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“We don’t have to do anything,” he says.

“I want to.” I hold his eyes so he knows it’s true, plain, no bit on it. “I’ve never wanted to before. That’s how I know. I just wanted you to have it out loud, since you give me everything without the words. There’s one of mine.”

His breath goes rough. He brings his forehead to mine, one hand sliding up into my hair, and when he speaks it’s the steadiest I’ve heard him.

“Then I’ve got you,” he says. “Every part of it. We go slow. You tell me anything, any second, and we stop.” His thumb traces my jaw. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” I whisper, and the wild thing is that I do. Under a sky he cut open, with sawdust under my feet and a quiet man’s hands in my hair, I believe him all the way down.

“Cold?” he asks.

“No.” I pull him back to me. “Warm. Keep me that way.”

He does.

He seats me on the stump like it was made for this—smooth cut face, waist-high, still faintly warm from the afternoon sun it drank all day. Sawdust is soft under my heels. The open sky frames him from the chest up, stars sharp behind his shoulders, and his hands are already at the hem of my sweater.

He peels it off slowly and plants a kiss in the hollow of my throat. Then another to the top of my breast as the fabric clears it. My bra follows the same path—unhooked with one careful twist of his fingers, straps slid down, mouth following every new inch of skin.

He doesn’t rush. He watches my face while he works, dark eyes steady, checking. I nod once, breathless, and he keeps going.

Jeans next. Button, zipper, the slow drag down my hips. He lifts me just enough to free them, then my underwear, and settles me bare on the cool wood.

The night air kisses everything the clothes left behind. He kneels in the sawdust between my knees.

His mouth starts at the inside of one thigh. Open, warm, deliberate. Higher. Higher. When he reaches the center of me, he doesn’t tease—he settles in like he’s been waiting three days for exactly this. Flat of his tongue, slow and thorough, then the pointed tip finding the place that makes my hips jump. I gasp. He hums against me, a low vibration that goes straight up my spine.

“Wade—”

He doesn’t stop. Just looks up the length of my body, eyes half-lidded, and keeps licking. Slow circles. Long strokes. When I start to shake, he slides one hand up and rests it open on my stomach, grounding me. The other hand stays on my thigh, thumb stroking in time with his tongue.

I get loud. I can’t help it. Little broken sounds at first, then longer ones, open-mouthed—the kind I’ve spent years swallowing.

He pulls back just enough to speak, voice rough and quiet against my wet skin. “Don’t hold it. I want every bit of that.”

The permission undoes me. I let the next moan come full and honest and he rewards it by sucking gently on my clit, two fingers sliding inside—careful, testing, then curling just right.

The orgasm hits hard and sudden. My thighs clamp around his head. I cry out into the open sky, fingers knotted in his hair, and he stays with me through every pulse, licking softer, slower, until the last tremor fades and I’m panting, wrecked, staring down at him with stars wheeling behind his head.

He rises and stands between my knees, flannel still on, jeans tented hard. I reach for his belt with both hands. The leather is warm from his body. Buckle, button, zipper—each one a small victory.

I push the denim down and his cock springs free, thick and flushed and already wet at the tip. I wrap my hand around it. Soft skin over iron heat. I stroke once, experimental, fascinated by the way it twitches in my grip, the way his breath stutters.

He groans—low, guttural, eyes slamming shut. The sound of it, the way this strong, quiet man goes still and open under my hand, floods me with a fierce, dizzy power. I can do this to him. I can make him feel this much.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Just like that.”

I explore. Base to tip, thumb sweeping the head, learning the weight and the heat of him. Another groan. His hand finds my hair, not guiding, just holding on.

Then he pulls me to my feet. Kisses me deep, tasting of me, and walks us backward until my shoulders meet the rough bark of a standing pine at the edge of the clearing. He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct. The head of him nudges against me—slick, blunt, careful.

“Breathe,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

I nod. He presses in slow. Stretch, burn, the unfamiliar fullness. I make a small sound and he stops instantly, forehead to mine, shaking with the effort of holding still.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Just—go slow.”