touched himself in... months, maybe.That part of him had felt disconnected, unimportant in the face of everything else he carried.
But now his body thrummed with a need so sharp it bordered on pain.
He sank onto his cot, still clutching her letter. Bramble was curled up in his bed, the kittens quiet in their box. The forge was silent except for the occasional pop of cooling embers.
With hesitant fingers, he unbuttoned his jeans, freeing himself from the constricting fabric. His cock strained upward, already fully hard.
This was wrong. Using her letter, her words, for this. But he couldn’t stop the images flooding his mind—Maggie’s smile, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating, how her work pants hugged her ass when she bent to measure boards.
He wrapped his hand around his shaft, the contact sending a jolt through his system. Jesus, it had been too long. He stroked once, tentatively, then again with more purpose.
I want you.
His thumb circled the head, gathering the moisture beading there to ease his strokes. He imagined her hand instead of his—smaller, softer despite the calluses from her work. Imagined her breath against his neck as she touched him. Imagined her voice, low and husky, telling him what she’d written.
I wanted you to kiss me today.
