Page 5 of Wood Lessons
ANNA
T he remark warms me , no matter how corny. It eases my anxiety to know his flirting is on par with mine—almost nonexistent. But the sweet attempt is appreciated.
Sawdust floats in the weak sunlight as we step inside the detached garage for my first lesson. The dust tickles my nose, though the scent of freshly-cut wood is comforting.
“It’s not much compared to Cora and Chris’s barn, but it works for my side projects,” Peter explains as he waves an encompassing hand towards the arrangement of tools and tables.
One large rectangular table dominates the center of the garage with a table saw resting at one end; counters of various hand tools and projects line the walls.
“Do you make a lot of those? And sell them?” I ask, curious since his cabin is already outfitted with handmade pieces of furniture.
“Sometimes. When someone approaches me for a personal project and time allows me to work on them.” He shrugs, making the plaid tighten around his broad shoulders. “But I don’t really seek it out; it’s not like I have a website or anything. It’s all word of mouth through my work with CC Designs.”
“It’s impressive, however you get business.
Means people really admire your work. Are you thinking of going solo?
” My hand traces the smooth edges of an unfinished chair propped to the right of me.
Intricate lines wrap around the legs, probably taking long hours to create such a detailed design.
And it occurs to me that he’s as much of an artist as I am—just in a different field.
“Not particularly. I’d actually prefer becoming partners with Chris and Cora.”
“What do they think of that plan?”
A rueful chuckle echoes in the garage. “Not sure. I haven’t asked them yet. Still a little hesitant about making the leap.”
His reluctance baffles me, though I relate to his fear.
Peter’s clearly talented; I wouldn’t assume he’d be afraid to approach them.
“I felt the same way before moving here. I felt it so much that I put off making a final decision for more than a year—overthinking every little detail until it became too much. Either I choose to stay in my rut or take the risk.” Smiling at him encouragingly, I walk over to place a gentle hand on his forearm, squeezing the firm muscle beneath.
“I think it’s turned out alright so far, don’t you think? ”
Peter cups my hand and brings it to his cheek before feathering a soft kiss over the palm. I blush at the tender gesture and remember our kiss the other day—thoughts of other types of risk running through my head.
“Yeah, I do.” His deep voice steals over my nerves, heightening my awareness of him until he loosens his grip, and we continue our survey of the shop. “Why do you say you were in a rut back then? What was happening?”
“Nothing.” I laugh bitterly as sad memories flood me with loneliness.
“I worked. I came home. Repeat. Similar to what you mentioned the other day, actually. It was a small town without much of a social scene—not that it would’ve helped me much.
Generally, I’m a fairly shy person, more introverted, which makes it difficult to make friends. ”
“And you thought moving would change that?”
“I thought having more opportunities to try to change would be helpful. Or maybe I could ride the confidence high of moving by myself to meet new people.” My lips twist in satisfaction. “And it worked. Despite my anxiety, I accepted your offer of lessons, didn’t I? I’m doing the damn thing.”
An image of the quote from an old Bachelorette promo flashes in my mind, but it’s true, I realize. As I’m trying to reassure Peter, I’m reminding myself of how far I’ve come and what I’ve accomplished. Even our kiss would’ve seemed impossible a few months ago.
“Guess that means we should get started.” A boyish grin brightens his face before handing me a pair of safety glasses. “Put these on for protection. I know I mentioned building a birdhouse, but why don’t you help me with a small project first?”
Nervous energy rockets under my skin, making me feel jittery. The anxiety I mentioned perks up; I don’t want to ruin his work or embarrass myself.
Relax, he knows you’re a beginner.
Sliding the clear plastic glasses over my ears, a slight haze blurs my vision. High school days spent in science labs come back to me at the familiar experience.
“What’s the project?” I watch as Peter sets a couple wood boards on the worktable.
“You’re going to help me turn these pine boards into chair legs.
” He motions me closer and begins to show me how he measures and marks the wood for cutting.
Handing over the ruler and pencil, he says, “Give it a try. I realize you know how to use a ruler already, but it’s still worth being part of the process. ”
We work companionably for a half hour when Peter grabs a red tool with handles on either side of a center blade. He sets the tool in front of me. “This is a spokeshave. Have you ever seen one before?”
I shake my head no, and he explains, “It’s going to help us curve the pine into the right shape for me to carve in the twisted rope detail. Ready to try?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Taking the tool from him, I face the newly-cut leg when Peter moves to stand behind me—the intimate move raising the hair on the back of my neck in attention.
Hot breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here guiding you. You’ll do fine.”
Large hands cover mine to gently push forward, showing me the correct form. My gaze shifts to the intriguing display of his forearm muscles flexing.
I should focus on what I'm doing before I cut myself or send the spokeshave skittering to the floor, but Peter’s warmth at my back is distracting.
The earthy smell of sawdust mixed with his clean body wash surrounds me—a tantalizing scent urging me to breathe deeper.
Unconsciously, I push back which causes something hard to nudge against my ass.
My lungs stutter as I realize he’s getting aroused by our positions, too, and relief that I’m not the only one makes me daring. Arching my hips, I rub a little harder, and our hands stall on the spokeshave, its original purpose all but forgotten.
“Trying to tease me, sweetheart?” Peter slowly spurs me forward until I’m trapped between him and the table—the hard edge digging into my soft belly.
Light fingertips drift over my neck as he brushes my hair over one shoulder; a featherlight kiss skims over the exposed skin, and I shiver in response.
Maybe I was trying to tease him. I didn’t have a lot of experience with men, but things felt easy with Peter. For some reason, my usual fear refused to put up much of a fight when it came to him. And instead of questioning any deeper meaning, I’m going to roll with and see where it takes me.
“What are you going to do if I am?” The sultry voice isn’t recognizable to my ears, but I guess the seductress inside me had never had a reason to appear before now.
“If my girl wants to play, who am I to refuse her?”
His girl? The possessive endearment makes my thighs clench in anticipation of his claiming. God, listen to me. Claiming. Like I’m living in some kind of fated mates novel.
Peter skirts a hand around my waist to glide under my shirt. “Is this alright?”
“Yes...” And immediately his hand continues its path upward until he cups one of my breasts, thumb flicking over the hardened tip.
“You know, I’ve never had someone out here before—never asked a woman home, let alone into my shop.” Another hand lowers to the button of my jeans as he keeps playing with my nipple. “You wet, baby? Want me to lay you bare and let you soak this table with your cream as I eat this pussy?”
Somehow, he’s managed to unzip my jeans and slip a hand down my panties without my notice until I feel rough fingertips probe my entrance. I moan at the contact, eager for him to reach a little higher and circle my clit.
“Mmm...that’s exactly what you want. You need my tongue, baby?”
I nod frantically, and Peter whips me around so we’re chest to chest. Removing the safety glasses we’re both wearing, I stifle a laugh at how ridiculous we must’ve looked then any thoughts outside of Peter fly out the window as his mouth devours mine in a harsh kiss.
Wet, sucking sounds fill the room when he starts pumping his fingers deep—the palm of his hand slapping against the bundle of nerves aching for attention. “Please...” I beg, needing more—his hand, his tongue—I want everything.
Peter jerks away and rips off his plaid overshirt, leaving a plain white tee that molds to his chest. I grasp the hem of the shirt thinking to help him undress when he shakes his head.
“Not yet, sweetheart. I just need this to protect you from any stray splinters. The tabletop’s worn smooth, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. ”
Spreading the thick fabric over the table, he captures my hips in a firm grip and lifts me to settle on the hard surface.
My nails dig into his shoulders for balance while admiration blooms in my chest. I’m not a light burden—extra curves abound—yet he picked me up like it was nothing, and my desire intensifies at the impressive feat.
“You weren’t kidding...We’re really going to do this.” It’s a statement more than a question because I’m not planning on changing my mind, but we’re moving so fast I can’t help a frisson of disbelief.
“If you’re up for it.” Peter’s concerned gaze meets mine—a sweet tenderness that melts my previously guarded heart. Is it any wonder he bypassed all of my defenses?
Caressing his bearded cheek, I draw closer and trail kisses over the scratchy skin before landing on his lips. “Trust me, I want this—want you .”
“Thank fuck.” He presses another savage kiss to my mouth then urges me back. “Lie down, baby, and let’s get these off.” I feel a tug on my jeans and brace myself on shaky elbows as Peter peels them away along with my underwear.
The aluminum ceiling above reflects the sunlight filtering in from the open garage, and I notice prisms of color floating in the air. It almost feels like a dream when Peter’s head dips, and the first brush of his lips against my inner thigh makes me jump.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, inching nearer to my core. With the first swipe of his tongue through my folds, I expel the breath I’d been holding and close my eyes—lifting my hips higher for his touch.
A desperate plea resounds in my head.
More. Give me more.