Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 31

THIRTY-ONE

AURORA

It’s nearing dusk when I pull up to the address Wyatt texted me.

His house.

I would’ve loved to stay with Mom longer, but she was tuckered out after today. We ended up watching a chick flick, the three of us cuddled together in the cushions on the floor, under some blankets. That’s where she fell asleep, a smile on her face, each of our hands in one of hers.

Duke came home and told us he’d take it from there, and to have a good night. So that’s what I’m here to do. Something I’m long overdue for.

Pull up the driveway, marveling at the beauty of this land. I think this might be his family’s property, it looks a lot like where they used to go camping sometimes, if memory serves. It’s a long way to get through the woods and into the clearing where his house is. Tucked deep into a forest that’s a mix of evergreens and deciduous, there’s a carpet of leaves along the driveway as I go, but still enough greenery left in the woods to provide a healthy dose of privacy.

Glad I made it in daylight, this is secluded enough it’d be tricky to do for the first time in the dark. When I get up to the house, Wyatt is standing there, waiting for me, fine as ever. Tanned skin, dark hair, green eyes glinting, that black ink on his skin that I can only see a hint of, because for once, his sleeves aren’t pushed up. It’s cold enough out now that he should be in a jacket, but maybe the fact that I’m wearing his favorite hoodie—the one he put on me when we were hiking and I never gave back—is the problem. I paired it with some of the additional jeans I bought after he asked me if I owned any, and it’s as comfy as I remember being.

At least I’m toasty as I step out of the car and press my lips to his.

“Damn, you look good,” he says, bringing a hand up to twirl some of my hair that’s fallen loose. “I’m not over this hair color yet. It’s fucking gorgeous on you.”

“It’s my natural hair color,” I deflect. “It’s not that exciting.”

“Tell that to my dick,” he says with another peck to my mouth.

“I’d love to have a chat with the big guy,” I say, twisting on a foot and spinning to take in the scenery. “But you owe me a tour first.”

“Right,” he says, and blows out a breath. “Now or never, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” I say, because when else would I get a tour?

Wyatt points to the house, which I finally look at now that he’s not distracting me with his tantalizing masculinity, and he starts to tell me about it.

It’s cozy, a rustic-modern cottage that’s deceptively simple in design, until you look closer and realize how complex the details really are. It’s smaller than I would’ve expected, but it’s so perfectly him that I smile.

Stone exterior, black metal trim, stunning natural wooden beams to accent the entrance, and a black metal gabled roof. The front door is really just a large pane of glass, edged in black metal. Striking.

It’s one story, but the ceilings are clearly taller than the standard. A porch wraps around one side of the house, from the front to the back, as does a stone walkway, and I marvel at the craftsmanship displayed, even in just the exterior of the house. I can’t wait to see what it looks like on the inside.

I follow Wyatt around the back and listen to him talk as we go. “Took me about seven years to build, but I’ve been here almost four years now.”

“Wow, you had this custom built?” I’m impressed.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the backyard, which is really more accurately classified as a meadow, I would say. At least a small field. It extends well beyond the size of a normal yard, edged by more woodland, the iconic Smoky Mountains a distant backdrop. I’d be willing to bet in a season when the temperature isn’t playing jump rope with the point of freezing, wildflowers would be springing up all around the edges.

The windows on the back of the home lead all the way to the gabled roof, black metal running down all the joints, giving it a modern vibe that screams Wyatt. Sophisticated, edgy, a little industrial, just enough masculinity without being too much. Gorgeous, a little wild, nothing you’d mistake for soft.

The windows hide nothing about the interior from this view out back. The living space that’s visible behind the giant translucent panes, a small dining table in one corner, next to a kitchen that’s maybe small by modern standards, but it’s bigger than anything I’ve seen in NYC for under ten grand a month. Perfectly workable. And the living room, so cozy I could curl up in the sofa in front of the stone fireplace there forever if I wasn’t careful, that chair by the window along the side wall, it would be perfect for a chilly day like today. I could crack the window open, probably even catch a snowflake from that seat while I sipped a cider beneath a blanket and read the newest Theo Carter book.

Wyatt clears his throat. “Actually, built most of it myself. Had a little help.” He tilts his head side to side with each name he says. “Ronnie, Gonzo, my stepdad. Had to hire a couple things out. But most of it, this project was my baby.”

The way he’s looking at me, it’s trepidation and worry and like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I’m liable to run on him at any minute. And here I thought we were really getting somewhere.

The bite of the icy wind picks up as the clouds blow in and I shiver. It’s gotta be below freezing now. “Well, let’s head inside,” I say, still struck, dumbfounded by the beauty of this place. “Why don’t you show me the rest of it. I think the bathroom and bedrooms are the only rooms I can’t see from outside, but show me all of it.”

One side of his stubbled mouth tilts up and he nods, putting a hand on my low back as we go.

If I thought the inside was gorgeous from outside, I had no idea what I was in for. Plush furniture, simple but perfect, in darks and neutrals. Like the colors found in the woods around us, and the shadows they live in beneath the canopy of the treetops. No one could call it a large home, two modest bedrooms, each with a simple bathroom, but the primary en suite has a soaking tub that overlooks the forest, and I think I got wet just looking at it.

When we make it back to the living room, I turn to face him, unable to voice my thoughts just yet.

It’s so homey , tears spring to my eyes, making everything in my line of vision hazy, even more than usual where he’s concerned. But it’s clear enough that I realize this is what I could’ve had if I hadn’t run away. If I’d been brave enough to tell him my fears, what I was struggling with, and tried to weather the storm together.

We could’ve had the cottage in the meadow, with the cozy seat by the window where I can watch the snow?—

The thought is interrupted by movement in my peripheral vision.

Snow falls outside the windows. As I turn in place, I can see it no matter where I look. Flakes drifting down past the beautiful front door, the giant windows with that clear view out to the yard in the back, even the side of the house, that chair that’s calling my name beneath the window there. I rush over to it and open the window, cranking it to open outward, squealing in delight as I reach a hand through it and catch a snowflake. I spin around to show Wyatt, and he’s closer than I expected him to be, watching me with so much focus it takes my breath away.

“This is what I used to dream about,” I tell him, holding the melting snowflake up on my fingertips for his inspection.

“I know,” he says softly, and my blinders come off. The high I’ve been riding after the day with my mom and sister, the haze it cast over my vision, it peels back, allowing me to see what’s right in front of me clearly. It all starts to click, faster than I’m ready for.

“Wyatt,” I breathe out.

“Aurora,” he says in a dangerously low voice.

It’s the snowflake melting on my fingertips that acts as the neon sharpie, connecting the dots in a way that there’s no way to miss them, even when I’ve been blinded by the emotion of the day.

“You built our dream house?” I whisper.

“Build it and they’ll come, right?” He shrugs a shoulder lazily, but he can’t downplay this.

This isn’t keeping my scarf in a drawer as a memento and thinking of me fondly from time to time.

He took the thing we always dreamed about and spent seven years dedicating his energy, money, time, and labor to it. He built this house with his own hands, when I left without even telling him goodbye.

I don’t deserve him—I may never have—but I need him all the same.

I leap forward, colliding into him, and wrap myself in his arms, bringing his face down to mine to kiss him deeply.

“I came,” I whisper against his lips in between kisses. “Show me, Wyatt. Show me what we should’ve had all this time.”

His hands close around me, steadying me as I move against him. One large palm holds the back of my head, the other frames my ass as he holds me to him, letting our lips do all the talking we need right now.

He presses kisses to my face, my jawline, my neck, trailing teases that make my pussy flutter at the feel of them.

I reach down for the hem of the hoodie and pull it upward, and he takes over, removing it for me. We undress as we go, a new article of clothing dotting our path every few steps, like some sort of Hansel and Gretel retelling, the adult version. We leave a trail in our wake as we walk through his cottage in the woods, and it’s straight out of my own personal fairytale.

The hoodie of his I’m so fond of.

His Henley.

My long-sleeved shirt.

His boots.

My Uggs.

His Dickies.

My jeans.

Until we’re in his bedroom. What should’ve been our bedroom. And we’re in nothing but our underwear. I push him back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm extended behind him, one on my side. One of my knees comes up to rest on the side of his body, and then the other does the same on his other side. I straddle him, his hands running up and down my back, as his lips explore my neck, my chest, my breasts.

The feel of him, hard between my legs, nothing but two layers of thin material separating us, it’s the most delicious sort of anticipation, and I’m living for it. Yeah, I’m here for the main event, but when what comes first is so damn good, what’s the rush?

“Wyatt?” I ask, panting as his tongue traces the skin above my nipple, tormenting me in my favorite way possible.

“Mmm?” His lips don’t even close, he doesn’t break the contact from my skin, and I think that deserves recognition. I force myself to pull back, and look him in the eye, even if my hips grind a little bit on top of his lap automatically.

“How long have you had hope for us?” I ask him, not sure if I’m ready for the answer, but needing to know.

“Since I asked you out,” he says, breaths coming heavily.

I trace a finger down his chest, the patch of short hair there, and keep running it down.

“Are you counting that as the bonfire or the ATV disaster? Or was it the night we played pool?”

“Not sure anything we did that night could be considered playing pool, Hellcat. But the first time. When you were sixteen, in history class.”

My breath falters. “All this time?”

“I’ve never not loved you. If there’s anyone on this plane for me, it’s you, Aurora.”

Tears build, but something is off about this moment. That name, it twinges, something like discomfort echoing inside me. It doesn’t fit with him, with us, with this reality we’re in. “Don’t call me that,” I breathe.

His hand smooths over the top of my head, down the back of it, until it rests on the nape of my neck, fingers tracing delicate shapes there as he stares in my eyes.

“Okay, Rory,” he whispers a breath away from my lips. The name, all the emotion behind it from this man, sends chills skittering along my spine. “You ready for more truth from me?”

I nod, and mean it.

“I still love you. More than ever, now that I’ve seen how strong you’ve become, how incredibly brilliant and badass you are, despite the burden you’ve been carrying all alone. You’re the most terrifying woman I’ve ever met, your enemies need all the help they can get, and the highlight of my life has been every chance I’ve had to love you.”

His words fill me with a kind of serenity I haven’t known without him in all this time. The belief that even as messed up as I am, the ways I’ve done wrong in my life, a man like this can still love me … That elusive forgiveness of self feels that much closer, because of him and the good he sees in me, even when I can’t see it myself.

If my eyes aren’t wet, another part of me definitely is, and I lean back in, closing my mouth around his again, ramping up the kiss from zero to at least a hundred on the dash in record time.

I let my body talk for me, hips circling over his hardness, lips on his body while his fingers trail my spine, his touch lighting me up and sending fresh goosebumps sizzling across the surface of my skin. His mouth closes around that spot beneath my ear that turns me into a puddle, and I whimper, grinding down harder on him.

Wyatt stands, holding me to him as he does, and he turns and drops me on the bed, letting me fall from his arms and bouncing with the impact. He smiles down at me, then follows me, one knee on the bed as he covers my body with his. Kisses dot my stomach as he works his way down, and the spark of need fans into a burn of desire, a physical need, like air, or your first love’s touch to heal all your invisible wounds.

“Please,” I whimper.

“I got you, Rory,” he says against my skin.

Wyatt makes quick work of removing my underwear, and he doesn’t tease me this time. He dives straight in, licking me from my center to my clit, with the kind of pressure that makes my legs jolt off the bed. I can feel his mouth twitch up, the burn of his scruff shifting against my sensitive skin, and his palms come down on my thighs to hold them in place as he takes another lick. Long, sensuous, deep. He’s getting his fill, but he’s not making me wait for what I need, either. I think this is what compromise looks like.

His tongue parts me, circling my clit like a homing beacon that’s calling to him, and then slipping down, lapping as fresh juices spill out of me.

“You’ve never tasted better,” he groans into my thigh, and it makes me writhe against the bed, against his hold, the way his face is pressed into me. It’s obnoxious. I hope he never stops.

“More,” I plead with him, softer than a demand, being open with him for once on what I need. Letting him respond how he wants to.

“I’ll give you everything you need,” he promises, and then his mouth is busy again, flush against my core.

The man eats me like his survival depends on it, like it’s me alone that’s giving him life, and the way his eyes barrel into me as his tongue is doing the same, it’s got me hurtling toward the finish line. He feels it, too, upping the intensity and pushing me further and further toward that bright light.

“Fuck,” I cry out. “Wyatt!”

His fingers grip my thighs, pressing into the skin there, and with nothing but his tongue inside of me, his truth nestled somewhere deep that makes me warm and safe and like I can finally stop running, it’s enough for me. I shatter.

He groans against my center as he licks it up, everything my body gives him, he takes it greedily, leaving nothing behind. His eyes darken as his tongue moves, then he swallows and my insides tumble, a path straight from my low belly down to my core lighting up already, while the rest of me still trembles in the aftershocks.

My head thrown back, chest heaving, I feel the mattress shift with him as he prowls up my body and open my eyes when he’s above me again. I watch as he leans down, taking my mouth and letting me taste what’s got his cock so hard, pressed up against my thigh.

It’s dirty, it’s personal, it’s something I’ve only done with him, and I groan when he does it. I’m already wet again, already needy to feel all of him. My hand seeks him out, running down the carved planes of his body until I reach his boxer briefs. I slip my hand in the waistband and twist my wrist so I can encircle him in my hold, and pump. He jerks his head when I make contact, breaking his mouth off of mine, and withdraws his hips so I’m left empty-handed.

“Later.” It’s gruff, and the need in his voice speaks volumes.

I nod at him, perfectly willing to feel him inside me now, and play with him later.

Wyatt pulls off his underwear and parts my thighs, holding them wide so he can look as long as he wants. “Forgot how beautiful this pussy was after it just came, Rory. Pink and swollen, still dripping, rubbed raw from my beard. Fucking perfect.” He waits until those words hit me, the noise I make in response before he adds, “Can’t wait to see how it looks when it’s my cum pouring out of it.”

The use of my name, the truths he shared, how bare I feel with him—not just physically, but how he knows all of my truths and wants me anyway—and that heat burning in his deep green eyes as he watches the emotion swim in my gaze, it all makes me need him in a way I’ve never needed anyone.

“Take it,” I beg him.

“Mine,” he vows.

I nod at him, back of my head pressed into the pillow, and that’s all he needed from me. A promise my lips still won’t give him. But I hope he feels it just the same.

Wyatt leans forward, holding himself up with one arm as he uses the other hand to bring his thick head to my entrance. Once he’s notched in, he drags that hand up to cup my cheek as he pushes in.

My breath catches, but I don’t let my eyes close as he sinks inside of me. For the first time, neither of us looks away. And I find his gaze more interesting than even watching his cock would be right now. Feeling him stretch me, shape my walls to his girth, the way his hard length fills me, there’s nothing like it, but having him pierce me, scale all the way to my inner depths with those irises, the color of pine needles and all my best memories as he does? How am I supposed to hold out against feelings like this?

My mouth pops open when the promise of another orgasm starts, low in my core. The pressure coils, delicious heat spreading, pleasure starting to ripple through me.

Wyatt’s jaw tics as he feels it too. “That’s it, Rory, squeeze my cock when you come.”

If my walls weren’t already clenching, they are now.

“Mmm,” he groans, watching me, rapt.

“Do you need more?” he asks, pumping his hips into me slowly, so deep, letting me slowly crest this high and milk it.

“More,” I echo, not because I need it, but just because I want everything from him. It’s what I’ll give him too.

He tilts his head down, bringing his mouth to mine and kissing me as deeply as he’s fucking me. One hand comes to my breast and he rolls my nipple, riding that line between what makes me sweat and what makes me scream.

The combo tips me over, triggering another onslaught that has me convulsing, mindless from bliss as I ride it out. Wyatt moans in my mouth as he feels my orgasm hit, the way I’m so tight around him he struggles to pull out and push back in, and he pulses his hips against mine to keep the rhythm going instead of those deep thrusts. His pelvic bone presses into my clit, it sends my eyes rolling back in my head, my nails digging into his back.

Wyatt shows me how much he enjoys that by biting down on my lip, dragging it up, and then releasing it with something like a growl.

Staring at him, panting as I come down while he still moves inside of me, I can’t hide from the fact that what made me come that time was how much I love this man.

For once, I’m not running from the voice in my head.

I’m done running, period.

I think I’m home.