Page 10 of Heartwood and Hardware (Zaftig Ever After #4)

"Exactly." He moves to stand beside me, our shoulders touching. "Most people don't get that."

"I do." I turn to face him. "I get you, Dean Evans."

The words hang between us, simple but profound. Dean's hand comes up to cup my cheek, his touch gentle but sure.

"And I get you, Riley Bennett."

This time when our lips meet, there's no hesitation. The kiss deepens immediately, my arms winding around his neck as his encircle my waist. His body is solid and warm against mine, his hands respectful but eager as they explore my back, my hips, the curve of my waist.

When we part for breath, Dean rests his forehead against mine. "Dinner can wait," he murmurs. "If you want..."

"I want," I whisper back, my body humming with anticipation. "I definitely want."

He leads me back to the house, through the living room to a bedroom that continues the natural wood theme. A large bed with a handcrafted headboard dominates the space. Dean stops just inside the doorway, turning to face me.

"We can slow down," he offers. "If this is too fast."

I shake my head, stepping closer. "It doesn't feel fast. It feels right."

The certainty in my voice seems to dissolve any remaining hesitation. Dean pulls me against him, his kiss deeper now, hungrier. I respond in kind, my hands exploring the broad expanse of his back, the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt.

"I've thought about this since I first saw you," he confesses between kisses. "You standing there, looking at my carvings with such genuine interest."

"I've thought about your hands," I admit, taking one in mine to press a kiss to his palm. "How they create such beautiful things. How they'd feel on me."

A groan escapes him. "Let me show you."

We undress each other slowly, each new revelation of skin met with appreciative touches and kisses. Dean's body is exactly as I imagined—strong, solid, bearing the marks of his craft in calluses and the occasional small scar. When my dress falls away, his eyes darken with desire.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, hands spanning my waist. "So beautiful."

No one has ever looked at me the way Dean does now—like I'm a masterpiece, like every curve and line of my body is exactly as it should be. There's no self-consciousness as I stand before him in just my underwear, only a thrilling awareness of his appreciation.

"So are you," I tell him, running my hands over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

We move to the bed, Dean laying me down with gentle care before stretching out beside me.

"Is this okay?" he asks, fingers playing with the edge of my bra.

"More than okay." I arch into his touch. "Please, Dean."

He unclasps my bra with surprising dexterity, drawing it away to reveal my breasts. The hunger in his eyes as he looks at me sends heat pooling between my legs.

"Perfect," he murmurs, bending to take one nipple into his mouth.

I gasp at the sensation, my back arching off the bed. Dean's tongue circles the sensitive peak, his hand coming up to caress my other breast. The dual stimulation sends sparks of pleasure through me, each lick and gentle squeeze building the tension coiling inside me.

"Dean," I breathe, my hands threading through his hair to hold him closer.

He shifts his attention to my other breast, his hand sliding down my stomach to the edge of my panties. "May I?" he asks, fingers playing with the elastic.

"Yes," I manage, lifting my hips in invitation. "Please touch me."

Dean slides my panties down my legs, his eyes drinking in every inch of newly revealed skin. When his hand returns to the apex of my thighs, I spread my legs wider, welcoming his touch.

His fingers find me already wet, slipping easily through my folds. "So responsive," he murmurs appreciatively. "So perfect."

I moan as he circles my clit with gentle pressure, my hips rising to meet his touch. "More," I plead. "I need more."

Dean obliges, sliding one finger inside me while his thumb continues its circular motion. The feeling is exquisite, making me gasp his name. When he adds a second finger, curling them to hit a spot that makes me see stars, I clutch at his shoulders.

"Right there," I pant. "Don't stop."

"Never," he promises, his rhythm steady and sure. "I want to watch you come apart. Want to feel you come on my fingers."

His words, combined with the skilled movement of his hand, push me closer to the edge. I'm not usually vocal during sex, but with Dean, sounds escape me unbidden—moans, gasps, his name like a prayer on my lips.

"That's it," he encourages, pressing deeper. "Let go for me, Riley."

The tension builds to an unbearable peak, then breaks in a rush of pleasure that pulses through my entire body. I cry out, back arching, hands gripping Dean's arms as wave after wave washes over me. He works me through it gently, easing the pressure as the aftershocks subside.

When I open my eyes, Dean is watching me with an expression of wonder and desire. "You're incredible," he says softly. "The way you respond, the sounds you make... beautiful."

I reach for him, pulling him down for a deep kiss. "I want to feel you," I whisper against his lips. "All of you."

Dean sheds his boxers, revealing his erection—thick and hard against his stomach. I wrap my hand around him, feeling the velvet-soft skin over steel hardness, the way he pulses in my grip.

"How do you want me?" I ask, settling back against the pillows.

"Just like this." He moves between my legs. "I want to see your face."

The position feels intimate, vulnerable in the best way. Dean braces himself above me, one hand guiding himself to my entrance. He pauses there, the tip of his cock just barely pressing against me.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

In answer, I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Dean enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. The stretch is delicious, filling me completely. When he's fully seated, we both pause, breathing heavily, adjusting to the sensation of being so intimately connected.

"You feel amazing," he groans, his forehead resting against mine. "So perfect around me."

"Move," I urge, rolling my hips. "Please, Dean, I need you to move."

He starts with slow, deep thrusts, each one hitting spots inside me that make my toes curl. I match his rhythm, lifting to meet each thrust, my hands exploring the muscles of his back as they flex and release.

"Riley," he breathes, the sound of my name on his lips sending a fresh wave of pleasure through me. "You feel so good."

"So do you," I gasp as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. "Right there. Don't stop."

Dean increases his pace, his thrusts becoming more forceful. One hand slides between us to find my clit, circling it in time with his movements. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, building me toward another peak faster than I thought possible.

"I want to feel you come again," Dean says, his voice rough with exertion and desire. "Want to feel you tighten around my cock."

His words push me closer to the edge. I'm normally self-conscious during sex, worried about how I look, if I'm making the right sounds. But with Dean, all those concerns vanish. There's only the pleasure building between us, the connection that transcends the physical.

"I'm close," I warn, my nails digging into his shoulders. "So close."

"Me too," he admits, his rhythm faltering slightly. "Come with me, Riley. Let go."

His thumb presses more firmly against my clit, and that's all it takes. I shatter around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves. Dean follows immediately, his body tensing as he thrusts deep one final time, my name a groan on his lips as he finds his release.

For several moments, we stay connected, our bodies trembling with aftershocks, our breathing gradually slowing. Dean's weight is welcome on top of me, grounding me as I float in post-orgasmic bliss.

Eventually, he shifts to the side, pulling me against his chest. I nestle into his embrace, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, my leg draped over his.

"That was..." Dean trails off, seeming to search for adequate words.

"Yeah," I agree, understanding completely. "It was."

We lie in comfortable silence, his hand tracing patterns on my back, mine exploring the contours of his chest. There's no awkwardness, no uncertainty. Just a peaceful contentment that feels both novel and familiar.

"I'm glad you came back," Dean says finally, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

"Me too." I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "For what it's worth, I think those matchmakers knew what they were doing."

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath my hand. "Don't tell Parker that. His ego's big enough already."

"Our secret, then." I lean down to kiss him softly. "But they were right. We do fit."

Dean's expression softens, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Like pieces carved from the same tree."

"Different shapes," I continue his metaphor, "but the same grain."

"Exactly." His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in that way I've come to adore. "Hungry yet? I did promise you dinner."

"Starving," I admit. "But I'm also very comfortable right here."

"Who says we can't have both?" Dean sits up, reaching for his boxers. "How do you feel about breakfast for dinner in bed?"

"Like you're a genius." I pull the sheet around me, watching appreciatively as he stands. "Need help?"

"Just stay right there," he says, leaning down for another quick kiss. "I'll be right back."

As Dean disappears toward the kitchen, I settle back against the pillows, a sense of contentment washing over me. Twenty-four hours ago, I was a nervous wreck preparing for my panel, certain I'd say or do something wrong, that I'd be too much or not enough.

Now I'm lying in Dean Evans's bed waiting for him to bring me breakfast for dinner. And I feel completely, utterly right.

Whatever forces brought us together—matchmakers, friends, fate—I'm grateful. Because in Dean, I've found someone who sees me clearly, who values my intensity rather than being overwhelmed by it, who speaks my language even though our worlds are so different.

I hear him moving around in the kitchen, the domestic sounds somehow both novel and comforting. I stretch luxuriously, feeling more at home in my skin than I can remember feeling in years.

When Dean returns with a tray of scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit, his smile upon seeing me still in his bed makes my heart flutter. He sets the tray down carefully before climbing in beside me, pulling me close with one strong arm.

"This is nice," I say, leaning into his warmth.

"Very nice," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Though I have to warn you—if you keep looking at me like that, the food's going to get cold."

I grin, deliberately running my gaze down his chest to where the sheet barely covers his hips. "I can think of ways to warm it up again."

Dean laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "Eat first. You'll need your strength."

As we share the simple meal, talking and laughing between bites, I realize something profound: for the first time in my life, I don't feel the need to calculate my words or monitor my expressions. With Dean, I can simply be.

And that—even more than the mind-blowing sex or the deep conversations or the shared understanding—might be the most precious gift of all.