Page 7

seven

Jordyn

I pour wine for us both. Slate sits across the table, our empty plates between us. The pasta turned out well, and his appreciative look when he first tasted it made me strangely proud.

"Where did you learn to cook?" he asks, more relaxed than I've seen him.

"Cooking classes," I admit with a laugh. "My mother insisted. Said even if I never needed to cook for myself, I should know how to direct the staff properly."

He shakes his head with a half-smile. "Different worlds."

"Very different," I agree. "But I'm finding I prefer this one."

His eyes meet mine over his glass, and the intensity there makes my breath catch. We've been dancing around this all evening—the attraction since that morning kiss, his departure tomorrow, the question of what happens tonight.

"Should we move to the couch?" I suggest, pointing to the fireplace. "More comfortable than these chairs."

He nods and rises. For such a large man, he moves with surprising control.

I take our glasses while he brings the wine bottle, and we settle on the couch—close, but not touching. The space between us feels charged.

"Tell me something real about yourself," I say. "Something you don't tell most people."

He considers this. "I write poetry. Sometimes. When I'm on long hauls and the road gets too quiet."

That wasn't what I expected. "Poetry?"

"Don't look so shocked," he says with a slight smile. "Even truckers can have hidden depths."

"I'm not shocked. I'm impressed." I move closer. "What kind of poetry?"

"The bad kind," he says with a chuckle. "Observations, mostly. Things I see on the road that most people miss."

"I'd love to read it sometime."

He studies me, as if checking if I'm sincere. Whatever he sees must convince him, because his expression softens.

"Your turn," he says. "Something real."

I take a deep breath. "I hate my job. Everyone thinks I'm so lucky to have this perfect position handed to me, but I feel suffocated by it." It feels both scary and freeing to say it. "I've never told anyone that before."

His hand finds mine, warm and reassuring. "What would you do instead? If you could do anything?"

"Photography," I answer immediately. "I've always loved capturing moments, finding beauty in unexpected places." I laugh softly. "Another useless rich girl hobby, right?"

"No," he says firmly. "Not if it's what makes you come alive."

His simple validation tightens my throat. Bradley never understood my photography—just tolerated it as a quirk at best, a distraction at worst.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Slate's thumb traces circles on my hand, sending sparks up my arm. I watch, fascinated by his hands—large, calloused from work, capable of fixing engines and writing poetry. His hands are so different from the manicured ones I'm used to.

"Jordyn," he says.

I look up, and the heat in his eyes steals my breath. We've been circling this moment since that kiss this morning, both of us knowing where this is heading but hesitant to cross the final line. Neither of us has touched the wine.

"I want you," I say simply, tired of dancing around the truth. "I have since I first saw you scowling at your coffee."

A sound escapes him, half laugh, half groan. "I was trying to be a gentleman."

"I don't need a gentleman right now."

That's all it takes. His hand releases mine only to cup the back of my neck, drawing me to him with a certainty that makes me shiver. This kiss is nothing like the one we shared this morning—that was exploration, testing; this is claiming, knowing.

His mouth is demanding against mine, tongue seeking entrance which I gladly grant. I melt against him, hands finding the solid wall of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm. He's all hard muscle and heat, so different from what I'm used to.

"You've been driving me crazy all day," he murmurs against my lips, his stubble a delicious friction against my skin. "Walking around in those tight jeans, looking at me like you're doing now."

"How am I looking at you?" I ask breathlessly as his mouth trails down my neck.

"Like you want to be devoured."

"Maybe I do."

His eyes darken at my words, and suddenly I'm being lifted into his lap, straddling his thighs. The show of strength sends a thrill through me—he handles my weight like it's nothing, arranging me exactly where he wants me.

What follows is a blur of sensation—his calloused hands exploring my body with reverent hunger, his mouth hot against my skin, my clothing somehow disappearing between frantic kisses. His body is a revelation, all hard planes and powerful muscle, built not from vanity but from years of honest work.

"My God," I breathe, running my hands over his broad chest. "You're incredible."

A faint flush colors his cheekbones at the praise, but his hands never stop their skilled exploration, drawing sounds from me I didn't know I could make. He's both tender and commanding, finding every sensitive spot with unerring precision.

When his fingers find my folds, where I'm already slick and ready for him.

"You're so wet for me," he says, voice filled with wonder as he strokes through my folds.

"Only for you," I whisper, the truth of it surprising me. I've never responded to anyone the way I'm responding to him.

His fingers work magic, finding a rhythm that has me clutching his shoulders, head falling back as pleasure builds. When he slides one thick finger inside me, I cry out, overwhelmed by the sensation.

"That's it," he encourages, adding a second finger, stretching me deliciously. "Let me hear you."

His thumb circles where I need him most while his fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. It’s too much, too good.

"Slate, I'm going to—"

"Come for me, princess," he commands, and somehow the nickname that once annoyed me now pushes me over the edge.

I shatter around his fingers, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. He works me through it gently, murmuring praise against my neck, easing only when I collapse against his chest, trembling with aftershocks.

Instead of letting me recover, he stands, lifting me effortlessly.

My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me to the bedroom, the display of strength making desire pool anew between my thighs.

The weight of him above me as he lowers me to the bed feels like exactly what I've been missing all my life.

Slate pulls down his jeans, revealing the long trail of dark hair the leads to his impressive cock. It’s long and thick, and all I can think about is how much I want him inside of me.

The first push of him inside me draws a long moan from me. He's bigger than anyone I've been with before, stretching me in the most delicious way. He moves slowly at first, giving me time to adjust, his control evident in the tension of his arms on either side of my head.

"You feel incredible," he groans, fully seated within me now. "So tight, so perfect."

He begins a steady rhythm, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through my body. He's powerful but controlled, passionate but attentive, reading my body's responses and adjusting to give me maximum pleasure.

When he hooks one of my legs over his arm, changing the angle to hit a spot that makes me cry out, I know I'm already close again. The coil of tension winds tighter with each thrust, his pace increasing as we both chase release.

"You're going to come again," he says, more statement than question. "I can feel you getting tighter."

"Yes," I gasp, hands clutching at his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moves above me.

His hand slides between us, finding where we're joined, his thumb circling in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation pushes me over the edge, pleasure exploding through me with an intensity that tears a scream from my throat.

My orgasm makes him lose control. His thrusts become harder, deeper, his rhythm faltering as his control finally breaks.

His powerful body tenses above me, muscles rigid, jaw clenched as he growls my name through gritted teeth.

The veins in his neck stand out, his face a beautiful mask of pleasure and strain.

He shudders violently, hips jerking against mine as he pours himself into me, each pulse accompanied by a deep, guttural sound that's the most primal, masculine thing I've ever heard.

We stay together for a few minutes, not waiting to withdraw. He's careful not to crush me with his weight, but keeps me close against his side when he eventually moves.

Rain begins to patter against the roof again, a gentle rhythm that seems to underscore the peace I feel in this moment. Tomorrow he leaves. Tomorrow I might never see him again. But tonight, in this cabin, with the storm returning outside, I've found something I didn't even know I was seeking.

"Stay," I whisper into the darkness, not sure if I mean for the night or for something more.

His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer against his chest. "I'm not going anywhere tonight," he promises, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my ear.