Page 22 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Tessa

W e don’t speak as we peel off our wet layers in the cabin, tossing gloves and coats over the hooks by the door. The fire crackles, the only sound in the quiet, warm space. I back toward the hearth.

I curl up on the couch, tucking the stuffed raccoon against my side and wrapping both hands around the coffee drink he brought me.

The sweetness of maple and vanilla melts on my tongue as the heat slowly seeps into my bones.

Across the room, Gage adds another log to the fire, the golden light casting shadows across his face.

When he looks over at me, something shifts in the air.

His eyes are dark, lidded with something unspoken, unreadable—but not cold. Never cold.

He straightens, every movement deliberate, and walks toward me.

My breath catches as he reaches down, his hand warm and rough as it wraps around mine.

Without a word, he pulls me gently to my feet and into his arms. The moment our bodies align, his mouth finds mine in a kiss that stops the world—deep, aching, and all-consuming.

It feels like he’s kissing away every piece of doubt I ever carried.

And I let him.

"I'm glad I met you." I tell him because I want to make sure he knows. Make sure that tomorrow when I go home, it isn't because of him I left.

When he looks down at me, I lift my chin. “This isn’t about being stuck together anymore.”

“I know.” His fingers brush mine. “This is because I want you. You get that, right?”

I nod, throat too tight to say anything more.

He lifts me in one smooth motion, setting me gently on the bearskin rug in front of the fire. I gasp, startled and giddy, then reach for him with shaking hands. He slides over me, slow and reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s not sure he deserves.

Our kiss deepens. My fingers tug at the hem of his flannel, baring warm, solid skin beneath.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s a slow burn, simmering between us as clothes come off one piece at a time, heat curling low in my belly.

His hands trace every inch of me like he’s committing it all to memory. He kisses my shoulder, my throat, my collarbone. My body arches into his without shame, wanting more.

He groans into my mouth when I press my palm against his cock. My hand clenches instinctively around this hard part of him, and he moves his hips and his cock slides through my grasping fingers. He thrusts his hips, forcing his cock to move again, and I clutch at the silky, thick length.

He feels… amazing.

Incredible.

Addictive.

His skin is hot, silky smooth, and full of delicious sensations that make my palm and fingers ache for more.

I tighten the circle of my fist as he thrusts up, faster now, a sigh escaping his throat as my other hand cradles his balls, tightening ever so gently.

I’m rewarded with a sound that makes my core absolutely throb.

His hands find mine and pin them above my head as his mouth claims me again, but softer now. Hungrier. Each kiss a question. Each touch a confession. He lowers his body over mine, skin to skin, warmth, and weight and wanting, and I gasp his name against his lips.

“Gage…”

His eyes meet mine. “Tell me to stop.”

I don’t. I never could. Instead, I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him closer, tilting my hips in silent invitation.

When he finally enters me, it’s a breathless, perfect moment—so full, so real, I have to close my eyes to keep from falling apart too fast.

“Tessa,” he whispers against my neck like it’s a vow. “God, you feel like home.”

My fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer. “Gage.” His name is a prayer. A promise. A plea.

He groans, the sound ragged and broken, and slides into and out of me in smooth, reverent motions. My body arches up to meet him, breath catching, eyes fluttering closed. He’s everywhere—inside me, over me, around me—and it’s too much and not enough all at once.

We move together in a rhythm that’s not frantic but desperate in a different way.

Like we’re trying to make this moment last forever.

Like we know it won’t, and we’re already mourning the loss.

Every stroke and gasp a wordless conversation.

There’s no noise outside but the soft rush of wind against the cabin walls and the rhythm of two hearts trying not to break.

His mouth is everywhere, and every brush of his fingertips is worship. I cling to him like he’s the only real thing left in the world, like maybe if I hold tight enough, I won’t shatter when morning comes.

“Look at me,” he breathes, and I do. I can’t look away. His gaze holds mine as we fall over the edge together, his name a litany on my lips, his hand cupping the back of my head like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

My body tenses as I feel the familiar buildup of my climax, the intensity growing with each passing second.

I cry out as the orgasm shatters my body into a million pieces.

The intensity of my release is overwhelming.

His climax follows mine, and he growls, a primal sound that sends shivers racing down my spine.

When we finally collapse, tangled and trembling, he pulls me onto his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles along my spine. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in—cedar and snow and something that feels like home.

The silence that follows is thick with everything we didn’t say. And everything we almost did.

Tangled in the afterglow, I lie beside him with my head on his chest. My fingers trail lightly over the scars there—pale reminders of battles fought long before me.

“Do they still hurt?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers brush my bare shoulder. “Not with you here.”

I bite my lip, heart pounding in my throat. I want to say it. I want to tell him I think I’m falling for him, that I’m terrified of what that means. But instead?—

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” The words tumble out like a broken dam, louder than I mean, and way too soon. They hang in the air between us, jagged and raw, like I just sucker-punched the moment with my own damn mouth.

His body stills beneath me, and for a long, suspended moment, he says nothing.

His chest barely rises beneath my cheek, like he’s holding his breath.

Muscles locked tight, jaw clenched. The shift is subtle—but I feel it.

The tension. The sting. Like he’s just been gut-punched and is trying not to let it show.

I keep my eyes locked on the fire, refusing to look at him because I know if I do, I’ll unravel.

The flames flicker and twist, casting shadows that feel too much like the storm churning inside my chest. It’s easier to focus on the fire—on the illusion of control—than to face the weight of what I just said and how it’s already changing everything.

“You what?” His voice is low. Careful. Too careful. "Is that what you want?"

“While I was in the general store today, I ran into Marvin—he’s a local bush pilot. He said he’s flying back to Anchorage in the morning and had room for one more. I didn’t even think. I just... I said yes.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around me like armor, like maybe if I wrap it tight enough, I won’t feel the full weight of his disappointment pressing down on me.

It coils in the air between us, quiet but suffocating, and I shrink beneath it—wishing I could take the words back, or soften them, or explain better.

But all I can do is sit there, clutching the blanket like it’s the only thing holding me together.

“I have to,” I whisper. “I should get back. My life's there. My job, if I still have one, my apartment, my family.”

He finally looks at me then, eyes shadowed and unreadable. A muscle jumps in his jaw before he nods, stiff and slow, like the motion costs him something. "Right," he says, voice flat but brittle around the edges. "Makes sense."

I chew my lip. "Gage… I?—"

He turns, eyes searching mine. "You don’t owe me anything, Tessa. I knew this was temporary."

Then, without another word, he stands—naked and unapologetic, the firelight dancing across the scars on his back.

He walks away from me, his bare feet silent on the hardwood as he disappears into the bedroom, leaving me curled up alone on the rug, wrapped in nothing but the blanket and the ache in my chest.

The room feels like it’s been plunged into ice water; the firelight flickering uselessly against the sharp chill settling into my bones. All because I couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut. I hug my arms around myself tighter, trying to hold in the sob that wants to claw its way out of my throat.

"Yeah, temporary." The word tastes bitter, like regret and heartbreak wrapped in one miserable syllable.

The tears come harder than I expect. Not pretty, not silent.

These are gut-wrenching, body-shaking sobs—the kind that make it hard to breathe.

And it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’ve only known him a few days.

But this pain? It carves deeper than anything Kyle ever made me feel.

Deeper than betrayal. Because this... this was real.

And now it’s gone before it even had a chance to be something more.

I hear the shower shut off while I’m still curled up on the floor, tears soaking into the blanket clutched around me.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and I hear his bare footsteps pad across the floor.

I glance up just in time to see Gage step into the living room—still damp, jeans pulled on but unbuttoned, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders as he shoves his arms into a flannel shirt without bothering to close it. He doesn’t even look at me.

He mutters, "I’ve got work to do in the garage," while buttoning his flannel with stiff, methodical movements. Each snap feels like another layer of distance closing between us, sealing him off as he turns and heads for the door.

He buttons up his flannel with the same tension he used to build walls around himself, each snap a quiet goodbye.

Then, without a glance in my direction, he strides past me—past everything we just shared—and pulls the door open.

The cold air rushes in, but it’s nothing compared to the chill he leaves behind.

He steps outside, and the door clicks shut with a soft, final thud that echoes like a slammed gate in my chest.

He's running, and I can't blame him. If I could vanish into the trees or bury myself under the snow to escape the avalanche of feelings crashing over me, I would. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until tomorrow morning when that damn plane lifts off and takes me away from all of this—away from him.