Me: Are you thinking about me, Claire?
The dots disappear. One minute passes. Two. Three.
Then…
Claire: No.
Me: Liar.
Claire: Goodbye, Hunter.
Me: See you at the fitting on Saturday. Esme says we both have to be there.
No response.
I toss my phone onto the couch and lean my head back, grinning at the ceiling like an idiot.
She’s running. But she’s not running fast enough.
It’s been dark for hours, and I finally lie in bed and let myself imagine it.
The house is dark except for moonlight through the pine trees outside my window. I can still smell the woodsmoke from tonight's fire clinging to the flannel I tossed on the chair. My calloused hands are rough against the sheets.
Claire showing up at my stone house. Some excuse about checking on my recovery, making sure I’m following Dr. Kapoor’s post-op instructions. She'd climb the three porch steps and knock on the cedar door I planed and hung myself, maybe part her lips as she inhales the fresh air.
She’d be all business at first, that white coat armor firmly in place, her heels clicking on the wide-plank floors. She'd look around the space at the rough-hewn beams, the stone fireplace I built with my own hands, and the lack of anything even remotely sterile or controlled. And I'd see it click for her. This is who I am. Wood and stone and sweat. And a little mess. As far from her sanitized hospital as you can get.
But I’d see through it. See the way her eyes would track to my bare chest, the way her breath would catch when I stepped close. And underneath that doctor’s coat? A red lace number from Victoria’s Secret that would put the angels to shame.
“Just making sure you’re healing properly,” she’d say, professional and cool.
“That right?” I’d back her against the kitchen counter, using my good arm to cage her in. “What’s the prognosis, Doc?”
“Hunter.” My name would sound like a warning, but her pupils would be blown wide.
“Tell me you’re not thinking about me.” I’d lean in close enough to smell whatever expensive perfume she wears. “Tell me you didn’t lie in that text.”
She wouldn’t answer. She’d just look at my mouth like she’s starving for it.
So I’d give it to her.
Kiss her hard and deep, swallow whatever protest she tries to make. She’d taste like coffee and something sweet, and she’d melt against me despite every professional boundary she’s trying to maintain. Her hands would slide up my chest, careful of my injury but hungry anyway, and I’d grip her hip with my good hand and lift her onto the counter.
“We can’t,” she’d gasp against my mouth.
“We are.”
I’d kiss down her throat while she arches into me, her lingerie so easy to peel away. She’d be soft everywhere, curves and heat, and when I finally got my mouth on her, she’d gasp as my beard scraped her collarbone.
My right hand’s already wrapped around my cock before I fully register what I’m doing. It’s rough with calluses and scarred knuckles, the kind of hand that's gripped chain pulls and axe handles since I was sixteen. I want these hands on her, so she can feel exactly what kind of man I am. I’m hard as steel, aching, and all I can think about is Claire’s smooth, competent hands on me. Her mouth. The way she looked at me in that ER bay like she wanted to devour me but wouldn’t let herself.
I stroke slow at first, imagining her touch instead of mine. Imagining pulling her onto my lap with my good arm, feeling her weight settle over me, watching her face as she takes what she wants.
She’d be gorgeous falling apart. All that control finally breaking.
I’d make her say my name. Make her admit she’s been thinking about me since the moment we met. Make her stop running.
The orgasm hits hard and fast, my breath coming rough as I spill over my fist.
