Roughing It

22. Blakely

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

blakely

DAY TWENTY-ONE

I spread my arms and legs out, starfishing in the center of the bed. Wait. If I can stretch out, that means I’m alone. Is it wrong I was hoping to wake up with Hudson’s mouth between my legs? Ah well. There’s always tomorrow.

With a bone-cracking yawn, I force my sleep-laden eyes open. A sliver of pink peaks out above my eyelashes. I half-heartedly swat at it, but when it doesn’t disappear, I put in more effort, coming away with a small handwritten note.

That jerk stuck a sticky note on my forehead. Who does that?

Don’t think sleeping in is getting you out of talking. Last night was great.

- Bea r

He signed it Bear. My stomach does a flip. I’ve learned enough about my taciturn cabin mate over the past twenty-one days to know signing it Bear is Hudson speak for “ I had a really fucking good time. I love you and want to put babies in your belly. ” Maybe it’s not a hundred percent accurate translation, but it’s pretty damn close.

I clutch the crumpled sticky note tighter.

Hudson Brooks is a man like no other. Strong, capable, and, yeah, grumpy, but it works for him. Beneath the delicious grump is a caretaker. One who goes from barely speaking to whispering things in my ears that make my heart jump into my pussy, all while trying to wrap me up in cotton wool. And I adore all sides of him.

A tingle slithers down my spine, thinking of our date. Despite not ending in sex, it was by far the most intimate date I’ve ever been on.

The drip of Hudson’s sexy voice, his rough hands so gentle on my skin as he caressed my back until I drifted to sleep, carrying me to the Jeep and tucking me into our bed and his arms.

Ten out of ten. And the icing on the cake?

No one else on the planet knows it happened.

I’ve spent virtually every moment of the past five years living my life online for others to dissect, judge, or applaud. But last night was for the two of us.

I rub the tender ache in my chest. A voice in my head whispers I can have this from now on if I’m brave enough to take a chance.

A louder voice—the insecure, scared part of me—shouts, drowning out the idea of staying with a flood of ugly reality slaps. But the ugliest one isn’t even in my head. It’s the buzzing of my phone.

Flopping to my side, I glare at the noise. The alerts climb higher and higher. It’s not lost on me that they look like little red flags.

Nope. Not dealing with that. Not until I kiss Hudson, drink some coffee, and talk to my therapist.

I slip on one of Hudson’s discarded flannels and a fresh pair of panties before making my way to the kitchen. Small priority reorder: drink some coffee, kiss Hudson, talk to my therapist.

When I open the cupboard to grab a mug, I find a small folded piece of paper. My lips tilt upward as I take in Hudson’s messy, scrawled writing.

Knew you’d go hunting for caffeine. I’m cleaning up by the lake. Be back soon.

- Bear

So much for my kiss. Therapy it is.

I sip my coffee, the sweetness of the pecans cutting through the bitter roast. Not as good as when Hudson makes it for me, but it’ll do.

Another fortifying sip, and I send off a quick text to Camila.

Do you have time to meet?

Camila

Yes ma’am. When?

Now?

Camila

Give me ten.

Ten minutes lets me grab my laptop, top off my coffee, and grab enough blankets to build a small nest on the porch swing. As I’m adjusting the pillow I snagged off the bed behind my back, the familiar face of my therapist takes me in.

“Hi, Blakely.” Her appraising eyes flicker over my face. “You look radiant.”

The unexpected compliment throws me off. Camila’s always kind and polite, but she rarely comments on my looks or anything related to that. What does she see that’s different enough that she feels compelled to say something?

“It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

Shaking my head, I refocus. “Considering I messaged you before nine a.m. for an emergency session, not great.”

She raises her eyebrows, takes a couple of notes, then says, “At our last appointment, we talked about loneliness and the pressures of maintaining your social media persona. How have you been feeling about that lately?”

“The same. Worse? Better? I don’t know.” I look around the cabin, hunting for something to stare at instead of meeting Camila’s penetrating gaze.

“Remember, you don’t have to answer if you aren’t ready. Give yourself permission to breathe.”

I lick my lips and shift. She gives me wait time. I hate wait time. “On one hand, I’m happier out here than I’ve been in years. And with each day, I find myself less driven to post, obsessing over fewer comments, ignoring my phone altogether.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Honestly?”

She smiles.

Duh, Blakely, of course, your therapist wants you to be honest. “Freeing.”

“How so?”

I lean back against the couch, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Hudson doesn’t need the show. The drama. He wants to be with me. And the me out here is a me I like. I don’t have to put on a production to start the day. When I talk, he’s here. Granted, he doesn’t say much, but he’s listening. Always. And at night…” I swallow as my skin flushes. “Apart from the physical attraction, it’s so nice not being alone.”

We spend another forty minutes exploring the current situation with my mother and what I can do to protect my emotional well-being. After talking with Camila, I come to a few decisions. The biggest one being I’m not paying my mother anything—money or attention—and I won’t run from her threats. If she continues posting stories from my childhood, I can handle it.

I think.

Ugh. It was easier to be confident within the supportive cocoon of my therapy session. I run a finger over my dark phone screen. Yesterday afternoon, the first post came out. Followed by a slew of new messages.

I’m not delusional. I’m not a celebrity or anyone of importance. My followers finding out I came from nothing isn’t something to be ashamed of. If anything, I should be proud of how far I’ve come.

The likelihood of her “secrets” impacting me financially is low. I didn’t do anything illegal. I was poor. I dropped out of high school. And yeah, I changed my name, my face, my hair color, my entire personality…

The familiar stamp of Hudson’s boots on the stairs and the creak of the wooden porch are welcome distractions.

Throwing the blankets to the side and dropping my laptop, I run and jump into his arms. My lips find his in an instant, like they’ve always known him. I close my eyes at his touch, his hands large and warm against my skin.

“I missed you this morning. I had plans. ”

Hudson pulls his head back, his green eyes full of questions. “You missed me, huh?”

I run my nose down his corded neck, taking in his spicy, woodsy scent.

“And here I left you a note so you wouldn’t worry.”

“A note? Really? I didn’t notice.” I nip his full bottom lip. “FYI, I’d rather wake up to find you on me. Not a note.”

Hudson’s fingers tighten their grip on my hips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The deep baritone of his gruff voice is like a physical caress. “Also, you aren’t wearing any pants.”

“Oh? How silly of me.”

“You wouldn’t be trying to distract me, right?” His breath against my skin has me inching my hips forward and craning my neck to give him better access.

The softness of plush lips, the tickle of long lashes, the barest scrape of a beard. Hudson’s journeying mouth turns my words into a moan. “Distract you? F-from what?”

And there’s the record scratch moment. In a move that totally kills my growing lady boner, he drops me on the swing—an oof slipping through my lips—and says, “From talking about what happened yesterday. And the day before.”

The pout is on my face before I can school my features. I promised him, but also, ugh. Hudson’s concern and desire to help however he can—even just by listening—shine through in everything he does and says. He’s a fixer. It’s his nature. And the universe knows I could use some fixing.

Sighing, I say, “Let me post real quick, then we can talk.”

“Livestream?”

“No. Not today. I’m posting a selfie. With you.”

He snorts.

“Aww, come on, Bear! You’ve been handling things like a pro lately. Surely you can survive one tiny little selfie?” I give him my best puppy eyes and quivery lip.

Hudson huffs, and I have him. With a grin, I make with the grabby hands, and he squishes in next to me.

I angle the phone, making sure we’re both in the frame, along with my coffee mug. Then I snap a handful of pictures. In a quarter of the time I normally spend, I delete the meh ones and select my favorites.

My heartbeat skips, and warmth unfurls inside me, spreading. It’s akin to a wonderful post-sex glow, a happy, satisfied tingle. All because in every single picture, Hudson is staring at me. He never once looks at the camera.

“I like this one.”

“What do you like about it?”

He nuzzles his nose in my hair. “You. You look happy.”

I snare Hudson’s lips with mine. If he was anyone else, I might think he was feeding me a line, but that isn’t his nature. If he says it, he means it. And damn. He’s right.

Yeah, my mom’s a walking trash can. My life away from this cabin is pathetically lonely. I have no idea how I’ll leave here in nine days.

“I am happy. Happier than I’ve been in a really, really long time.” Or ever. I grin. “My handsome boyfriend posed in a selfie with me and let me post it. It’s a blue-ribbon day.”

“Twice.”

“Huh?”

“That’s twice now.”

My eyebrows crinkle. “Is this some sort of riddle?”

“You called me your boyfriend.” My mouth goes dry. I try to figure out how to smooth my faux pas over, but then Hudson settles his chin on my shoulder. “Good.”

With that word, the butterflies that have taken up permanent residency in my stomach squash any nerves as they take flight.

“What else do you need to do to the picture so we can talk?”

I fiddle with the settings, tag The Bee and The Bean, and post. No sooner than it goes up do the first reactions trickle in.

Hudson snatches the phone from my hand, his green eyes darkening as he reads the rapidly mounting comments.

“Typical. He’s looking at her and she’s looking at herself.”

“Could she be more vapid?”

“Poor guy doesn’t have a clue.”

“Hudson deserves better than spoiled trash.”

“Have you seen the pics her mom posted!? I’d delete everything and drop off the face of the earth if it was me.”

All the happiness bleeds from my body.

“Blakely, what the fuck? Is it always like this?”

I toy with the edge of the blanket and let my gaze wander over the trees lining the clearing. “No. I mean, some of those, yes. But,” I cough, trying to hide a sniffle, “things have been worse the past couple of days.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Was this what upset you before we went to Trail Creek and then again at lunch? Your conversation with Kirk? The afternoon of our date?” His brows furrow, and his jaw tightens.

Shit. “Something happened with my mom a couple of days ago.”

He nods, anger lacing his words. “Yeah. I got that.”

Guilt courses through me, and I find myself rushing to explain. “It escalated quicker than I expected, but I couldn’t ruin our trip into Trail Creek. And at lunch, things were going so well with Bo and Gray that, for a moment, I forgot. Forgot this isn’t my real life. When the truth ran me over—that this is just a month-long escape—I needed air.”

His eyes harden when I say month-long escape . I’m lashing out, and it’s absolutely at the wrong person. But I’m caught in my own bullshit spiral now.

“You found me after I read messages from her. ” I try to take a breath, my words spilling out faster than I can suck in air. “Then Kirk called. When Brandee didn’t get what she demanded, she posted some unflattering pictures and details of my life. Then, yesterday afternoon, she struck again. And yeah, I should have told you. Talked to you. But all I wanted was to lose myself in you, Hudson. To forget to remember.”

“For a month.”

I wince, pain crackling through my heart. “I didn’t mean it that way. Being here with you…”

Hudson’s never held back from manhandling me—in a good way—and right now is no exception. I swear I’m airborne before landing in his lap, nose to nose, where seconds before my back was to his chest.

“Show me.”

“I—”

“Show me.”

With a weary sigh, I pull up the tagged posts. The first one features my mother: hollow cheeks, limp hair, smug sneer. There’s a manic light in her eyes, the only part of her that looks alive.

“All you little puppets following my daughter are idiots. Yeah, my daughter. She’s been passing herself off as some city girl. Her real name isn’t even Blakely Bradshaw. It’s Blake Lee Shaw.” Mom laughs, years of smoking, drinking, and who knows what else evident in her voice.

“I guarantee Blake thinks she’s better than this guy she met three weeks ago from the sticks. I’m not surprised she’s sleeping with him, though. She threw herself at every boyfriend I had. Always acting like her shit didn’t stink.” Brandee turns from the camera before holding up a grainy image.

My cheeks burn at my mother’s hateful, crass words. The picture is me at sixteen. I’m hugging my cute hatchback that I worked two jobs to pay for myself, with a bare foot arched behind me. It may be the only picture of me smiling. I was so proud of that car, even with all the rust stains and lack of air conditioning.

I scour the picture taking in the other details. The things I’ve changed about myself. No more gap and buck teeth. Or dull brown hair with frizzy curls framing an overly round face. Long gone are the days of ill-fitting jeans—somehow too short and too big—and tops with moth holes in the back.

Brandee’s boyfriend at the time, Dutch, took the picture on one of those disposable cameras, and my mom got so mad at him and me she locked us both out of the trailer for three nights. Dutch went to his brother’s. I slept in the lobby of a building I cleaned at night.

My eyes cut to Hudson; he glares as he watches my mother malign me. A shudder of revulsion has me fighting back bile at the thought of ever sleeping with any of the men she entertained over the years. How much of this does he believe?

“Is there more?” Hudson’s voice is tight and quiet.

I nod, wiping away the stray tears. I’m younger in the second picture. Twelve, maybe? Jimmy, the flavor of the month, has his arm over my shoulder and his eyes cut towards my non-existent chest. My arms are crossed, and my teeth clenched. There’s no smile or hiding my discomfort, even in a picture over two decades old. The peeling wallpaper and cracked plaster of the trailer are the background to this unwelcome trip down memory lane.

Seeing no sense in keeping the rest from him, I open my DMs. Hudson reads over the messages Brandee sent yesterday and this morning in silence, his jaw tensing.

Shaw_Babe: All you had to do was give me some money. Money you can afford, by the way.

Shaw_Babe: You’re such a selfish, spoiled child.

Shaw_Babe: I should’ve dumped you at the firehouse.

Shaw_Babe: Fine. You want to ignore me? Let’s see how long you hold out. Bet your “fans” love hearing about what a little whore you were.

Hudson’s body vibrates, and I can practically feel his energy pulsing around us. He abruptly stops the porch swing, slides me out of his lap, and paces the clearing. A litany of curses falls from his lips. “Goddamn, motherfucking, pathetic excuse for a… what kind of miserable person talks to and about their own fucking child like that?”

I jump from the swing, my steps faltering as I move closer to him. “Hudson, those things aren’t true. I mean, yes, I changed my name, but the other stuff?”

He’s a gorgeous beast. A moving mass of muscle and barely contained rage. Is his anger for me? Or at me?

My arms stretch, my body desperate for him, for a modicum of the comfort and care he’s given me even when he didn’t like me. The second his foot lifts in my direction, the anger cooling and morphing, my stilled heart beats again.

Hudson sweeps me up, holding me against him. He kisses away every tear falling from my eyes, tracking any that land on my cheeks.

“You listen to me. Whatever that woman has to say about you means nothing to me. Nothing.” The gentle sprinkle of my tears grows into a full-blown downpour. “Hey. Hey baby, none of that. Shhh.”

He holds me, his warmth and the gentle rocking of the swing soothing me. His fingers lightly massage my scalp and smooth my hair until, finally, my sobbing stops.

And then, because he really is too fucking perfect, Hudson smiles into my hair and whispers, “It’s nice to meet you, Blake Lee.”

DAY TWENTY-TWO

Delicious sensations spread through my body. A tingle at the base of my spine. Toe-curling pleasure radiating from my center. The scrape of teeth, the warmth of a tongue, the downy softness of hair.

Am I dreaming? I fight through my sleep-addled haze, and when I blink my eyes open, I’m greeted by the most glorious sight on earth.

Hudson Brooks, nose deep in my pussy.

“Morning,” he mumbles without picking his head up.

My answer is a moan as his tongue glides over my slick soaked sex. He buries his nose between my legs and licks me from hole to clit in long, broad strokes. Powerful hands hold my legs down when I attempt to squeeze them closed.

“Blakely, if you do that, I can’t use my fingers.”

“I don’t even want your fingers.”

It’s a lie.

“Are you sure? Usually, you want several of them.”

God, his mouth. When I don’t answer, he huffs out a laugh, the puff of air driving my hips upward and my fingers into the sheets.

“So stubborn.” Hudson’s exploration of my pussy continues, his tongue delving into me like I’m his favorite ice cream. When his nose nudges my clit, my hips jerk, desperate for more. But he lifts his head, pulling away. “Do you want me to stop and let you sleep?”

I lift myself up on my elbows, lust and something more racing through me. With a grin, I bite my lower lip and flop back onto the bed. “You know the answer. ”

Hudson kisses the lowest part of my stomach. “Tell me. Sleep or keep going?”

When I don’t answer, Hudson licks and sucks my swollen clit like a man on a mission. My cries become strangled when he clamps it gently between his teeth and rolls his tongue, making my clit thrum in protest. “Answer me.”

Again, I stay silent. I’m being a brat, but it makes my heart happy.

The crack of his palm on my pussy sends deep-seated need burning through me.

“Answer me.”

My hips shift beneath him, small circles as I desperately seek friction. “You’re such an asshole.” But, of course, I give in. “Keep going. Please, don’t stop. And use your fingers.”

“Promise not to smother me.” He grazes his teeth along my inner thigh. “It’d be the best fucking way to go, but I’d prefer it happen many, many years from now.”

“Hudson…”

Ignoring me, he goes back to his licking, sucking, kissing. Then he slips two fingers in, deep and quick. My breath catches in my throat at the sudden fullness. My walls clench around his fingers. Trying to pull them in, trying to push them out. He curls and slowly twists his fingers inside me, and when I thrust against his mouth, he adds a third. My back bows, coming off the bed, and my hands fly to his head, clenching and pulling hard on the soft strands of his hair.

“Fuck me with your fingers.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Fuck. Please, Hudson.”

His fingers plunge in and out of me; his tongue works the tiny bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. He purrs against my clit, and the extra stimulation from his mouth drives me to the edge. Mesmerizing green eyes look up at me with a hunger blazing in the vibrant depths as a wicked tongue lashes against my clit until I’m crying out. My legs shake where they’re held, pleasure rolling over me in waves.

He moves one arm, putting pressure on my lower stomach, and I know what’s about to happen.

“Drown me, baby.”

I explode on his lips and hand. He keeps going, working me through my orgasm. I moan and push his head away, my words coming out slurred as I mumble, “Too much.”

He eases his fingers from my trembling pussy and looks at them, then at me, a smug smirk on his face. His beard glistens, and he licks his lips as if trying to gather every ounce of my flavor.

“You said no one ever told you how amazing you taste.” He holds his fingers to my lips. “Let me show you how delicious you are.”

I nod and open my mouth. Hudson groans as he dips his fingers between my lips, and I suck my release off his drenched digits. As my tongue rolls around his fingers, he strokes himself, and I’m overwhelmed with memories of his cock buried in me, filling me so perfectly.

Hudson pulls his fingers from my mouth and stares down at me. It’s like he’s cementing this moment in his mind.

Shifting so his cock is near my mouth, he says, “Spit on it.”

Can you come from words?

“Go on, baby, spit.”

I do as he demands and watch, enraptured. He’s gorgeous. Pine-green eyes eaten up with desire. Lips shining with my cum. Veins visible in his neck and forearms as he strokes himself until he spills all over my stomach and chest, marking me.

He massages his cum into my skin, and fuck, there’s something so possessive and primal about it. I need to keep this connection going. I can’t lose it. Him.

I yank him forward, kissing him, parting my lips so his tongue can slip into my mouth. I lose myself in his touch, the weight of his body against mine, the brush of his beard. All of it.

When I finally pull away, I grin at him. “You didn’t have to wake me up this way.”

“Wanted to make sure you know I listen when you speak. Plus, making you happy makes me happy.” He kisses me. “‘Sides, not like it’s a hardship.” He grins against my arm, moving higher to sneak little kisses into the crook of my elbow. Why is that so sexy?

We lay quietly, petting each other like if we stop touching, we’ll shatter. At least that’s how I feel. This man is under my skin in the best and worst ways.

“So, besides deeply satisfied, how are you?” Hudson asks, his lips pressing against my forehead.

I smile and shrug. “I bet my mother’s put up some new posts.”

“Can’t you block her? Keep her from tagging you?”

“Yeah. But I can’t decide if it’s worse seeing it or knowing it’s out there and not seeing it.”

Fingers brush over my neck. “Explain.”

I nibble my inner cheek, trying to clarify my thoughts. For him. For myself. “On the one hand, ignorance is bliss, right? But on the other, if she puts out something damaging, I won’t have the chance to defend myself. Like the disgusting claims I tried to steal her boyfriends.” Revulsion makes my stomach clench. “It’s scary.”

He doesn’t say anything, just rubs his hands up and down my back.

“I’ve worked so hard to put Blake Lee in my past. To make her disappear. To become Blakely Bradshaw, the antithesis of everything I was growing up.”

“For what it’s worth, the girl in those photos, she’s nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, it makes your mother look worse, which I didn’t think was fucking possible.” His chest rumbles under my ear with a growl. “That second picture… if I could go back in time and knock the teeth out of that clown’s head, I would. But the first picture? The girl in that one was a hard worker who earned her moment of pride. You know the truth of what those pictures represent; don’t let her steal it from you.”

It’s an unreal feeling being seen. Especially when you’ve spent the vast majority of your life being ignored or hiding. “How’d you get so smart?” I ask, kissing the place over his heart.

“Born this way.”

I did it. I made fire.

I stare at the little fire I built—all on my own. Hudson stands feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes flickering with pride. The way he’s looking at me feels nearly as good as the way he woke me up this morning.

“Good job, Spitfire.”

I preen under his praise and toss him my phone. “Picture, please! I need to capture this for posterity.”

He clears his throat. “You doing a live?”

My jaw drops open. Who would think there’d be a day when Hudson Brooks encourages me to post to my socials?

“Um…” I scrunch my nose.

“Up to you.”

There’s so much unsaid in those three words. I hear it. I can take back my narrative. Face my fears. Own my history.

Or I can hide in the safety of the cabin.

Squaring my shoulders, I nod and walk Hudson through the steps. I don’t bother with the fake smile. If I’m doing this, I’m leaving behind the armor I’ve always donned.

“Hey, BBs. It’s been a few days, and I’ll address that, but before, I want to show you what I did.”

As the first flood of hearts rolls in, hope flickers in me. Maybe there is a place in my life for the me I’m becoming.