I’m not walking away from this.
At least not yet. Not like this.
And neither is he.
Holt
The wood is solid and unyielding under my hands as I run it methodically through the blade of the table saw.
The fresh scent of pine and sawdust fills the air.
Wood is easy. It’s solid. Familiar and predictable.
Measure, cut, sand. Repeat.
I know the motions to turn a stack of lumber into something functional. Beautiful, even.
What I didn’t know was what to do with the feelings that were currently messing with my head, making it impossible to concentrate on what I was doing.
Right on cue, the wood slips; the blade catches it and yanks it from my hand, sending it flying dangerously off the side of the saw.
“Fuck.”
I flip the switch on the machine, powering it off before I actually hurt myself. I’m not focused enough to operate power tools.
How could I be?
All I can think of is the woman I left in my bed. The soft curves of her body. The heat of her kiss. How she felt in my arms this morning. The way her sweet pussy felt clamped down on my dick. Like that’s exactly what she was made for.
To be mine.
It’s a dangerous thought.
Because if I let myself follow that train of thought, I might actually start believing it.
Because nothing has changed. Not since last night. Not since this morning.
She’s still my best friend’s daughter. She’s still too young for me. I’m still the same damaged bastard I’ve always been. She’s still too good for me.
The door creaks open behind me.
My back goes rigid. I don’t turn right away.
Soft footsteps and the scent of coffee reach me moments before her sweet voice. “You’re up early.”
Her voice does something dangerous to my gut.
I finally turn.
She’s standing just inside the door, her hair in a long braid down her back, one of my shirts slipping off her shoulder,revealing just enough skin to make my cock twitch to life. The shirt’s almost big enough on her to be a dress, but she’s wearing leggings that cover those sexy, long legs anyway.
It’s probably for the best. I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions if she were that bare to me.
She’s holding two mugs of steaming coffee in her hands. She holds one out to me. “I thought you might be ready for a break.”
I step forward to take it, careful not to brush her fingers because I know the slightest touch of her skin will be my undoing. “Thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then she smiles. “Of course.”
