He gives me harder.
His mouth is at my ear. "Tell me what you need."
"I need you to keep doing that," I say, "and I need your hand — yes, there, right there!"
He saysgoodagainst my throat and gives me his hand where I asked for it. I stop being able to form sentences. I stop being able to do anything except hold on and feel it build, his cock deep and his fingers exactly right, and when I come it takes me completely, my whole body arching up into him, his name out of my mouth before I know I'm saying it.
He follows me close — two more strokes and he groans low against my neck and his hips stutter and he saysWillalike it's the only word he has left.
We lie there while the room comes back: the lamp, the rain on the window, our clothes on the floor.
His thumb moves slow circles on my hip. Outside the storm is easing.
The rain is lighter now. Somewhere below us the old floorboards creak under someone's feet.
"You noticed the batten pattern on my first tarp job," he says. Very dry.
"Second day in town," I confirm.
Something crosses his face — unmistakably the precursor to a smile — and this time it arrives. It changes his face entirely.
I file it. I'm going to be looking at that smile for a long time and I want the details right.
five
Atlas
Post-stormSilverRidgelookslike a town that took a hit and is getting up.
I have three crews running simultaneously and I'm the fourth. The difficult jobs are mine: steep pitches, unstable sections, the two commercial properties where the scope is complex enough that I need to be on-site. Danny's house is done. Margaret Okafor's porch overhang is rebuilt and solid.
Danny finds me on Wednesday morning while I'm loading materials.
He doesn't ask about Willa. Which means he's clocked something and is giving me room, which is a thing Danny does — eight years together and he's learned when to push and when to load the truck and wait.
To his credit, he waits about four minutes.
"You seem good," he says, lifting a bundle of ice-and-water shield onto the bed.
"I am good."
"Specifically good."
"Load the truck," I say, forcing myself not to grin.
Willa's supplemental review request went through the provincial regulator on Friday. Her company came back Monday with something I didn't expect: a full review approved, a senior file handler assigned, preliminary notice issued to all six affected Silver Ridge clients that back payments may be forthcoming. The process will take time. She's explained this to each client individually, in person, where she can. The framework is in motion.
Margaret Okafor calls me on Tuesday afternoon, crying with joy.
"They're sending a review letter," she says. "A real one. She filed the claim correctly, Atlas, the full scope from three years ago—"
"I know," I say. "She's good at her job."
"She's a lovely person." A pause. "She came by Tuesday." Another pause. "She didn't know how to take a compliment. I told her she was extremely competent, and she looked at me like I'd said something in a foreign language."
She does not know how to receive a compliment. This is accurate. I've watched her deflect three of them in the past week with the efficiency of someone who's had a lot of practice.
I go to the hotel in the afternoon.
