It’s filthy and perfect. I thrust against her hand, hips stuttering, chasing the friction as she works me. Her other hand is at my jaw, dragging me in for kisses between moans, and the whole time she keeps whispering, “That’s it, Jordan, let go for me, I want to feel you, I want you to come so hard you forget your own name.”
I bury my face in her neck, biting at her pulse point. She hisses and grinds harder, rocking her cunt against me with every stroke. Our bodies find a rhythm, desperate and raw, and I can’t hold back.
I break, crashing apart with a shout, the pleasure ripping through me so hard I see stars. Maddie holds me up, rocking methrough it, kissing my hair and my face and my mouth until I’m boneless in her arms.
I collapse against her, both of us shaking and breathless, paint drying around us, the world a blur of lavender and want.
She laughs, giddy and spent, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You okay?”
I nod, grinning like an idiot. “Yeah. More than okay.”
She beams, smug and soft, and I want to kiss her forever.
So I do.
I drag her mouth back to mine, and the kiss is slow now, deep and sweet, the frantic urgency melted into something steady and warm. Her hands roam my back, nails scraping gentle. I hold her face, memorizing the lines of her, the heat of her skin. Everything about this is right on the edge of overwhelming, but I am done pretending I want anything less.
The room is a disaster, paint cans everywhere, the two of us covered in sweat, paint, and pure, unfiltered satisfaction. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Eventually, she pulls back and just looks at me, blue eyes all soft edges and private delight.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Wasn’t planning to go anywhere,” I answer. Which is the truth—the truest thing I’ve ever said.
We stay like that, tangled together, until the world returns in slow increments: the stick of paint on my forearm, the thud of our hearts finally slowing, the way the lavender walls glow in the late afternoon light.
I help her off the dresser, both of us wobbly but laughing. She does a little spin, skirt still bunched at her hips, then presses tight against me, her curves fitting perfectly to every scar and edge of my body.
She curls her fingers into my shirt and leans her head against my chest, and we just stand there, breathing, taking in the room.The paint job is a mess. The wall behind us is streaky and unfinished, like a time-lapse of the world changing underneath our hands.
She looks around and smiles, satisfaction radiating off her. “It’s starting to look like mine,” she says, and I know she doesn’t just mean the bedroom.
“Always was,” I say, kissing her temple. “Just needed a fresh coat.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Cornball.”
“You love a cornball. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
She laughs, bright and unguarded, and the sound fills the whole room, echoes down into the floorboards. It’s perfect.
Chapter 9
The ledger’s a catastrophe, and if there’s anyone else in Vermont still bothering with one, I’ll eat my own pencil. Maybe that’s why I’m the only one around with graphite-stained calluses, too—a badge of honor, or maybe just stubbornness. It’s Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday; the days lose all distinction when you’re wading through inventory spreadsheets and Melvin is grumbling in the background like a simmering tea kettle. At the counter, my sleeves are shoved to my elbows and there’s a streak of lavender paint clinging to my left thumb, a trophy from the weekend’s bedroom shenanigans.
At 10:17, the bell above the door rings, clear as always, and I don’t even bother to glance up. It’s Jordan. I know the weight of their boots, the particular scuff of rubber-soled confidence, the way the floorboards actually shift when they walk. Instead, I make a show of double-checking the pipe fitting column, which I’ve already checked twice, because I am a grown, allegedly functional adult with a mortgage and zero desire to show up like a floodlight just because my… what? Person? Situationship? Whatever. I can’t even think the right word without my brain shorting out.
“Morning, Picasso.”
Of course I look up, helpless against the pull. Jordan’s at the counter, flannel rolled up, hair doing that half-tamed thing, a stripe of dark soot on their temple. Their eyes are bright, that easy kind of bright that means sleep and good moods and probably both. My stomach cartwheels. I pretend not to notice.
“Morning, Trouble.” I thump my pencil against the ledger. “What’s on the shopping list today? Pipe fittings? Caulk? Or are you here to bamboozle me with something so obscure I’ll have to excavate it from the stockroom while you gloat?”
“Three-inch deck screws, actually.” Jordan leans in, folding into my space, and I can smell cedar, woodsmoke, and the maddening hint of whatever deodorant they use. “Phillips-head. I’ve got a restoration gig.”
“Another chimney?”
“Whole-house restoration. Old Victorian by Burlington. Two weeks, decent money.” Jordan’s voice is casual, like this is just item number eight on today’s to-do. “Worth the drive, too.”
