Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

B eavers aren’t as productive as I’ve been this week. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m tired of whittling. My wood shop is full to the gills with my creations from the past seven days since Christmas Eve. I don’t have room to store anything else, even if I did have the ambition to keep working. It’s time to reconnect with the world, whether or not watching TV and checking my phone technically count as reconnecting.

Powering off my bench lights, I lock up my shop before making the trek to the house. Damn it. I finished all my leftovers from my dinner with Mom the other night and haven’t cooked a solitary thing in days. At least the price to pay for living off lunch meat for a week is enough coasters, chairs, and end tables to keep my craft booth stocked through the beginning of spring.

I’ll just order a pizza. Shit. Does anyone deliver on New Year’s Eve?

Wait…

Why do I have a notice on the Holidate app? I swear I marked myself as ‘ Unavailable ’ after I accepted Vincent’s…er, Ronny’s Christmas Eve offer .

Clicking on the icon, I open the dreaded program that serves as a reminder of how far I had fallen down the self-pity tree. I wonder when they messaged. I’ve had all my notifications silenced to avoid distractions. Especially any distractions that would remind me of Ronny.

It’s from…Vincent. And it’s a week old.

What the ever-loving…

He wanted a return date? How did I not see this?

I reread the request that I somehow missed in my selfish wallowing a week ago. Ronny apparently entered a date swap request. A swap! Not just volunteered as tribute for my family function. Oh, God. I’m an idiot!

Why didn’t he say anything that night?

No wonder he looked offended when I got out of his truck. I said I’d see him next year. Next year! As in, after New Year’s Eve! His date is for tonight .

I basically told him to take his date swap and stick it up his ass after that award-winning performance at my aunt and uncle’s house. He probably thinks I’m a selfish, cold-hearted jerk who doesn’t honor his commitments.

Shit.

I dry-humped his leg in a sleeping bag. I petted him and let him pretend to be my boyfriend. I can’t get out of this. My dignity won’t allow it.

Whirling through my house, I manage a shower and extract every article of clothing I own from my closet over the course of an hour. His request is for dinner at six p.m. at an address in town. Leave it to him to skimp on details, so I have no idea if it’s formal or casual. I don’t have time to mentally prepare myself for the unknown, but I can make it.

A sweater and slacks should be a safe bet. Will I meet his entire family? There’s no time for a pre-date, thanks to my hiding from the app of shame.

Half an hour later, I find parking on the street outside of the address. It’s a house. A modest, yet beautiful Craftsman-style home with stone pillars on a large porch.

Crunching over the snowy drive, it looks like quite the houseful, judging by the number of vehicles parked out front. I have no excuse for why my hands are trembling. It’s just Ronny… and a bunch of strangers. We got along for an entire evening. I’m sure we can manage it again.

Ooh, nice door. The carving work is exquisite. It looks a lot like…

Said door swings open, revealing Ronny—in sweatpants… and socks, holding a bowl of potato chips. Does his shirt have a hole by the sleeve? This entire picture should not be hot, but he looks like he hasn’t shaved and just crawled out of bed. The sound of laughter and shouting deeper in the house proves that fantasy is unlikely.

“Marshall… what are you doing here?”

Why does he sound surprised?

“I’m here for our date,” I manage with enthusiasm, holding up my phone. “Sorry, I just saw it today or I would have replied sooner. Am I…overdressed for dinner?”

“No. I… we already had dinner.”

“Oh. Did I get the time wrong? Do you not need a date?”

“I… didn’t think you were coming, so I made other plans.”

This feels like I walked in on someone cheating on me. Who cares if he doesn’t need my services after all?

“Oh. Okay. Um, this isn’t awkward. Forget I was ever here. This never happened.”

“You actually came all the way over here because you thought I needed a date?”

“I mean, it’s only like a five-minute drive and…I kind of owe you.”

Kind of is an understatement, but hello, he’s wearing sweatpants, and I look like I’m here to impress his parents. I can’t believe I skipped my hair gel for him. It’s not like I want him to play with my curls again. Fuck. I really need to start dating again.

“‘ Owe me ?’ You don’t owe me anything. That’s not why I…”

“Ronny! Where the hell is your bottle opener?” a larger, duplicate version of Ronny shouts, poking his head out of a doorway behind him. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t know you had more company.”

My word. There are two of him?

“Come on in. Get out of the cold,” Ronny says, tugging at my sleeve and stepping back from the door. I would deliberate my chance for escape, but the Ronny twin is looking at me like we’re stuck in an awkward meet-and-greet waiting for Ronny’s cue.

“This is Marshall. Marshall, this is my brother.”

The Ronny duplicate shuffles forward and gives me a bro handshake. “Carmine. Everybody calls me Carm, though.”

He wasn’t joking about the Italian names, was he?

“Nice to meet you.”

“Are you the date ?” Carm asks, but before I can answer, he looks at Ronny. “I thought you said he ghosted you.”

Ghosted? I’m a ghoster? Fantastic.

“No! I…just had to take care of some things before I could head over,” I lie.

“Cool. Lucky you, bro.” He grins, giving Ronny’s shoulder a slap. “Um…bottle opener?”

“At the back of the drawer to the left of the sink,” Ronny informs him with a hint of agitation.

“Marshall, you need a beer?” Carm asks, heading toward the kitchen.

“Uh…” I feel like a pre-date is uber-necessary right now. Does Ronny even want me here? What is this?

“Carm! What the fuck? Did you go to China or the kitchen? Hey, who’s this?” another Ronny-esque man calls, heading down the hall toward us.

“Ronny’s date,” Carm yells from the kitchen.

“The one that blew him off?” the new Ronny double asks.

For fuck’s sake. My reputation is dropping by the second.

“He didn’t blow me off if he’s here, Pauly, did he?” Ronny says, rolling his eyes. “Carm, you getting him a drink or what?” Turning to me, he sets down his chips and helps me with my coat. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “They’re…” He takes a moment to find a word, eventually settling on, “loud.”

Everything after that happens in a blur. I’m steered into the living room by Pauly’s big arm across my shoulders. The next five minutes are filled with boisterous inquiries, handshakes, and a few bro slaps to my shoulder. All the while, a football game is blaring in the background of the testosterone-filled room.

It becomes apparent that I probably shouldn’t be here. Whatever Ronny had planned originally, he definitely didn’t need me for this—an evening of football, pizza, and beer with all of his five brothers and two of his nephews. From what little I’ve gathered, they invited themselves over after learning that his date had been canceled for the evening and now, I’m stuck living this.

It’s fine. At least he can’t say I didn’t honor my commitment. We’ll be totally even after this, and I can get on with my life, Ronny Carmichael-free.

The Carmichael brothers are, in fact, loud, but they do possess manners, offering me a seat on the couch. Ronny looks like he’s been shell-shocked, so I do my best to avoid eye contact. It’s strange, but he seems out of his element around his brothers who talk over him at every turn, while I always had the impression he was the overbearing type. He’s the calmest of all of them by far and, dare I say, refined after glancing around his digs.

His house is…tidy and elegantly masculine, with log walls and stone wainscoting. I’m trying hard to ignore how cabin-y it is. Sleeping bag flashbacks are the last thing I need right now.

The black leather couches and armchairs add a modern touch to the lodge feel of the space with all the wood furnishings like his coffee table, which…

No.

It can’t be.

The cushion next to me dips, but my eyes are glued to the coffee table legs, searching. It cannot be. It cannot. Except, I find the letters G-C carved into the corner of one leg. Green Creations .

It’s one of mine.

Ronny has one of my tables?

“Hey, man. This cool?” Carm asks, holding out a beer in front of me.

“What? Oh. Y-yeah. Thanks.”

“Use a coaster,” he warns, leveling his index finger at me, “or his head will spin around like The Exorcist. ” Dropping into the next chair, he tosses a wooden disc down on the table.

When it stops spinning, I immediately recognize the design. It’s one of the signature styles I use for the coasters I stock in my craft booth. He has my coffee table and my coasters?

“Some people are just civilized,” Ronny mutters, cheeks looking rosy.

Does he know these are mine? I knew the door looked familiar. He has one of my freaking doors too! Is Ronny my number one customer?

The brothers cheer at some play on the TV, so I try to look intrigued. This is so awkward and confusing. All I can picture is Ronny trolling around my craft booth. He can’t know. There’s no way he could know they’re mine.

Get a hold of yourself, Marshall. What are you hoping for? That Ronny secretly stalks you?

Something bumps the back of my shoulder. I suspect a rogue beer can was thrown, but I’m wrong. It’s Ronny’s arm, slinked over the back of the couch behind me.

“Can I get you anything?” he whispers, leaning in, and I swear his thumb just stroked my arm.

When our gazes connect, it hits me like a flash of lightning—he’s concerned about my comfort, like he’s checking to see if I’m okay with his brothers’ behavior. It’s evident in his worried expression. For some reason, it floods my entire body with warmth and relaxes all my nerves.

“No. I’m good. Thanks.”

Once again, I think I was wrong about him. He’s… all right. More th an all right. Too bad we’ve had so many awkward moments and butted heads so many times or I might attempt to get some of those bizarre fantasies I’ve had to come true. Maybe we can be weird friends, where one of them secretly lusts after the other one. Because Ronny looks really good in sweatpants, surrounded by things I’ve carved.

By the time the game wraps up, I’ve just about gotten used to the arm that’s slung protectively around me and even the few laughs we’ve shared over his brothers’ antics. They prod us to come out with them for drinks, but Ronny adamantly declines. I can’t help but wonder if their smirks are an insinuation of what they think is to come between us after they leave. I have never been more keenly aware that their brother looks like he belongs on an athletic poster, while I more closely mirror a sweater model from the big-and-tall section of a discount catalog. Our compatibility label would read, ‘ Not gonna happen .’

When Ronny herds them all to the door, I make myself busy cleaning up pizza boxes, plates, and beer cans. I know I’ll have to leave soon, but I don’t want to. What else was I wrong about?

“Hey, you don’t have to do that,” comes a soft voice from the doorway.

“It’s no problem.”

My stomach flutters when he rounds the couch to help. There’s no denying it anymore. I like Ronny. His unassuming air, the way he moves, his calm demeanor, and even his playful side. I like the hints of tenderness I’ve seen that chipped away the image I once had of him.

Now that we’re alone, however, and my stark honesty has hit me, I don’t know what to do. So, I babble. “I should head home. I hope that all went over okay with your brothers. I wasn’t sure how to act.”

Setting a pizza box down, he straightens up. “Be yourself. Always just be yourself.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle. “‘Cause that works out so well for me. ”

He looks confused. Right. I’m not a comedian, and no matter that I’ve boarded the Ronny train, we still rarely see eye to eye.

Clearing my throat, I give him a parting smile and head for the front hallway. Time to grab my unsuitable coat and get out of here before I embarrass myself further.

“Do you have plans for the new year?” he asks, stopping near me in the entryway.

“No,” I mumble absently, spotting my coat on a wall hook. That’s not what has my attention, though. It’s the mirror next to the coat rack. A mirror frame I carved almost two years ago. I remember it because it was the first one I sold. The sales record from the craft mall said it was purchased alone… not with the coasters, or the coffee table, or Ronny’s front door. He’s been there more than once.

“Is this… from the craft mall?”

“Uh…yeah. I like to go in there.”

“It’s mine,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I mean, it’s not mine now , obviously. It’s yours, but, well, I made it.”

Shit. Why did I admit that? Now, he probably won’t shop at my stall anymore.

“I know.”

He knows?

I stare. He stares back. Why does he look guilty? Why does he willingly shop at my stall?

“And… my coasters,” I mumble. “You have my coasters and a coffee table, and… your door…”

As I ramble, my face floods with heat. I have no right to accuse him of being a patron. I’m grateful for the business. I just can’t believe he knowingly supported me… for two years. You don’t support the business of someone you can’t stand.

Gaze darting to the floor, he scratches at his jaw. “I’m a fan. I love your work.”

“You…do?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but then the corner of his mouth ticks up shyly. “I’m a fan of you . ”

A fan of… me ? As in Marshall Green? What does that mean?

“But… you hate me.”

He looks almost offended. Slowly, his head shakes. “No.”

“But… any time you’ve talked to me, it’s to give me shit.”

His jaw drops open, but nothing comes out. I won’t lie. I’d like him to deny it, but facts are facts. Has he had a change of heart?

“I… I never know what to say to you,” he lets out painfully, scrubbing a hand down his face. My God, is he nervous… because of me? “I just wanted to get your attention and make you laugh, but I always end up saying the wrong thing.”

“For two years?”

His handsome features bloom a deeper shade of red. I think I just stopped breathing. How is it possible that I’ve made a lumberjack god speechless?

“I know,” he blusters. “When it comes to you, I’m terrible with words, apparently,” he laughs breathlessly. “You just… make me so nervous, since the first day I saw you.”

Oh.

My.

God.

“You… you…”

I have no words.

Ronny Carmichael likes me? Has liked me… for two years?

Inching forward, he tucks his hands in those stupidly hot sweatpants. “Do you have to go?”

“No,” I rasp.

I should go. I should definitely go right home to see if I’m dreaming.

“Good.” Sighing in relief, he rests his forehead against mine and smiles.

When he draws back, there’s no doubt his gaze is fixed on my mouth. I know because I just stopped breathing. Is this really happening ?

His hands cup the undersides of my forearms, eyes flicking to mine. They’re hesitant, yet hopeful. Seeking.

Holy shit. He’s going to kiss me.

His lips connect softly with mine. A gentle brush. Another. I open my mouth, gasping like a virgin in a Victorian novel, but it gives him further access.

His tongue slips past my lips, and nothing has ever tasted so sweet. Ronny Carmichael is fucking delicious. His tongue sweeping over mine has my legs threatening to give out.

Seriously, is this some kind of prank?

“Wait. Wait!” I urge him back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why me?”

“Why you what ?”

Sure. Here it is. The humiliating part. I knew it.

“Why… a chubby, curly-headed, picky…. set-in-his-ways me ? You could have anybody.”

He scoffs, and then reaches out, stroking my cheek. “I think you’re sexy.” I let out a snort, but he silences it, running his thumb over my lips. “I think everything about you is sexy. The way you know your own mind, what you want. How you wouldn’t settle for some co-worker who was terrible at trying to flirt with you. How you look in on your mom and spend your free time making beautiful things to put out in the world.” Reaching up, his fingers gently dive into my hair. “And your curls… they drive me crazy,” he murmurs, sounding drugged. “You’re just…perfect.”

Perfect? Yeah, right. He has a curl fetish, huh? Is that what this is about? Granted, the other things he said were sweet, but… hello, this is me we’re talking about. I know how many people are standing in line for me. Zero.

“Yeah, I get that all the time.” I roll my eyes.

His brows knit together. Those deep brown eyes search mine, making me feel even more self-conscious. It is so time to grab my unsuitable coat now.

“You are, Marshall. Except for that…”

“What?”

“That defense mechanism you have where you don’t believe in yourself. Is that why you’re so standoffish sometimes? Because you don’t think people will like you for who you are?”

That is not a tear in my eye. It’s not .

“Because I do,” he assures me. “I like everything about you—except that. I wish you could see how amazing you are. I’d do anything to make you believe it.”

I’d like to say that Ronny moves first, but his siren words are to blame for the way I attack his mouth. But, hey… I’m ‘perfect’ , so I can do nothing wrong right now. It’s all I hear in my head as our tongues and arms tangle.

I’m perfect. Ronny thinks I’m perfect the way I am.

“Marshall,” he rasps, coming up for air.

His hands latch onto my hips, making me cringe at the thought of him discovering the full girth of my waist, but he isn’t deterred. His mouth moves to my neck, planting kisses there.

His fingers interlace with mine, drawing them against the wall over my head. I hope this is as real as it feels. His warmth. His solid chest pressed against mine. His hot breath on my skin.

Terror seizes my lungs, watching his nose angle toward my armpit. My sweaty, nervous-as-shit armpit. Before I can warn him, he buries his face in it, letting out a deep inhale sound and groaning like he’s in heaven.

So, of course… I whimper. Fuck, that was hot.

Glancing down, he looks to be contemplating something and then drops to his knees. His hands trail down my body like he doesn’t want to stop touching it.

“Can I?” he asks, peering up at me with hope in his eyes and his fingers on my fly.

A laugh barks out of my lungs because who would say no to that wanting look in his eyes? “I mean… yeah,” I bluster like I’m some cool, confident man who’s asked that all the time .

As he takes me out, my mind reels with a myriad of nonsense. Which boxers did I put on? Were they my sexy ones? I don’t have any sexy ones. What am I talking about?

Oh, for the love of lumberjacks! His mouth feels just as good on my cock as it does on my mouth.

“Yeah,” I whine all breathy, hoping it says nothing about my lack of stamina.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you,” he murmurs, popping off to give me a long lick on either side of my shaft.

The fuck he did. I still don’t believe it, but belief and conviction become mottled when his talented mouth takes me back in. I gape in awe, pinned to his wall like a biology specimen as he worships my cock with a mouth that used to annoy the shit out of me. A mouth that can no longer do wrong. It’s patient, artful, and clearly designed by the gods of oral sex.

Oh, fuck. I’m coming!

“Ronny!”

You could call the way I shove his head out of the way a polite warning, but judging by the way he winces, it lacked the grace I intended. “Sor—sorry,” I pant, pulsing into my hand while trying not to pass out.

He rises without a word. I blew it. Literally blew it from him blowing me.

Damn it.

Not so perfect now, am I, Ronald?

Except, he’s whipping off his shirt…

I babble incoherent noises meant to be protests, but he pays no mind, cleaning my hand with his shirt. I wait for my folly to test his manners, but it doesn’t happen. He still has that drugged look on his face as he steps toward me again, slinking his hands around my waist and kissing me.

My dick is still out, squished between us. I should really put it back in, but kisses… Ronny kisses. Ronny touches. More Ronny handfuls of my plentiful ass .

“Oh, shit!” I squawk when his handfuls turn into hoisting, lifting me in the air, and pulling me against him.

I grab his shoulders like a monkey, holding on for dear life, waiting for the moment we go down. But… we don’t. And he’s moving. And kissing…

His stubble grazing against my neck is a sound distraction from the fear of being dropped as his heavy footsteps make their way deeper into his house. He’s not much taller than me, and I know his shoulders are wide, but I cannot be easy to carry. Ronny is getting more and more lumberjack points by the second.

He drops me down on his bed and plants a hand on the mattress next to my head.

“You good?” he asks, gazing down at me.

“Yeah. Good,” I muster, afraid to say anything that will burst this bubble.

Reaching out carefully, I run my hands up his abs. His breathing stutters, making them ripple—fucking ripple—beneath my touch.

Uhn, I want to lick them.

A soft puff of laughter ghosts my face when he moves in for more nuzzling. “I’m glad I’m not the only one thinking about things like that.”

Holy shit. Did I say that out loud?

“My mouth says things in the bedroom without asking permission from my brain first,” I stammer. “Not everybody likes it. I don’t even like it. Just… just to warn you.”

I’m treated to an intrigued smile, caged in now by two beautiful arms on either side of my shoulders. “Marshall,” he prefaces, dropping a kiss on my mouth, “remember what I said. Just be yourself. I’m not a good talker, so I know how it feels to worry about everything you say. I don’t want us to have to think about what we’re going to say to each other.”

That’s… sweet. Truly.

“Um, you may regret that.” I shouldn’t bring it up, but better a replay than new embarrassment. “Did you hear any of the things I said when I was, um, in the sleeping bag with you that night at the cabin?” I ask, gingerly stroking the smooth skin of his shoulders.

“Yes,” he breathes, his eyes looking like they’re smoldering.

His palm dives under my shirt, drawing it up to my armpits, forcing me to either accommodate his plan or stay still and look awkward. My face heats, tugging my sweater over my head, knowing everything underneath is now on display; my pasty skin, chaotic chest hair, and very un-sculpted stomach. His palm, however, glides reverently over my body as his chest rises and falls, looking down at where he touches.

I didn’t know it was possible to feel sexy until now. Ronny has somehow managed that feat with his gaze and touch.

“It was all I could do not to touch you while trying to wake you up,” he confesses, slinking his hand into my boxers.

His touch over my bare hip sends a shudder through me. I stare in wonder at the complete lack of bullshit about him. It’s like watching dominoes fall, replaying all our moments together. I didn’t see it before, but I do now. Ronny is truly, over-the-top into me.

“I forgive you for disappointing me,” I rasp, lifting my hips and shoving my clothes down. My hands are still trembling, but not from self-doubt this time as I slide them under Ronny’s waistband, discovering the sleek skin of his ass. Dragging the elastic over his hips, I hold back a moan at the feel of his cock bobbing free and slapping into mine. “Now, for old time’s sake, give me your body heat to make it up to me.”

He melts onto me with a happy sigh, sharing more of his exquisite taste. It’s been so long since I’ve been skin-to-skin with a man, but that’s not why it feels so wonderful. Ronny and me. I dreamt it, but I’d never thought it was a possibility. Each of his breathy moans set off a burst of fireworks in me as we writhe, discovering each other’s mouths, haphazardly kicking free of our pants.

He mumbles nonsensical declarations with every touch, every kiss.

‘Can’t believe you’re really here. ’

‘So glad you showed up.’

Combined with the way he’s caressing every inch of my body, it’s an ego boost for the ages. I forgive him for every stupid, awkward thing he ever said. I forgive myself for wearing blinders and a giant chip on my shoulder.

Reaching between us, I find what stabbed my thigh in the sleeping bag and stroke it. Can someone’s cock be made to fit your hand perfectly?

“Whittle me,” I demand.

He groans, head popping up to pin me in his surprised gaze. Fuck. I warned him about my mouth.

Panting, he sits back, making me feel cold and mortified all at once. I’m such an idiot. He’s not Lumberjack. It’s not like any man would actually like the stupid shit I say in my fantasies. Be myself—is he freaking kidding?

Leaning over the side of the bed, he wrenches open his nightstand drawer and produces a bottle of lube and a condom, though. “I wanted to take you on some dates first, I swear,” he says sheepishly, glancing at his supplies.

Dates ? Ronny wanted to date me?

“But if you’re going to talk like that, I don’t think I can help myself,” he adds. “Are you sure? Because I don’t need this. I mean, I can wait. You’re worth waiting for. I don’t want to screw this up.”

Shut.

The fuck.

Up.

Scrambling up into a sitting position, I snag his supplies, setting a world record for how fast I get him suited up. The lube makes a juicy sputter noise as I squeeze the bottle in my eagerness to lather him up. He holds still like a good lumberjack. I’ll probably wake up and find this wasn’t real, but that’s a tomorrow problem.

“No. You need it,” I assure him, pulling him back down to the mattress with me and lifting my knees.

I need it. Right now .

He doesn’t fully settle his hips between my legs, however. Instead, I feel his slicked-up fingertip circling my entrance. I’m delighted to discover more of Ronny’s manners, but he obviously has no clue how many times this past week I’ve tried fucking his charming Christmas Eve behavior out of my system with my dildo.

Tugging his wrist away, I grab his hips and urge them closer. “Not necessary.”

“You’re sure?”

Does he need encouragement? I thought it was obvious I’m the one crushing harder.

“I’ve been ready for you for a while,” I confess under my breath, even as my face heats. “What sleeping bags do to a man,” I joke.

The look of shocked delight on his face leaves me with no regrets. “You thought about me?”

The words, ‘while you were fucking yourself,’ don’t need to be said. They’re between the lines and in his hopeful eyes.

Reaching between us, I line him up as my answer. “Still thinking about you.”

I never thought I’d see a man smile like that. He looks like I just granted every wish he’s had since childhood.

As he presses forward, the smile morphs into concentration. The care in his expression is as touching as the overpowering feeling of him stretching and entering me. The heat inside of heat. The fullness. The connection.

I let out a warbled grunt from the burning sensation. The panic in Ronny’s eyes is eclipsed when he sweeps in, stealing my mouth while his hand goes to my cock. Little charges shoot through my core, down all my appendages—steadying me, turning that bit of discomfort into pleasure.

My muscles go pliant with a satisfied sigh. Being full of another man has never felt so profound as I stare up at his open mouth, his breathing hard. Fingers woven in my curls, gently playing with them, clearly holding back, and waiting for my signal. Such a good lumberjack .

Hooking my feet behind his back, I press him deeper, locking my arms around his shoulders. His eyes slip shut, and I can’t bite back my groan when he lets out one of his own.

And then he moves.

He moves like a buoy riding an ocean wave, a fiddler’s bow, buffing over the strings with practiced grace and style. Ronny Carmichael can move.

My God, can he whittle.

“Yeah. Ho! Uhn. Awww, guh!”

The song I sing is an indecipherable language as he tags my prostate in all the right ways. I’m pretty sure I’ve clawed the shit out of his back. Hands buried in his hair, I probably look like I’m trying to eat his face, but I can’t stop kissing him. His taste, combined with the bite of his hip bones into my thighs while he pumps into me, will be my undoing.

“Marshall. Perfect. Marshall,” he rambles like it’s my new name.

And I feel perfect each time he says it. I’ve never felt more perfect, watching him teeter on the edge. It lets loose my feral urge, the one where I’m in control of a man who’s out of control for me.

Grabbing his firm ass cheeks, I hold him to me, pressed deep inside. I flex around him, hugging the magnificent part of him that’s given me the best evening of the year.

“Come,” I rasp. “Come for me.”

His eyes look so desperate, as though he doesn’t have another choice. I will remember that look as long as I live. Remember the cry he lets out, the way his body convulses, the way his heat billows inside me. He wraps an unsteady hand around my shaft just as he collapses on top of me, but it’s unnecessary. I spill all over his fingers and my stomach, head reared back.

Bloody hell.

That was… some whittling.

We lay plastered together, two spent beings unable to move. Something cracks inside my chest at the splendor of feeling his stomach press against mine each time he breathes and his beautiful Ronny scent. I am in love with the sensations. I suddenly wonder if all my bitterness was because a part of me knew this might exist somewhere in the world and I just hadn’t met it yet, nor ever thought I would.

The humbling realization flickers through my brain like a neon light—I’ve found it. I’ve found it.

Yet, that uncomfortable limbo of post-coital reality closes in. The haze subsides like a vibrant sun burning away the fog.

Now what?

What happens next?

Will I be reintroduced to two-years-ago Ronny who’s ‘ not a good talker? ’ Will his Marshall-is-perfect high be gone now that he’s bought all my woodworking and had me?

Patting his back gently, I wriggle to the side to slide out from under him. “So… your brothers seemed nice,” I venture, cringing at my small talk efforts.

His exasperated sigh makes me tense at what’s likely to come, but as he shifts, he doesn’t go far, nestling on his side right next to me. His palm rests on my chest and softly strokes over my heart. “Yeah… I’m sorry about that. When you never answered my dinner invitation, I assumed I wouldn’t hear from you, and they invited themselves over to watch the game.”

Ouch. Another reminder of my idiocy, although I’m surprised he’s the one apologizing.

Chuckling, I pat his hand awkwardly, trying to ignore how we’re still sex sticky. Even as I think it, he snags his sweatpants and starts wiping us up. Ronny the cleaner—mystifying.

“Well, I guess it wasn’t an important dinner, though, if you were able to cancel,” I venture, trying to ease my guilt and ignore that I’ll probably be booted out in a few minutes. Fuck . Work is going to be so awkward from now on.

Frowning, he tosses his pants to the floor and leans over me. I swallow back a lump in my throat when one of his fingers wraps around a curl at the top of my forehead. “It was to me,” he murmurs. “ I wanted to try and impress you, sweep you off your feet with my cooking, not give you leftover pizza and let you be harassed by my brothers.”

“Wait… Your request was so you could make me dinner? Like… a dinner date? Just the two of us?”

Smiling sadly, he bends down. His lips dust softly over mine, making my toes tingle.

“Yeah. So much for giving you a happy new year, huh?” he scoffs, reaching down for the comforter and pulling it over us before drawing me against him. “Can I make it up to you tomorrow?”

Tomorrow?

I think Ronny just tucked us in. As in, I’m not being kicked out. And I’m going to be doted on tomorrow night.

“You’re scaring me,” he says, tensing against me. “Did I screw this up already?”

I think I’m done worrying. Worrying and self-doubt are exhausting.

He said he likes everything about me but that, and I want nothing more than to give him something in return for our complete one-eighty. Leaning over, I kiss him with all I have left in me.

“No. You can make me dinner as often as you want.”

The smile he gives me is brighter than any New Year’s Eve fireworks; setting something inside of me free I hadn’t realized was holding me prisoner. It wasn’t Sal, my mother, or a snowplow that rescued me from that cabin. It was Ronny, rescuing my heart.