“Yeah. She said when you get a chance, but...” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
I did know. When the boss said when you get a chance, she meant now.
I cleaned up my workspace and headed toward her office, my jaw clenched. Fine. This was fine. Just the boss needing something from an employee.
Except my body didn’t believe that lie. My body remembered exactly what it felt like to have her pressed against me. To hear her gasp my name. To taste her mouth, to hear those desperate little sounds she’d made. To feel how wet she’d been, how ready, how much she’d wanted me.
Her office door was open and she sat behind her desk, focused on her computer screen, typing something with quick, efficient movements. For a moment, I just stood there, watching her, before knocking on the doorframe.
“You wanted to see me?”
She looked up, and something flickered in her eyes before her expression went carefully neutral. But I saw it—that flash of heat, of want, of memory. “Come in.”
I stepped inside but stayed near the door, keeping distance between us. Because if I got too close, I’d touch her. And if I touched her, I wouldn’t stop.
“We have a problem,” she said, turning her monitor so I could see. “Henderson order. The oak paneling. He needs it delivered tomorrow morning, first thing. Which means we need to finish it tonight.”
I looked at the specifications on the screen. There were at least four hours of work left—sanding, finishing touches, quality check, packaging.
“I can stay late,” I said. “Get it done.”
“We’ll both stay.” She stood up, grabbing her work gloves from the desk. “It’ll go faster with two people, and I need to make sure it’s perfect before it goes out. Henderson’s one of our oldest customers.”
Before I could argue, she was walking past me, close enough that I caught that sweet scent that followed her everywhere. Everything in me screamed to grab her, spin her around, bend her over her desk, and and—
The next few hours were going to be torture.
By the time the rest of the crew cleared out for the day, Charlotte and I had the Henderson order spread across the specialty section workbenches. The overhead lights cast everything in sharp relief, and the Christmas music had finally stopped, leaving just the quiet hum of the building and the sound of our tools.
And the sound of our breathing. Hers slightly too fast, slightly too shallow. Mine controlled but rough, every inhale bringing her scent, every exhale fighting the urge to close the distance between us.
“I’ll start with the sanding,” Charlotte said, her voice all business as she tied her hair back. But I heard the slight tremor in it, saw the way her hands shook just a little as she secured the tie.
“I’ll do the final measurements and make sure everything’s square.” I got to work, trying to focus on the wood and not on the woman ten feet away from me. Again, I was mesmerized by her graceful movements. Of course, now that I’d held her, all I could do was imagine her body moving over mine, under mine, against mine.
She ran her hands over a piece of oak, feeling for imperfections, and I found myself mesmerized by the movement. Those hands were calloused from work, strong and capable. She could operate a table saw, lift heavy lumber, read blueprints, manage a crew. And God, I wanted those hands on me.
She could handle just about anything in this mill.
Could she handle the scarred, broken parts of me? The darkness, the nightmares? Could she handle how rough I’d be, how desperate, how thoroughly I’d claim her?
I pushed the thought away and focused on sanding, letting the repetitive motion clear my head.
“You’re good at this,” Charlotte said after a while, breaking the silence. She was examining a piece I’d just finished. “The detail work. It’s impressive.”
“I built furniture with my grandfather before I enlisted.” The words came out before I could stop them. I didn’t usually talk about my past, about before.
“He taught you well.”
“He did.” I moved to the next piece. “He always told me working with your hands kept you honest.”
“Can you hand me the 220 grit?” she asked, gesturing to the sandpaper on the far workbench.
I grabbed it and held it out to her. Our fingers brushed when she took it, and that brief contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. My cock jerked in my jeans, hardening instantly from that simple touch. We both froze for a fraction of a second before she pulled away, focusing intently on the wood in front of her.
We worked for another two hours, the silence broken only by the sounds of our tools and the occasional instruction. The tension never eased. If anything, it got worse—building with every accidental brush of shoulders, every moment our eyes met, every breath of her scent that filled my lungs.
By the time we finished packaging the order, it was late. The sawmill was dark except for our section, the windows showing nothing but blackness outside.
