"No. You're fixing the porch."
"I work fast." I push off the peeling wall, finally giving her an inch of space, though it costs me everything to pull my body away from hers. "I'll finish the steps by noon. Then I'm coming inside to finish what we just started."
"To help?" she asks suspiciously.
"To do whatever needs doing." I turn back to the lumber, picking up the saw. I look back at her over my shoulder, catching her staring at the flex of my back muscles. "Go inside, Court. Get out of my sight before I decide to take a break and eat that pussy for breakfast right here on these rotting boards."
She makes a strangled, needy noise and retreats into the house, slamming the door between us. The sound echoes, vibrating through the porch and straight into my boots, but it doesn't shut me out. We both know that door is nothing but rotting wood andrust. I could kick it off the hinges with one shove and take what’s mine.
But I won’t. I don't need to break in. I’m going to dismantle her defenses piece by piece, just like I’m dismantling this porch, until she realizes the only structure left standing in her life is me.
By the time the sun is high and burning through the fog, the stairs are solid. I test them with my full weight, jumping on the treads. Solid oak, reinforced with steel brackets. They’ll hold.
I wipe the sawdust from my face with my shirt, pulling it back on. It clings to my damp skin. I grab a bottle of water from the truck, downing half of it in one go, then head inside.
The house is cool and smells of dust. I follow the sound of movement to the parlor.
Courtney stands on a stepladder, stretching to reach the top corner of a strip of ancient, floral wallpaper. Her sweater has ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her waist and the curve of her hip in those tight jeans.
I stop in the doorway, just watching her.
She has the kind of hips that make a man think of primal things. Wide. Soft. Built for cradling. Built for bearing. The image lands like a punch to the gut—her, heavy with my child, her belly round and swelling under my hand, safe inside a house I built for her.
The need to put a baby in her is so sudden and violent it nearly doubles me over. This goes beyond lust. It’s a biologicalimperative. The Gunnars have held this mountain for three generations, and I need a son to hold it for the fourth. Looking at her, struggling with a scraper and a spray bottle, I know there is no other woman on this earth who can carry my legacy.
"You're doing it wrong," I say.
She jumps, nearly losing her balance on the ladder. I cross the distance before she can fall, hands gripping her waist to steady her.
Her body feels firm and soft all at once. My thumbs dig into her hips, feeling the bone beneath the flesh.
"Don't sneak up on me!" she gasps, gripping my forearms.
"I walked in the front door. Not my fault you're distracted." I don't let go. I keep my hands on her waist, looking up at her. Being this close to her center, with her elevated above me... dangerous. "You need to score the paper first. Steam it. Otherwise you're just tearing the drywall."
"I don't have a steamer," she says, breathless. She looks down at me, her eyes locked on my mouth.
"I have one in the truck. Industrial grade."
"Of course you do," she murmurs. She tries to step down, but I don't move. I block her path, standing between her legs as she stands on the second rung.
"Austin, let me down."
"In a minute." I slide my hands around to the small of her back, pulling her slightly toward me. Her thighs bump against my chest. "Tell me you feel this."
"Feel what?"
"The pull. The gravity." I press my face against her stomach, inhaling the scent of her sweater. "You didn't come back to sell the house, Courtney. You came back because you were tired of running away from where you belong."
Her hands hesitate, hovering over my shoulders, before settling there. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my t-shirt. "It's been ten years, Austin. We aren't the same people."
"No. We're not." I pull back to look at her. "I'm bigger. Meaner. And I have a hell of a lot less patience. And you... you're not a scared little girl anymore. You're a woman." I drag one hand down her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh. "A woman who needs a man who can handle her."
"I don't need handling," she argues, though her voice lacks any real bite.
"Everyone needs something to lean on." I step back, finally letting her descend. As her feet touch the floor, she stumbles slightly, legs jelly. I catch her arm, steadying her. "I'm going to get the steamer. You go to the kitchen and drink some water. You look faint."
"I'm fine," she insists, smoothing her sweater down. But her cheeks are bright red.
