Page 28 of Recluse Lumberjack Heart
My heart moves into my throat.
He stands. Pulls me up by our joined hands. Holds the screen door open.
The cabin's dark after the bright porch. Cool. The stove's cold. On the table, the walnut bowl is sitting right side up, and there's a finished spoon beside it that wasn't there two days ago. New handle. No crack.
"You made another one," I say.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Four in the morning?"
"Three, this time." He's behind me. Close. "Kept thinking about Thursday."
"What about it?"
"About sharing a room with you. About lying next to you in the dark knowing I've got no right to touch you but wanting to so bad my hands can't hold still on a piece of wood."
Everything in my body goes warm at once. I turn around.
He's right there. Sawdust in his beard. Those amber-brown eyes looking down at me with twelve years of hunger he's only just started letting himself feel.
"You've got every right," I tell him.
"Paige."
"Aiden." I put my hand flat on his chest. His heart's slamming. "You've got every right. I'm giving it to you. I gave it to you in that gravel yard. I gave it to you on this porch in the rain. I've been giving it to you every morning with a cup of coffee you never asked for."
His hand comes up. Wraps around mine on his chest.
"Twelve years," he says. "I haven't been with anyone in twelve years."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I really, really don't."
I pull my hand free. Grab his shirt at the hem. Drag it up. He lets me take it over his head, arms lifting, and I toss it somewhere behind me without looking.
Sweet mercy.
Broad. Thick through the chest, dark hair tapering down his stomach, muscles earned from years of labor. Scars. A faded one across his ribs. Another on his shoulder from the widow-maker. Sawdust caught in the hair on his chest.
My hands go to his stomach. I feel every muscle tighten under my palms as I slide them up, over the hair, the warm skin, the heartbeat that's gone completely haywire.
"Your turn," he says. Rough. Barely holding.
I pull my shirt over my head. Simple cotton bra. Nothing fancy. His eyes drop to it and his jaw works, and there's a sound in his throat he doesn't quite let out.
"Come here," he says.
He doesn't wait. His hands cup my face, mouth coming down on mine, and this isn't the kitchen-table kiss. This is twelve years of loneliness breaking open. His tongue slides past my lips and I grip his shoulders, pulling myself up, pressing my breasts against his bare chest. His groan vibrates through both of us.
My bra clasp comes undone with one hand. Practiced or lucky, I don't care which. The straps slide down my arms and his hands replace them, palms covering me, rough thumbs dragging across my nipples.
"Fuck." My head drops back. He takes the invitation, mouth going to my throat. "Aiden."
"Tell me where."
