Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 20

TWENTY

AURORA

My eyes struggle to open, giving me a millimeter of daylight and then shutting heavily again. Or maybe they didn’t open at all, because that sight I thought I saw had to have been a dream, right?

It takes a few seconds, but eventually I coax my eyelids to try again and they part for me. There, directly in my line of vision, is Wyatt, in the same dark Henley he wore last night, a pair of khaki-colored Dickies, hair rumpled, jaw extra scruffy and looking fine as hell. And in his arms is a towel-covered Henrietta the Eighth. Her brown feathers look normal again, not limp and droopy, but healthily ruffled. She’s alert, swiveling her head on that lithe neck of hers to look around the room, and blinking rapidly.

I’ve woken up to the sight of random men countless times in New York, none have made my insides warm like the scene before me does. They didn’t come with this hazy glow behind them, either, but that might just be the sleep in my eyes.

“Good afternoon,” Wyatt says in that gruff voice of his. It’s hard to tell when he’s so dry most the time, but I think … I think that was a dad joke at how late I slept.

I rub my eyes but that glow around him is still there. Shit. “Time is it?” I ask with a yawn, sitting up slowly. I can feel my hair flump across the top of my head in whatever is left of the bun I put it in days ago.

“About two,” he says, standing from the recliner he’s in, still holding Henrietta.

That wakes me up. “Shit,” I say. “You have work.”

He shakes his head. “Told you I was taking the day off.”

“You should’ve woken me up,” I argue, my sass coming to life before the rest of my consciousness does.

“You needed the sleep,” he says mildly.

“You shouldn’t have skipped work for me,” I insist.

“I did it for Henrietta,” he humors me. He lifts the bird up a bit, and she really does look much better.

“She’s okay?”

“You did all the hard parts,” he tells me with a wink. A dimple even makes an appearance underneath all that scruff. A freaking dimple . “Just took a little time for the honey water to kick in, I think. She should be good to go back to the coop now.”

I nod at him, slightly starry eyed. Now that I’ve slept, I think I might feel like a whole new Aurora. A good cry, some food in me, and enough sleep might just be a magic combination. Other parts of me are starting to wake up too. More physical needs that haven’t been met yet. My eyes fall down his tall frame, how good he looks right now, wondering if he’s been thinking about our little pact as much as I have been, at least before the emergency. I clear my throat and say, “Give me a minute, I’ll take her back and give the ladies, eh, we’ll call it brunch.”

When I locate and unlock my phone I see a string of texts from Lexi, sent earlier this morning.

Alexis Weiss

Came to see Mom before work

Doc is keeping her for one more night. Said she can go home tomorrow if all’s well

She kicked me out

So rude

Can you believe her?

She takes after you like that

Anyways she told me to tell you you’d better not show your face here today either

That was a direct quote.

I don’t blame her for not wanting to see your face. Your eyebrows are getting out of control. They’re starting to look like those fuzzy caterpillars we always used to see in the yard.

And about an hour ago, another string of texts from her.

Feels weird, you not having a mean comeback

But then again, I guess silence from you is more familiar at this point

Thought you’d at least answer me about Mom

wtf “Aurora”

Giving me the silent treatment or something?

If I didn’t drive by and see your car at the house, I’d think you were back in NY again. But now I see. Grady’s truck is there too.

The reassurance on Mom drastically lightens the lead ball in my stomach. I think I can just about take a deep breath again. But of course she had to hit below the belt. I blow out a big breath and starting composing a text back.

Me

Sorry, last night was the first night I’ve slept in a while. Apparently I needed it, I just woke up. Wyatt stayed to watch one of the birds who was sick. I wish she were coming home today, but I’m really glad she’s doing better and at least you got to see her. Jealous. I’ll be there in the morning to help with the discharge.

Gross. I’ve heard a lot of nasty names for a cooch but a sick bird is a new one. Don’t tell me that again.

And in the same sentence as discharge.

No.

I’m blocking your number.

A laugh bubbles up out of me, and I shake my head at her. Sisters will be sisters, I guess.

I remember when you begged for details of the dirty shit he and I used to do in your lonely virginal days. How the turntables.

This number can no longer receive massages

Nice try

See Mom’s getting her money out of that community college degree

*Messages

Fuck you

After I use the bathroom and wash my hands, I make the mistake of looking up into the mirror hanging above the sink, and I shriek.

If I were a better woman, I’d put a ring on Wyatt Grady right now and lock that shit down for the fact he hasn’t run screaming from this house yet. Were I in New York, my scoop du jour would’ve tossed me off the fire escape, thinking me some sort of Sasquatch that escaped the northern mountains, hopped the Canadian border, and began breaking into apartments looking for treats from Zabar’s.

My hair is knotted in a mat about six inches high on the top of my head, and the bags under my eyes would definitely require additional fees if I tried to board a plane right now, to say nothing of the rest of my appearance.

Wyatt appears on the other side of the door as soon as I open it.

“What’s wrong?” He and Henrietta look ready to fight whoever’s attacking me in here.

I grasp my chest in fright from his sudden appearance, then remember what I look like and immediately slam the door in his face.

“Aurora?” he calls through the closed door. “You okay?”

“Mmhmm!” I call back in a falsely positive intonation.

Absolutely not! I was hoping today might lead to me getting railed within an inch of my life when I look like this ? His dick is probably negative inches right now, burrowed up inside of his abdomen after having to watch this hot mess express of a train wreck. Like the snotty sobbing on the bathroom floor last night wasn’t enough.

It takes a good ten minutes to work through the cluster fuck that is my hair—I’m so overdue for a cut and color and my hair is punishing me for it, but where am I supposed to go out here? I’ve barely been able to stay on top of nail appointments out here in the middle of nowhere, and don’t even get me started on when I need to touch up my lip filler. I might have to fly back for that or make a day trip to the nearest metro with some decent options.

Eventually, the Goody paddle brush that’s probably been in this drawer since the ’90s is able to make its way through the disaster that is my locks, and I put it into a slick-back ponytail with the help of a lot of water and some hair gel that’s older than the car I’m driving. Not much I can do for my face here, but I splash some cool water on it and, maybe it’s an illusion, but I swear I look about seventy percent less terrifying already. That’s a good start.

I come back out of the bathroom with a faux-chipper smile on my face and Wyatt is still standing there, brows raised, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.

“You look …”

I wait for the compliments.

Gorgeous.

Hot as hell.

Like a sight for sore eyes and blue balls.

Bangable.

Any and all will do.

“… terrifying with that smile. Can you get rid of it?”

My jaw drops.

“Yeah, that’s better,” he says with a shudder. “That was the most unnatural shit I’ve ever seen.”

My mouth still hangs open, my entire face surely radiating a death warning at him. How dare he?

Wyatt holds Henrietta the Eighth in one arm and uses one finger from his other hand to push my chin up and close my mouth.

“That thing stays open, I’ll find a use for it.” There’s a glimmer of something mischievous in his eyes that makes him that much hotter, and now I want that picture he painted for my mind. The shimmer of desire in my lower belly is turning into a ball of need that’s dropping even lower and taking on a pulse of its own.

“Don’t make promises you can’t back up, Grady,” I taunt him, my confidence largely restored after the updates from Lex and that quick little refresh.

I take the chicken out of his arms and take her back to her sisters, open up the coop for the day, and give them a little extra food to make up for being late this morning.

“Now I know we had a deal,” I tell Henrietta as she pecks at the ground, scavenging for her meal, all back to normal after some TLC from that fine man back in the house. “You held up your end of it. You pulled through. I’ll keep my word, you just gotta give me some time, okay?” She clucks in between pecks and I take that as a verbal contract. Good enough to be considered legally binding in the state of New York is good enough for me.

When I get back inside, Wyatt is leaning against the avocado green wall of the dining room, right beneath that black and white cat clock, with his arms crossed, those sleeves pushed up to his elbows and showing me a delicious glimpse at all that ink on his left forearm.

“Let’s go,” he says casually.

“Go where?”

“I’ve got the day off. Let’s make the most of it.”

My eyes—without my permission, I swear to you—glance down the hallway to my old bedroom, and he doesn’t miss it. He chuckles at me, but it’s a dangerous sound.

“No, Hellcat. We’re not staying in this house, where you’ve got nothing but memories of your mom.”

“I’ve got memories of you here too,” I tell him, the corner of my mouth sliding up into a smirk that lets him know which memories are being recalled right about now.

“Well, right now, no matter what you look at in this house, you’re going to think of your mom. We’re going out.”

I sigh because he’s right. As much as I’d love a good distraction from him, I can feel the heaviness in this place, without her presence here. It’s a constant reminder that she won’t be here that much longer, and my eyes sting at the thought.

I try to divert my attention, focus on the man in front of me, the day ahead of us. At least I can still flirt with him; even if so much of the rest of me is damaged, that appears to still be intact. My number one coping mechanism: Distracting myself from my real issues before they cause a mental breakdown, or as I call it, ol’ faithful.

“Are you at least gonna make it worth my while?”

“If you’re good,” he says with another deadly smirk that shoots a bolt of desire straight down south. Just as I think my kitty can’t flutter any more, as I’m walking by him to get to the door the motherfucker slaps my ass. I nearly come on the spot.

We parted ways with his instruction to shower, change for the outdoors, and—his new favorite thing to tell me—to eat, and he’d pick me up in a bit.

“I can’t drive where we’re going?” I asked with a bratty pout.

“In that piece of shit? I’m surprised you can make it the couple minutes to your mom’s and back. You’re really going to have to let me help you pick out something better. No way that thing makes it the rest of your stay. I’ll be driving today, Hellcat.”

I gave him a glare but didn’t object to him picking me up after that.

“Bring a jacket, or whatever is in your wardrobe that will keep you warm,” he said.

“I’m from New York,” I retorted. “I know when I need a coat and when I don’t. How to dress for cold weather is in my blood. And by the way?” I added, hand lifted in the air to further articulate my point. “This? Isn’t it. I’ll be fine.”

So I wore athleisure. Hot pink yoga pants, an active bra with underwire for all the boost I can get in that department, and a soft, stretchy, white short-sleeve shirt with a pair of white and pink New Balances.

I wanted to not eat, just to spite him, but I was actually pretty hungry. And I know this sounds weird, but I swear, the last few times we’ve been together and he’s made me have something, things were just a bit better after that. So I followed his direction on that, too, but I’ll deny it if he asks me about it.

We make it about a half hour into the hike before I start to get on his nerves.

I’m kinda surprised this is what he planned for our afternoon together, actually. He’s got free rein to fuck and flee, without any emotional attachment or obligation for the couple-y shit. It’s basically the jackpot in the dating world. Bonus points, I already know what he likes. Or, what he used to. He could’ve just fucked me a time or two, ran me hard and put me up wet, then gone to have some beers with Ronnie and the rest of the Monday night regulars at Suds. But no, he wants to spend time together even when we’re not getting down? He might be about to regret that choice.

Is he doing some sort of strategic holdout on me so I’ll go feral on him when he finally gives me what I want? Cause I’d promise here and now to earn back my nickname in a whole new way if given the chance.

I guess my grumbling wasn’t just in my head.

“Exercise is good for you, Aurora,” he says.

“Not my preferred form of cardio,” I reply, nose scrunched. “I’m more on Henry Cavill’s level when it comes to that.”

“What’s wrong with hiking?” He doesn’t sigh, but it’s implied from his tone of voice alone. An implied sigh was definitely present there.

“We’re outdoors, Wyatt. There could be animals, I could get attacked again.”

He stifles what I’m pretty sure would’ve been a laugh if he weren’t so quick to catch it.

“We’re nowhere near Boots, I think you’re safe from cuddly cats today.”

“There’s—” my hand flies around everywhere, gesturing at everything all at once, even though he’s walking in front of me and can’t see me, “—dirt everywhere . It’s basically my worst nightmare. Add in a broken nail, a missed deadline, a three-star hotel, and a saxophone, and it couldn’t get worse for me.”

“Fresh air, Aurora. Get that heart rate up. Enjoy this place before you’re back to that concrete jungle.”

“I prefer air that’s been processed through some refrigerant first, thank you.”

“You know this shit’s good for you, right?” He’s definitely getting exasperated now.

“You know what else is good for you? Sex three times a week.” He can’t argue with that, can he?

“Jesus Christ, Aurora. You’re acting like I’m dragging you through an electrified mud pit. We’re walking a beginner trail in one of the most scenic spots in the entire country, the weather couldn’t be better?—”

“It’s a little chilly, actually,” I butt in. It’s only in the low fifties today, but something about this mountain air, it hits different than the same temperature in the city would. It’s brisker, more refreshing.

“Oh for FUCK’S SAKE.” He turns around from where he’s been leading our little expedition, an outdoorsy backpack slung across his broad shoulders and hanging down to his trim hips. A few leaves crunch under his feet as he turns suddenly to face me and I bite down on my lower lip to stop from smiling. My cheeks actually hurt from the resistance; it’s trying so hard to break out. It’s so fun to get him riled up like this.

Wyatt pulls an arm out from the strap of the backpack and then slings it off the other shoulder to place it on the ground next to his feet. He shrugs out of the black Dodge hoodie he’s wearing and pulls it off his head, leaving him in just a dark gray Henley that was beneath. It goes great with those lighter gray joggers he’s wearing. I can practically trace the skin beneath those clothes with my eyes already. I want to do it with my tongue.

He shoves the hoodie at me, arm extended, but I don’t take it.

“Put on the damn hoodie, Rory.”

My body picks a horribly inopportune moment for me to give into the shiver that’s been brewing for several moments now, and he doesn’t miss it. So it’s a little fucking chilly out, so what? His eyes darken and he steps closer, garment between his hands. Wyatt puts his hands through the bottom, opens the hole at the neck, and places it over my head, yanking it down over my torso. It’s way too big for me, hanging down past my ass, but God, is it warm. It’s cozy, it’s delicious in here, smells like him, and I think my skin is tingling in response.

“You’re still such a goddamn brat,” he says through clenched teeth, inches from my face.

“What are you gonna do about it?” I ask breathlessly, hoping to bait him into some sort of life lesson I won’t forget.

His palms come around my sides and down on my ass, just a little firmer than a tap, but he grips my cheeks there, fingers grazing teasingly low as he pulls on me. He lets his fingertips slide further, further, until they’re approaching my entrance from behind. My knees threaten to buckle, and I fight a whimper that wants to make it out of my throat. One, two of those large pads of his fingers stroke and swipe at my pussy, overtop the stretchy fabric of my pants, and the response he creates within me is instantaneous.

“Gonna remind you why you like being on my good side, Hellcat.”

The mewling sound does make it out that time.

He smirks in response, picks up his backpack from the ground, slings it back over his shoulders, and starts walking again.

Looks like I’m in for some punishment here.

I don’t want to admit it out loud, but my mind hasn’t been this calm in weeks. It’s never this calm at home, actually. Whether it’s Wyatt, this stupid fucking hike he’s making me do—the trail covered in a thick carpet of pine needles and leaves, either side of it hemmed in by shoots, stalks, sprigs, and stems taller than I am, some tipped in feathery yellow, white, orange, and purple, others with bulbs and spheres of every imaginable color—or maybe it’s just the expanse of the Smokies, the endless peaks that rise and fall with the shadows of the slowly sinking sun that are calming me down, making my mind stop racing.

There might be something to this self-care shit he’s been harping on about lately. You get some sleep in me, a little bit of nutrition, and a solid walk in, and I’m a brand new bitch. Wonder what I’d be like after some six-star sex? I vote we find out in the name of science.

We’re paused on our trek back to the car, taking a little breather, sat atop a grassy field that’s serving as an overlook to the range. Haven’t run into a single other person out here this entire hike—he says this is a section of the trail nobody ever comes to, it’s too far removed from the tourist spots, and the locals don’t go out this far, either—but we have seen a disturbing amount of wildlife. Lucky I haven’t been attacked yet, the man is putting my life on the line out here.

Aside from the rabbits, various birds, and one possum who didn’t respond to Dolly, I think I counted something like seventy-three squirrels, harvesting acorns and anything they could find for the cold months ahead. I can relate, honestly. I, too, am using this season to stock up on good memories before I’m back in a waking slumber-like-state, in a cold place without the things that make me happy.

My last chance at time well-spent with my mother—as soon as she’s discharged tomorrow and I can go back to being a helicopter daughter.

These brief rendezvous with Wyatt, where even when he never even touches me—like the ATV, or the pool table—he blows my mind far beyond anything I’ve felt back in New York.

These next months will be the best ones I’ll ever have; I know that now. The transition from stranger to daughter, sister, friend, it’s been gradual over the weeks, but we’ve gone from awkward and practically at each other’s throats to working together and I think even enjoying our time together. The hospitalization, that was my wake-up call. Now is the time to soak the good moments up while I can, make the most of what I’m being given before it’s gone again.

Wyatt opens up the backpack for the first time and pulls out a large Thermos, like we’re in elementary school together and he’s about to have soup for lunch.

“What did you bring?” I ask him.

He stays silent, working the cap until it loosens, then flicking it with the tips of his fingers repeatedly to unscrew it rapidly. It’s strangely mesmerizing. I think I could watch him work with his hands forever. When he pours the liquid from the tumbler into the lid and passes it over, I get a deep whiff before it’s even in my hands.

“Hot cider?” Why does my voice sound so tender? I’m expecting him to make another joke about it not suiting me, but his eyes just flash to mine, looking warmer than usual too.

The fact that he remembered this was one of my favorites—we used to dream about the day I could drink it at our future home together, watching the snow fall through that open window—thought to get some, then made it and brought it for our hike … I’m speechless. A rarity, for sure.

At the first sip, my mouth could cry. Sweet, crisp apples, spiced with clove and cinnamon. Makes me want a slice of homemade pumpkin loaf to go with it. It tastes like nostalgia, like everything good that I used to have. Everything that I left behind because I’m an awful person.

“Damn, Grady,” I breathe out, in lieu of a thank you, but he hears what I’m not saying.

“What? You think I’m not gonna take every chance to spoil you while I have you?” He tosses it back like it’s nothing, but my stomach flips. Something between us feels so different this time. Is this what growing up looks like? Maturing as individuals, to be better partners?

“What else do you have in that backpack of yours?” I ask, instead of giving in to the mushiness brewing inside of me.

He pulls apart the sides of it so I can peer in, the sound of the zipper sliding further down as he does. The bag is mostly empty, but I see what looks like some packaged snacks in there.

“Did you pack us a picnic, Wyatt Grady?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. I brought you some cider, and I put some beef jerky in here in case you got cranky.” I punch his shoulder. “Or in case you got us lost, and I had to play Bear Grylls and survive on what’s in my backpack for a day until I can get us back to civilization.”

“You’re being a dick,” I reprimand him.

“I’ve always been a dick,” he replies, shrugging a shoulder. “That’s not new.”

“True,” I concede with a chuckle, and the crisp, chilly breeze on my face refreshes me as we both look over the expanse of the peaks for a moment, watch the sun reflect off of the fog that’s hanging out among the mountaintops, and admire the gorgeous colors in and amongst the hectares and hectares of foliage.

From somewhere to our left side, a strong breeze whisks countless leaves from their former homes and blows them right in front of us, letting them tumble midair, chasing one another as they float by us, before falling to the ground when the wind dies down.

I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs with the kind of replenishment you only get from nature, then speak. “I was gone so long, but stepping back into the Heights, into my old life, it’s like everything and everyone kept going just as they were before. It’s tough for me to try to pick up where I left off when nothing about me fits in here anymore.”

Wyatt twists his head to the side, not loving that. “You fit in just fine, Hellcat. And it might look like things continued here as normal, but I can tell you, for a lot of people around here, life stopped when you left, Rory. For at least three of us, but probably a lot more than that, by extension. You’re not the only one this whole thing is hard on.”

My mouth dries up and a ball forms in my voice box that I can’t swallow around.

“Anyway,” he moves on, clearing his throat. “A lot is the same, really. Ernie is still telling shitty stories down at the bar. Mrs. Dixon is still keeping the town stocked on gossip, bouncing between the post office, coffee shop, nail salon, and laundromat to make sure everyone’s heard. But some things are changing.” He shrugs. “You saw what downtown looks like these days.” I nod. “A while back, we had a bit of a recession. This bank swooped in, helping some folks out when the mine first closed. Opened up an office here, and looking back, I think they might’ve been targeting us. Taking advantage of how trusting the folks here are, and how we weren’t as book smart as them. They’d bought out a bunch of mortgages in the town from other banks, and they offered refinancing to those who’d been affected, and a lot of people jumped on it. But before long rates started going up, families have been struggling. Businesses too. It’s been tough for a lot of us. Downtown has really dried up.”

“That’s the same bastards who are hounding Duke, isn’t it? Brown Stone?” I voice the realization out loud.

“So it’s true,” he muses.

I nod, taking another sip of cider. “They’re up to some sketchy shit. I’ve looked into as much as I can from here, but I had to tag in the team back at the office. Got permission to put some of our research team onto it, actually. There’s too much that doesn’t make sense about them, something is very off where they’re concerned. I was just trying to get to the bottom of Duke’s situation, but maybe I should have them expand their parameters, see what else we can dig up on these fuckfaces.”

“Do it. I hope you nail their asses,” he murmurs in a low voice.

We pass the cider back and forth until, eventually, it’s gone and he puts the Thermos back in his bag. Finally, I have to say it. “Thank you for last night. And for today.” It’s hardly above a whisper, thanks to the emotion behind it. I guess today is full of rarities for me.

“Don’t mention it,” he says gruffly.

“A hike sounded like the worst thing in the world, but this has actually been one of the best days I’ve had in a long, long time.”

“You always needed reminding there’s bigger things out there. Put life into perspective.”

It hits me that he’s right. Out here, everything around me is bigger than I am, bigger than my problems, bigger than my grief and my failures. The issues I’ve been running from ever since I left. Everything is less shitty out here, and with him.

“I know you, Rory. Always known you. What you need.”

The mood shifts with his words, and his eyes fall to my lips.

“Are we finally going to hook up?” I whisper the words against his mouth.

“If that’s what’ll shut you up,” he mutters against my own, the brush of his lips a ghost of a tease as they move with his words.

And then he’s taking my breath away, capturing my mouth with his and kissing me like my taste is what’s going to keep him alive. Like he’s rediscovering the secrets my lips have been keeping, and has only this moment to learn them all.

His body leans into mine, pressing me backward, crushing me to him. Any extra space I had in this hoodie is eaten up by the proximity of him, the way he folds himself into my personal space, invading, dominating. I yield instantly.

Wyatt’s lips continue to move against mine, and my own respond in kind. His week or so of scruff burns in the best way as it drags roughly against my skin, and my skin lights up at the scrape of it. My thighs want to know what it’ll feel like next, if there’s a signup sheet somewhere.

He moves to deepen the contact, meshing lips instead of nipping at them, and I bring a hand up to hold his face, looking for something to steady this free fall in my low belly, in my chest, maybe even in my head too. He growls at the scrape of my long nails as they push backward into his hair, and he presses me until I’m flat against the ground, his frame hovering above me, lips still on mine.

If we’re being honest, this could be enough. As much as I’ve dreamed of this man since losing him, as many times as my mind has wandered to him in the most inopportune of moments, nothing my memory has offered me has compared to this, the feel of his mouth on mine, the weight of his body atop mine, our hearts beating together, the sharp bite of the chilly air surrounding us in a light breeze as he owns me, consuming me with nothing but a kiss. It’s so much better than anything I remember before. And still, I want more.

I open my mouth for him as his tongue sweeps, and relish the reentry, welcome him home after so long apart, like a soldier coming home from war. Back to his safe haven, the port he’ll always be welcome in.

“Fuck,” he whispers against the line of my jaw as he peppers kisses along the delicate skin there. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

Wyatt’s lips gravitate to the most sensitive part of my neck like they’re a pair of magnets, meant to be touching always, and I whimper his name, the way I used to. His tongue flicks out to tease the skin there and my body responds the way he trained it to over years of moments like this. Hips buck off the ground, core clenching, wet already, and so fucking empty. Painfully hollow without him inside me.

When he pulls back to look me in the eye, I see it reflected in his own gaze. How painfully empty he is without me too. I throw my head to the side, break the eye contact, and do my best to convince myself that there’s nothing more to this than release, for either of us. There can’t be. But sex, we can do.

He sits back on his heels, watching me writhe beneath his stare, the anticipation of what comes next, but I refuse to look back. Instead, I raise my upper body enough that I can unhook my bra—thank you yoga, for the core strength for this maneuver—and pull one arm out, then pull the garment out of the other arm hole of the hoodie and toss it to the side, several yards away, where it won’t be in the way.

I can feel the warmth of his gaze, even if I refuse to give in and see it for myself. His breathing gets heavier, and I see his chest rise and fall from the corner of my eye as I lay back down, spread in front of him like his own personal meal. It’s just a question of where he wants to start.

“Your turn,” I tell him, trying to break that concentrated stare he’s focused on me. The one I’m not willing to meet.

“Just deciding what I want to do first,” he says thoughtfully, palms running up my thighs so slowly it lights my nerve endings up and scatters goosebumps along my skin. My nipples are so stiff they almost ache, and I wish he could see them right now, pay them the attention they’re so overdue for. “My fingers, stretching that tight pussy out, prepping you for the rest of me?” I nod my head and bring my eyes back to him, let myself focus on his hands, the ink on his left forearm, the tendons and veins running down it that I could watch flex and move as he uses those thick fingers to spread me, ready me for more. My inner walls clench at the thought, thighs shifting, and his eyes home in on the motion.

“Or, I could treat myself to a feast. Aurora’s cunt.” One hand comes up to his mouth, rubbing his lips in thought, but it serves to remind me of what his lips, his beard, his tongue, feel like against my flesh, and a chill breaks out along my flesh. “Rory’s always was my favorite flavor. I’d love to see how Aurora’s compares.”

My clit jumps at that. Jolts from just his fucking words. And he says I’m the wordsmith? Something tells me he’d make a lot more than a couple hundred an hour if he spoke like that for a living.

He continues, “Or, maybe we skip the foreplay, since you were such a brat today, and I just take mine? Shove my cock in as deep as you can take me, no warning, no prep work, fuck you until you can’t take it anymore, until you feel like you’re being split in half—like you’re so full you’re going to burst—and then and only then I could pull out and finish on your tits?”

The words are conversational, like he’s weighing his options for which path we should take back to the truck, river or mountain, but they hit me like a truck. My eyes flutter and roll back in my head from that visual, him using me, taking what he needs, not even letting me come, because part of me knows I don’t deserve it. It would be my penance, my atonement, letting him use me like that.

And it turns me on. The sharp pinch and painful stretch of me trying to take all of him, without anything to warm me up first. How he’d be pulling out and slamming in again, before I’d even adjusted to his size, that insane girth. Just when I think I couldn’t take any more of it, he’d draw back and plunge in again, and I’d scream, but I’d beg him not to stop, even if it hurt. I can feel my underwear soaking already, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

How does he do this to me? How does he get me so ready, so wet for him, practically frothing at the mouth for him before he’s even begun? This man gets me, my mind, my body, what all of me needs. Being with him is more than a physical experience, it sates me on every level.

Where my mind is so often my worst enemy, Wyatt teams up with it, turns it in both of our favors, gets it working in a direction where it’s running with what he’s saying, the visuals he’s painting, getting me desperate for the scenes it runs away with.

He continues laying out his options, deliberating aloud in a way that has me close to panting. “Could also come all over your ass. I’d say your face, but I know better than to ruin that perfect hair. Maybe I should stick to wrecking your pussy instead.” His eyes land on my thighs, and he uses both hands to part them, opening my knees and letting them fall to the sides for him, staring at what’s in between.

“Your pants are soaked already, Hellcat,” he purrs, and I let out another one of those embarrassing whimpers. My legs try to close again, but he holds them open with a hand on the inside of each knee and shakes his head at me, just once.

“No, I think I wanna play with you like this,” he says in a drawl that’s just toeing the line between confident and cocky.

My eyes slam shut, and I tilt my head back as far as it will go on the ground. When I open them again, a grayish blue sky, a scattering of thin clouds fill my vision, with that gorgeous foliage the Smokies are known for this time of year just framing the edges, like my own personal painting. The stunning background to a mental memory I’ll never let myself forget.

When I look down again, he’s repositioned himself in between my legs, and that look on his face is positively lethal. I’m certain he’s violating at least a dozen laws with that thing, if you’d let me consult my volumes of legal codes I could probably list them out for you.

Wyatt waits until I’m watching and then he brings a hand forward, placing it on my lower abdomen, flat against my stomach, pinning me in place. My body jolts from the contact, the sensuality of it. He brings his other hand to the hem of the hoodie I’m wearing—his hoodie—and slides the hand up. He lets the fabric bunch up, slipping out from under his other hand that’s still on my stomach, and that other hand drifts further and further up, tracing the skin beneath both layers of clothing until he’s cupping a breast.

I suck in a sharp breath as his finger and thumb play with me, rolling my nipple between them, tugging on it in a way that pulls directly on my clit with each motion. He watches closely, intently, to see my reactions, gauge my response to the line between pleasure and pain that he’s playing jump rope with.

I must be a sick fuck, because all he’s doing is making me needier, more desperate for him and his particular brand of torture. My pussy floods my underwear with a fresh rush of desire, and the fact that my legs are wide open, he’s got me on display like this, not knowing what he’s going to do next, it just makes me hotter.

I’m pretty sure if he keeps going, keeping me pinned in place, his legs forcing mine to stay open as he tugs at and tweaks my nipples, I think he’d give me my third orgasm without touching my pussy directly in the last few weeks. And fuck, do I want him to touch me directly. Enough that I’m finally ready to ask for it.

“Please,” I whimper, as he gives a final, sharp tug on my nipple that leaves it stinging, almost burning with pleasure, still feeling his touch even after he’s abandoned it to pay attention to the other.

My eyes flutter shut as he starts to play with the other one, making up for the lack of attention it got while he tormented my other breast.

“Please what?” he asks, pinching and twisting.

“Fill me,” I beg.

“Oh, you’ll be filled. Is it my cock you want to be filled with? Or my cum?”

The thought of him spilling inside of me, pumping his release halfway to my throat as my walls clamp down on him, begging him to stay longer, to come harder, to give me more, it makes me moan. Seeing him come all over my bedroom door wasn’t enough. I want to feel it leaking out of me. I want to be soaked in both of our releases. Treated like the dirty girl I miss being. The one only he’s fulfilled the needs of.

“Yes,” I answer, and he smirks.

Wyatt releases my other nipple with a final flick, and my body hums in arousal, pure need for whatever he wants to do to it next. Whatever it is, my answer is yes .

He folds down his fingers of the hand still on my stomach, slips them down below the waistband and jerks it down, yanking in a couple of quick motions, pulling my pants down over my ass and peeling each leg off, underwear, socks, and shoes along for the ride. My bare ass lands on the grass, and he must see the discomfort on my face because he brings the pants back up and lifts me up by the hips to put them beneath me, protecting me from the direct contact with the ground.

Just like that, I’m back in the moment. The way he knows me, knows what I need, it could melt me if I let it.

Wyatt’s forest-green eyes dilate, flare and flame with desire, staring down at me, wearing nothing but his hoodie, bare legs leading to a bare pussy, spread wide and on display for him.

His hands run up the insides of my legs, up my thighs, until he’s got a hand on either side of my pussy, and he pulls, spreading me further apart so I’m fully exposed to him, nothing in the way of his view this time. The cold air hits my hot center, my sensitive clit, and he smirks as I squirm beneath his hands.

“Dying to know how tight this thing is these days,” he murmurs, letting the fingers of his right hand drift over to my entrance, where he swipes up some of the arousal there and spreads it around the entire area. He brushes past my clit too quick to give me what I need, but my body jerks at the contact just the same. “Mmm,” he hums. “You are wet for me, Hellcat.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “So stop fucking teasing me and just fuck me already,” I snap at him. “Why are you still dressed? Why are you not—” my words are cut off with a sharp gasp as he plunges two huge fingers inside of me with no warning.

“What was that you were saying?” he teases, curling his fingers, stroking my front wall, pressing against the muscles clamping down on him. “ Fuck ,” he breathes out roughly. “This pussy get this tight from yoga? Or is this witchcraft?”

Words have left me as all of my awareness, my entire existence slow zooms in on the feel of him inside of me, the force he’s exerting to get his fingers to spread within me, stretch me, but my body isn’t giving. I’m so wound up, the tension so tightly wound within me, my walls clamping so hard, he’s not getting anywhere.

“God damn .”

I don’t have anything to add to that statement, I just push my upper body off the ground and hold myself up, arms extended and locked behind me, my legs wide open around Wyatt’s body so I can watch. The two of us stare, mesmerized at the sight, the feel of his fingers pushing in and out of me, sliding in so easily thanks to all that slickness, scissoring inside of me, rotating in there. And when he curls those fingers, finding the spot that no one else seems to know how to activate, how to turn into the pleasure center it’s always been with him, I fall back to the ground with a loud moan.

Wyatt’s face pulls tight with desire, and he takes his other hand to rub himself once, twice, overtop of his joggers, the tent there growing ever more noticeable. Starting to look painful, actually. I bet if he pulled those gray pants down for me, I’d see a fat bead of precum leaking out the tip. My mouth waters, and I decide on what I’m going to try first when it’s my turn.

“Nah,” he groans, finally making up his mind. “I’m not fucking this pussy until I’ve tasted it.” He dives forward, launching himself onto his stomach between my legs in a motion that nearly startles me in its suddenness.

It’s when his face is just a few inches away from my center that the self-consciousness hits me. Memories resurface of the hike we just finished, the way I sweat through the more arduous parts of it, the feel of the fabric sticking to my legs, and I realize now is not the time for him to go down on me.

My legs try to close around his head, and he looks up at me in question.

“Another time,” I tell him in a pleading voice. “When we didn’t just finish exercising.”

He practically glowers at me. “You might have gotten used to the pretty city boys who are scared to get their hands dirty, but out here, it’s a way of life. A fucking honor, and a privilege. So, please, Hellcat. Let me get filthy like a good little country boy.” That smirk on his face alone is a danger to female libidos everywhere.

Once again, I am speechless , but the flutters that went through my center, up into my core and my lower stomach from that tell me I love the idea after all, and my legs fall back open.

He doesn’t wait for any further permission or give me a chance to think it through. He lurches forward, face nestled in between my legs, nose pressed against the top of my pussy as his tongue darts out and parts me. Wyatt sinks his tongue into me for the first time in over a decade, and I moan, a fresh wave of arousal coating his mouth. I can feel it even without watching what’s happening down there. He laps it up, and he’s not quiet about the way he’s enjoying himself at it, sliding that tongue up, up my center until he finds my clit, teasing it with the tip of his tongue until I’m mewling.

Wyatt finishes that thorough taste test and draws his head back to look me in the eyes again. “Goddamn, Hellcat. You taste even better than I remember. I’ve come to the memory of your scent and taste more times than I can count, but I think it’s gotten even better with time,” he says, and then he disappears again.

My head lifts up to follow him, and I look past the hoodie that’s still covering my top half to where he’s crouched between my thighs, eyes on mine as his mouth absolutely feasts on me.

He presses his entire face in against me, devouring for his own sake, not even focusing on my pleasure, like a man given one-night access to his favorite drink after it was discontinued years earlier. This isn’t for the bartender, it’s for the alcoholic.

His rough stubble scratches against the delicate skin of my bikini line, and since that entire area is completely bare thanks to laser hair removal, it’s extra susceptible to beard burn, and I hope I can feel the scrape of it with every step I take for days . Each one will give me this visual to accompany the twinge.

Those gorgeous green eyes that have haunted me for years close with a moan as he sinks his tongue into my core again, exploring, soaking up as much of me as he can. The sight nearly pushes me over the edge, the pressure that’s been coiled in my lower belly since he started playing with my nipples threatening to burst and spill over.

He opens his eyes, and it looks like it takes effort, like he forces himself to pull back from my center, but when he does, he licks a delicate trail up to my clit.

I can’t decide what I like more, when his mouth is spitting filth in my ear, using anything in our vicinity to make me come, or when it’s too busy licking my cunt to be able to.

Wyatt closes his mouth around my clit, and starts sucking, pulling on it with alternating pressures, first gentle, then firmer. It shoots blazing pleasure pulsing through my nerve endings, my entire body responding to what he’s doing.

“Oh God, Wyatt,” I cry out.

He slips a finger back in my center, but he doesn’t start fingering me. Doesn’t seek out those spots that he could press on and end this in a second. He slips the finger in, and then back out, like the cruelest form of teasing.

That mouth of his keeps sucking, pulling on my clit, the barest hint of teeth getting involved, just enough to skim over the bud and set my nerve endings on fire. A small scream comes out of me the first time he does it, and when he pairs it with that finger, in and out, in and out, I’m close to breaking.

The tremors start, my legs shaking around his body, and he removes his finger once again, that tongue, those lips still working my clit.

There’s a pressure below my entrance, my ass cheeks being separated, and then his wet finger is at my other entrance. The wrong entrance. Somewhere I haven’t let anyone go before, not even him. His eyes are on mine, and though panic courses through me at the unknown, sensation of it, how dirty it feels—it’s always been forbidden for me—a thrill rushes through me at the same time. Excitement darts through my system, lighting me up, cranking my sensitivity up to a whole new level, several notches up above the max setting it was already on.

He must sense it, or maybe he feels his chin get soaked, because he presses the tip of his finger in, breaches that tight hole for the first time. Adding that extra dose of forbidden to this already risky session is all it takes. His tongue flicks my clit in a rhythmic pattern that my most expensive vibrator could only dream of emulating, and when he seals his lips around my clit to give the next pull of suction, pulsing in a cadence that unlocks a new level of decadence for me, I shatter.

My orgasm rips through me, back bowing off the ground as I cry his name out, along with a slew of curses that are sending me straight to hell, if the sex in a public place with my ex didn’t already do the trick.

He keeps doing the same thing, not changing the rhythm or the pressure as I ride it out, letting me fall and fall, further than I normally do, the waves of pleasure taking their sweet time receding.

When my eyes open again, it’s to find his locked on mine, then darting over my shoulder, and back to mine again.

I’m still shuddering with aftershocks as he withdraws his finger, and slowly pulls back from my pussy.

“Jesus,” I groan, voice barely working. “Not to be dramatic, but I think I’m going to die if you don’t get inside me right the fuck now. Take those clothes off, Grady. Hurry.”

He doesn’t move to pull his pants down, doesn’t push inside of me, doesn’t even peel off his shirt.

“Not to kill the mood, but I think we have a better chance of dying if I do get inside you right now.”

I turn to look at what he’s been staring at, and his hand covers my mouth to muffle the scream. To be fair, he’s muffled my screams hundreds of times, but only ever out of carnal pleasure.

Never because I was scared for my life.