Chapter 10

[Pear]

I wake to a fresh layer of snow covering the ground and no sign of it letting up anytime soon. However, the day isn’t completely gray.

“I’ve decided today should be a cheat day,” I announce as we eat oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon and a dash of milk for breakfast on the morning of New Year’s Eve.

“You’re springing the inmate?” Brock teases. His beard has grown fuller since his arrival. The white more prominent than the black and complementing his hair which is more ink than silver. Despite being indoors, he’s wearing a baseball cap, backwards. And I want to climb him like a chimney.

“I’m giving you a rest. Besides I had six gates a leanin’ on the list, but after the fence posts, I realize winter isn’t the best time to repair fencing.”

Brock sits up straighter. “But is there still something that needs to be done?”

“Another day.” I wave, appreciating his concern, almost eagerness, but dismissing it.

“So, today’s plan is . . .”

“Snowmobiling.”

He pauses, his spoon suspended in midair. “Are you serious?” He sounds like a kid given the present he wanted most for Christmas.

His enthusiasm forces the smile on my face to grow. “You worked hard on fixing the slides and you mentioned needing to test them. I’m certain Dad has a pair of snow bibs that would fit you.” I’m not certain what Brock will do about footwear as his construction boots won’t cut it in the billowing drifts, but he hasn’t appeared to care.

“This will be amazing. I can’t remember the last time I went snowmobiling.” Suddenly, he’s shoveling down the oatmeal he earlier protested, warning me he wasn’t an oatmeal kind of guy. Apparently, he’s a new fan .

“Okay, fireman. Slow down.”

He stills a second, pausing the swirl of his spoon around the oversized mug, and stares directly at me. “I just want to clarify, I’m not a cheater, even if we have a cheat day.”

Surprised by this admission, I blink twice. “Of course.”

His gaze holds on my face. “I’m loyal to a fault, I guess. It’s why I want to prove myself to Cap. The department is where I want to be. Where I want to stay.”

I nod once. “Totally understandable. Your secret is safe with me.” I wink.

Dad won’t need to know we took a day off. In fact, explaining all the days is going to be difficult, but that’s a problem for day thirteen. Not today.

After Brock’s bold statement, he rushes to finish the rib-coating meal and rinse out his mug. Then he disappears into Dad’s room to change into layers of clothes. I, on the other hand, take my time to finish my yummy oatmeal and sip my hot chocolate, once again laced with peppermint.

“What are you doing?” Brock questions as he returns to the main room.

I stare back at him, my lacking comprehension evident.

“Get dressed,” he commands.

“Oh, I’m not—” Adamantly shaking my head, I brush off the idea of me on a snowmobile.

“It’s like riding a motorcycle.”

“I don’t ride those either.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

Brock stares at me, his expression blank. “Why not?”

I shrug. “Guess the opportunity has never presented itself.”

“Well, consider this”—he pats on his chest—“as an opportunity knocking. Get dressed. ”

“I don’t—”

“Get. Dressed.” The command might be non-threatening, but there’s a warning in his rugged voice. He’s not arguing with me.

I’m in no rush to dress, and use the bathroom three times for good measure as I’ll have layers and layers of clothing on and no desire to remove it for outdoor peeing. When I’m finally ready, an impatiently waiting Brock is nearly bursting out of his skin. Pacing, he fights to stay calm as I lace up my boots and zip up my jacket.

“Ready,” I announce.

“Finally,” he mutters. Then he winks.

Snow is falling lightly but collecting on top of the already accumulated drifts as we make our way to the barn. Brock runs a series of quick checks on the snowmobile, explaining how he found gas in a portable can, and our first mission is to find a gas station to fill the tank.

When he hops on the motorized sled, he revs the throttle and waits for me to climb on. With the abundance of clothing between us, I wouldn’t expect to feel the strength of his body once I’m seated, but I do. Climbing behind him is like I imagine riding a motorcycle would be. With my arms wrapped around him, I discover his mid-section is tight. His legs are powerful against the inside of my thighs. The vibration beneath does nothing to quell the desire rising every day for this man.

“Hang on,” he hollers over the loud engine.

Brock guides us along the lane before cutting between the dormant pear trees for thicker pillows of snow. He drives with caution, which I assume is for my benefit, as he navigates us through the orchard and toward a main road in search of a gas station.

Once our tank is full, Brock pays inside the station and returns to the snowmobile with a swaggering stride. “The attendant told me about a nearby trail. Ready for a ride?”

I could snark that he hadn’t given me an option but it’s clear he’s offering me a choice now.

I only nod and watch as Brock blinds me with another one of his hard-won grins. He’s so good looking, even with layers of clothing and a helmet on his head.

He climbs back on the snowmobile, and we take off for trails that weave and curl through the woods. I have no idea how Brock knows where we are going, but I eventually stop wondering and give in to the beauty of nature around us. Despite the roar of the engine, it’s peaceful among the snow-laden trees and the thickly laid snow paths. Underneath the heavy canopy of towering evergreens and deciduous trees now absent of leaves, the falling snow isn’t as prevalent, but the effects of the overnight flakes have made their mark. With ice coated branches and strips of downy snow on solid limbs, the forest truly is a winter wonderland.

“It’s so beautiful,” I holler, uncertain if Brock can hear me. When he doesn’t answer, I assume he can’t.

We blaze among the trees and trails for an undetermined amount of time before Brock finally slows to a stop.

“You okay?” he calls back to me.

“I’m great.” I’m not certain I’ve ever felt so free. Free from worry. Free from cares. Sitting back and clinging to Brock feels reassuring. Like I don’t need to be in charge. Like I can do anything I want. Later.

Another snowmobile approaches and slows beside us. The driver is a man with a young girl in a pink snowsuit behind him. When he flips up his visor, deep brown eyes appear.

“You guys alright?” he hollers over the hum of idling engines.

“Yeah,” Brock calls back. “But do you know how to get to Paradise Farms from here?”

“Are we lost?” I cry out.

The other man shifts on his rumbling machine. “You can either turn back around and head back toward Red Cedar Highway, or I’m pretty certain that moving forward you’ll eventually hit the outer edge of the property. Look out for the fencing.”

Ah, the fencing. Maybe that explains the busted section more than wayward cows.

“Thanks, man,” Brock says.

“Happy New Year,” the guy replies, flipping his eye shield back in place and aiming his gaze over his shoulder to the girl behind him. She gives a hesitant wave before gripping the sides of the man’s outwear as they take off again.

“Are we lost?” I repeat.

Brock removes a hand from the handlebars and rubs it over my covered thigh. “I’ve got us, snowflake.”

Not the most reassuring response, but also, equally comforting. Brock isn’t going to let us be lost in the woods. He isn’t going to let us flounder like Reggie eventually did, leading me astray and believing lies he told me.

We aren’t struggling, baby.

We aren’t a lost cause .

I don’t know why I’m thinking about Reggie, and I quickly release the unwanted memories as we whiz past trees and weave along the natural trail eventually ending up along a fence line I recognize, especially when I see the temporary posts Brock recently installed. The snow is really piling up and I have a better sense of its depth as we near the wire lines outlining Dad’s land.

“If we follow this to the right, there’s a gate down the way.”

Only, I’m wrong. There isn’t a gate, and we travel longer than I’d expected. Despite the layering of long underwear and leggings, plus snow bibs, thick socks and solid boots, the cold air is seeping through the padding, and I shiver inside my jacket.

I don’t want to complain, but I’m really cold.

Time seems to slow, and not in a good way, as it feels like forever before a familiar house comes into view in the distance. Brock eventually finds one of the leaning gates I mentioned, though not the one I thought was close, and he pushes it open as best he can in the thick snow drift. The opening he creates is only big enough for the snowmobile to squeak through and Brock hops off the powerful machine once more to right the gate.

With a hand on my shoulder, he questions me. “You still okay?”

I nod, holding back any complaint.

Brock returns to the helm and speeds down the straight lane. In our new haste, I appreciate the easy pace he took during our earlier wanderings. With this clear breakaway, he’s gunning the engine. I want to feel that sense of freedom I felt earlier, but instead, I huddle against his back, squeezing his middle tighter.

The turtle-scarf around my neck has slipped and icy air whips against my skin.

We’re almost there .

Then the engine sputters and the snowmobile jolts.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I think we’re out of gas.”

“Haven’t you been monitoring the gauge?”

“Of course, which is why I wanted to return home.”

My gaze flits to the house. Walking the remaining distance won’t be that bad but we can’t leave the snowmobile in the middle of the orchard.

On cue, the machine coughs out its last bit of energy and stalls.

“Fuck,” Brock mutters, loud and clear despite the scarf around his neck and helmet over his head.

I shift, swinging my leg over the side and sliding off the back seat. My legs vibrate. My thighs tremble.

“What are you doing?” Brock wonders, remaining seated while glancing at me over his shoulder. His visor is flipped upward, and his cheeks are ruddy.

“We’re going to have to push this back to the barn.”

Brock eyes me up and down. “I can do it.”

“But it will be faster with the two of us.”

A shiver ripples up my back and I visibly shake out my arms, chasing off the chill.

“You’re cold.”

I don’t respond. It’s snowing harder than it was earlier, and suddenly, the surrounding orchard doesn’t look like a wonderland as much as a menacing blizzard whistling through the shorter trees.

“Why don’t you head back to the house? I’ll push it. ”

“I’m not leaving you out here alone.” And I don’t want to argue. It’s too cold to fight. Stepping up to one side of the snowmobile, I brace my hands on the handlebar.

Brock hesitates a second before slipping off the opposite side and mirroring my position. Together, we push the heavy machine, which thankfully slides along the mounting snow. Still the effort is difficult as the snow is soft, and the snowmobile feels like it’s sinking.

“Just leave it,” Brock hollers over the sharp sting of whipping snow.

“No.” My back is going to hate me, but I push with all the strength I can muster while we make tedious progress until, finally, we shove the snowmobile into the barn.

+ + +

Once we return to the house, Brock is quick to start a fire to heat up the main room and suggests I take a shower.

“Honestly, I think I’m too tired for the effort.” I really should shower to warm up my skin and loosen my bones, but I just want warm clothes and a seat in front of the growing flames. “You can go first.”

Something in my expression must tell Brock I don’t have it in me to fight with him, and he heads for the bathroom while I change with trembling limbs and shaky fingers into my comfy pair of high-waisted, loose-legged pants, and a fluffy mid-drift sweater.

With Brock still in the shower, I turn on the television in time to watch a recap of the clock striking midnight in Australia. Keeping the television on mute, I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and turn on the coffeemaker for Brock. Then I settle on the floor before the fireplace, feeling the heat of the blaze warm my skin. The room is still festive with the garland strung along the mantel and the fairy lights twinkling within the evergreen strands. But with the tree removed, Christmas is gone.

I sigh a little in relief.

Moments later, Brock appears, standing at the edge of the living room. Leaning into the corner where the hallway meets the living room, his hands are slipped into the pockets of his black joggers. He’s wearing another waffle-weave shirt with the buttons at his throat open and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is still damp. Even his beard glistens a little, like he stepped out of the shower and didn’t fully dry off.

“I’m sorry about outside.”

“Running out of gas?” My brows cinch. “It’s not like you planned it to happen.”

His gaze remains on me. “I should have watched the gauge better.”

I stare up at him, knowing I accused him of not doing such a thing, but it really wasn’t his fault.

“I was having too much fun,” he adds.

“Me too,” I offer, keeping my eyes on him.

“But you were cold.”

I shrug.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier? We could have come back sooner.”

I was lifting my mug of steaming cocoa to my lips but stop short and answer. “Because you were having fun. And so was I.”

“Snowflake,” he whispers, like he’s confused by my explanation.

“The coffee machine is on.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes still focused on me. “You should really shower.”

“I’m slowly warming up right here,” I tell him, happy with my position before the fireplace. A blanket covers my lap. My hands are heating from holding the warm mug. The feeling in my cheeks is returning.

When Brock moves, I expect him to head for the kitchen and coffee. Instead, he walks toward me and folds down behind me. With his legs spread on either side of me, his hand comes to my back and the heat of his palm seeps through my sweater.

I shiver beneath his touch. Then I feel the hem of my sweater lifting and I turn my head only enough to glance over my shoulder. Preparing to question him when my lower back is exposed, I fall short of speaking when his warm fingertips tickle my skin. Deepening the pressure, he rubs upward underneath my sweater .

I straighten my spine and tremble again. A hum that cannot be helped escapes.

With that, Brock flattens his palm against my spine, lowering it before slipping around my side and skating over my belly. His fingers are warm, but his forearm is hot, like a heated log pressed against my middle. Leaning backward into his chest, I melt.

“I’m sorry you were cold.” His voice is quiet near my ear. His breath is as warm as other parts of him and tickles my neck.

“It’s winter,” I remind him.

“But you stayed out there for me.”

“I told you I was having fun.” My voice is equally as quiet as his, the crackling of the fire the only sound as the television flickers above the mantel but remains muted.

“No. You stayed to help me. Every day you’ve been helping me.”

“I didn’t help with the fence.”

Brock shakes his head and his jaw brushes against my ear, the bristle of his facial hair soft and tickling once more. With his forearm against my belly and his hand squeezing at my side, I nestle my back further into the warmth of his chest. He’s like my personal heating blanket.

When his mouth lands on my neck, I still for a second and Brock’s hold around me stiffens. But he must sense the moment I relax, or maybe it’s that the next kiss has me melting once more. He isn’t as enthusiastic as he was the other day when his mouth openly sucked at my flesh. This kiss is soft, delicate, peppering and sweet.

When I tilt my head, exposing more of my neck, the kisses turn more insistent. His mouth opens, hungrier. His teeth scrape, the pressure harder. His tongue feathers over my flesh.

I snap and twist in his arms so my shoulder leans against his chest and I can face him. Our eyes don’t meet. Our mouths do instead. While the first kiss might be a test, a reminder of the other night standing outside beneath the moonlight, within seconds our mouths are moving faster, the tension building stronger .

Kissing Brock Scroggs is an experience. One I’m not likely to ever forget.

The arm once wrapped around my belly, now reaches around my back and his palm holds me firmly in place against him. I slip my hand underneath his shirt, my fingertips instantly sizzling at the contact with his abs.

“You’re a furnace,” I mutter into his mouth.

He only smiles before deepening our kiss. Tugging on my lower lip. Licking at the corner of my mouth. Nipping at my chin. He moves along my jaw and down my neck before palming my chin in one hand and drawing my mouth back to his.

My fingertips dig into his stomach muscles which flinch underneath my attention. My hands are my eyes, feeling my way over ripples and dips. My fingers brush along a trail of hair below his belly button.

Brock sucks in a breath before turning up the temperature on our kisses. Tongues clash. Teeth gnash. But our connection isn’t a battle. The only fight we encounter is to stay connected.

I shift once more, tossing off the blanket over my legs and rotating to my knees before straddling his lap. All the while our mouths never leave one another’s until I settle over his thighs and press the gap between my thighs against the hard wedge in his loose-fitting joggers.

We groan in unison. With an arm wrapped around his neck and my hand in his hair at the top of his head, I roll my hips against him. His hand slides up my back inside my sweater, and clutches at the back of my neck. His other hand cups my ass, tugging me tighter against him.

We moan once more as my hot core hits his steel length.

Then, I’m suddenly off him and he is standing, pacing a few steps away from me.

Staring at his back, I’m shocked by his sudden retreat. Breathlessly, I watch him move like a caged polar bear.

“Did I do something wrong?” My reaction strikes from old insincerities .

Brock swipes a hand through his hair, before holding his palm against the back of his neck a second as his other arm moves, adjusting himself in the front.

He turns his head only slightly and I can make out his profile in the glow of the fireplace. “You’re perfect.”

“Then, I don’t understand.” Perched on my hand to prop myself upright, I stare at his back. Hurt. Confused.

“I . . . I don’t want to rush.”

Still surprised by his rapid rejection, there’s something in his tone that gives me pause. “There’s no rush. We can do as little or as much as you want.” I take a deep breath, hoping I don’t sound desperate to take things further. “We can stop right here.” I don’t want to add and pretend like this didn’t happen because in no way can I pretend Brock didn’t just kiss the stuffing out of me. “And we don’t have to do this again.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat and fight the prickle of tears.

Brock fully turns to face me, and my eyes lower for the solid length evident below his waistband.

“I definitely want to do more of this.” He points between us. “It’s just—” His gaze shifts toward the fireplace. “I’ve missed kissing and I want to enjoy this a little bit longer.”

A moment passes before things click in my head. “Are you saying you want to make out with me?”

His head whips back in my direction, his eyes roaming my face for sarcasm or teasing. Now would not be the moment to joke with Brock as the tension in his jaw remains evident and his stance mimics a bobcat ready to pounce.

Slowly, his shoulders lower and his expression softens. His gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah.”

Like the rush of a thermometer, heat rockets from my core up through my belly and into my throat. His request is rather sweet. And I’d love to keep kissing him.

“Okay.” My throat is still thick so the suggestion comes out like a croak.

“Yeah?” Those coal-colored eyes soften to liquid ink as his hands come to his hips, his erection still thick and taunting.

I eagerly nod and chew the corner of my lip.

Brock tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “I’m gonna need a minute, though.”

“Take your time.” I swipe a hand through my long hair. Maybe I should have showered after all, as my fingers get caught in the tangles from wearing a hat most of the morning.

I scoot closer to the couch and set my elbow into a cushion, holding my head in a way I give a quick glance to the muted television.

“It’s midnight in Paris now,” I say for no apparent reason.

A loud clap startles me, and I rock my head on my hand to watch Brock rub both his palms down his face. “Time.”

“What?” I chuckle as he takes a large step toward me and lowers to his knees, crawling the last foot to close the distance between us. He hovers before me.

“Time. Like in tag. Midnight hits and we must kiss.”

“Oh, we must, must we?” I giggle, reaching out to rub my palm over his bristly jaw.

Brock turns his head and presses a kiss to the center of my hand. “We must.” He nods once.

“Only kissing,” I state more as a reminder than a question.

His eyes shift to my lips. His mouth crushes mine in answer and I fall to my back at the sudden impact. Brock follows after me, one of his legs between mine, his thigh pressing hard at my center. A strong rhythm beats like the dong of a clock counting down to twelve.

“You aren’t playing fair,” I mutter against his mouth pressed to mine, because it’s quite possible I could orgasm just from this kiss.

Brock’s hand somehow landed on my waist, and he glides it over my hip and down the outer edge of my leg. Curling his fingers around the back of my knee, he hitches my leg upward, driving the flat of his thick leg deeper into my core.

“Could I make you come just from kissing you?”

“Oh God, Brock.” Damn him if he can. Damn him if he doesn’t .

His hand retreats from my knee, gliding around the curve of my thigh and the expanse of my hip once more, continuing to trail along my side, inside my sweater. The heat of his hand against my skin is as scorching as it was earlier.

“What are you doing to me?” He hums at my lips before moving his mouth to my jaw, then lowering for my neck.

“Me?” I choke as he nips near my collarbone.

His thigh presses harder. My legs spread wider.

“I only want to kiss you, and yet I want to touch you everywhere.”

Please. Yes . Only, it feels important that we stick to kissing. Important to Brock.

So, I slide my hands over his biceps and into his hair, and I try to concentrate on his mouth and not the pulse in my pants. I try to hold still from rubbing my very needy core against his very firm thigh.

Brock must sense my resolve, and his hand goes no further than my side, but his thumb rubs at the underside of my breast. Teasing me. Tempting me.

We continue like this until Brock jumps off me once more. I remain on my back, panting and desperate, and clutching at my chest where my heart races within.

“Time,” Brock strains, as if calling for a time-out, while he paces near the edge of the kitchen table. The room is dark except for the crackling flames and glow of the television. Although it’s only midday, it might as well be midnight with the snowstorm swirling outside. Inside the fire is delightful, but the company is almost frightful. The sexual tension is more than I can bear.

Almost.

And still, we don’t stop this game, going another round when London strikes midnight. Then, Cabo Verde Islands, a random collection of land in the Atlantic.

We hit a long pause, waiting for New York, which shares Eastern time with Michigan. Brock’s promised roast beast is put on hold once more and we eat leftovers, clearing out the fridge, as if calling for a fresh start with the new year. We sit on the floor, propped up against the couch picnicking on our menagerie of foods.

However, as we near the call for midnight from New York, we’re on the couch, making out like teenagers once more. Clothing remains on but askew. Brock has lost his shirt, and my sweater is pushed up just beneath my bra, allowing us skin to skin contact on our stomachs, and giving me the furnace that is Brock’s flesh.

Hands roam but remain in the safety zones. Butts are grabbed. Bellies caressed. Backs clung to.

Brock’s leg slips between my thighs once more as he lays on his back and I blanket him.

I’ve reached a breaking point and I’m ready to call time when the excitement on the television reaches my ears.

“Brock,” I groan, wound too tight and almost ashamed by my lack of control. I need relief.

Sensing my frustration, Brock awkwardly rolls us on the couch, half his body over mine, his leg still between my thighs.

“Take it,” Brock mutters to my mouth.

I groan, achy and weak. “You said only kissing.”

“But you want to come.” He nips at my lower lip. “You need it. And I want to see it. Hear it.”

“What about you?” We’ve been kissing on and off for hours. I commend his stamina and appreciate his commitment to only connecting with our mouths, but I’m on the edge.

“Ten.” The announcer on the television softly calls out as we lowered the volume at the start of this make out round.

“Take. It,” Brock grits, grounding his leg harder against my throbbing center.

“Brock,” I groan, frustrated and ready to retreat but his hand tightens on the back of my neck, the other hand cupping one butt cheek, holding me in place against him.

“Eight.” I have no idea how I missed nine but when Brock tilts his hips and his stiff shaft jolts off center from my belly, I lose focus again .

“Gift it to me, then,” Brock demands. As if taking an orgasm was too much to ask but gifting it to him will make it all the easier.

I moan at the increased pressure against my center, rocking my hips to create further friction.

“Six.”

“I don’t want to be selfish.” We’re no longer kissing but Brock still has his mouth on the side of my throat, nibbling at my skin and digging his fingertips into my backside.

“Be selfish,” he commands, desperation sounding in his own strangled tone.

“But you—” I hiss at the next nudge of tension he creates, forcing me to roll my hips and brush harder against his leg.

“This is all for you.”

“Four.”

The countdown seems to spur him on, and Brock becomes hyper focused as his mouth comes to mine once more and his leg flexes against that sensitive spot on me. His hips insistently rock and I clutch at his lower back, silently begging him not to stop.

“Three.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Two.”

“Oh, God,” I croak.

“One.”

Fireworks go off behind my eyelids before Brock demands I open them and I’m met with the heat of his coal-like eyes, flaming and bright, as I melt beneath him. Guilty but giddy.

That was incredible .

Draping my hand dramatically over my forehead, I shake my head, blinking back the glittery specks floating in the air over me.

“Happy New Year, snowflake.” Brock grins with a mischievous glint to the teeth digging into his lower lip.

“Happy New Year, fireman. May it be your best year yet. ”

The added wish causes Brock to release his lower lip. His expression goes blank a second before he lowers and hovers just an inch from my lips.

“I call time until midnight hits Chicago.”

“Oh God,” I tiredly chuckle, until I read his face and realize he’s serious.

This man wants to kiss me around the clock.