Page 94 of What We Become

“Hypocrite,” I tease.

“I didn’t say you should stop.”

“Good.” I tip my chin back and give him my mouth.

He kisses me slow at first—thorough, unhurried, like he’s got all afternoon and intends to use every minute of it. His hand tightens on my hip. His tongue slides against mine, and I forget the valley, the cold air, everything except coffee and control and the low sound he makes when I bite his bottom lip.

When he lets me breathe again, his mouth stays close to my ear. “I like knowing what gets you worked up. Watch him all you want.”

I rest my head against his chest, catching my breath while I do just that.

Knox works like the wood personally offended him. Lift, swing, split. The rhythm settles into something almost meditative, and then—because this cabin loves me—he straightens, drags the hem of his thermal up, and pulls the whole thing over his head.

The groan leaves me before I can stop it.

Sweat runs down the broad plane of his back, carving clean lines over his skin. His shoulders roll as he tosses the shirt onto the woodpile, every muscle moving like it was engineered specifically to ruin my concentration. He picks up the axe again. Swings. The crack of splitting wood echoes off the trees.

“I want to lick him,” I say, gripping Holden’s shirt. “You’re going to have to do something before I jump this railing to get to him.”

His arm bands across my ribs and hauls me flush against him, and his mouth crashes into mine—no patience this time, none of that slow, measured discipline. He kisses me hard enough to steal my balance, one hand fisted in my ponytail, the other splayed low on my stomach, pinning me to the solid line of his body. I whimper when he pulls away.

“There,” he says against my lips. “Something.”

“Not enough.”

“Greedy.”

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

Across the clearing, the axe pauses mid-swing. Knox looks up at us. Even from here it lands—dark, deliberate, missing nothing. He takes in Holden’s arms around me, my flushed face, the way I’m half-melted against him.

The corner of his mouth moves. Barely. A Knox smile.

He sets another log on the block, unhurried, and splits it clean in half.

“He’s doing that on purpose now,” I say.

“Obviously.”

“Somebody better get him up here in the next five minutes, or I’m starting without either of you.”

At the far end of the porch, Milo joins in with a groan of his own. “Oh, she’s ovulating.”

I choke on air. Holden closes his eyes like he regrets every choice that led him here.

“Milo,” he says.

“What? I’m observing nature. We’re in the wilderness. David Attenborough would want me to document the mating behaviors of horny humans.”

“I am going to throw your knife into the ravine,” Holden says.

Milo lifts the carving and squints at it critically. “Then you’ll never know what I was making for Sage.”

In an effort to keep himself busy, he’s taken over the far end of the big wooden table with a collection of knives, sandpaper, wood shavings, and several objects that might become recognizable if viewed after a significant head injury. His whittling has so far produced a bird with three wings, a cat that looks like it knows too much about taxes, and the lump currently cradled in his bandaged hands.

I cross the porch and pick up one of his carvings before he can stop me. “Is this a potato?”

“It was going to be a fox.”