Page 30 of Always Heated

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Driving up the highway to Linton, my hand never leaves Cassidy’s. She’s singing along to song after song on the radio—not belting out the lyrics, more of an intermittent bar or two for each one. I’ll never forgive myself for not being man enough to date her in my twenties. If I had, we would be married with kids by now. I lost years of weekends like this.

Neither of us could take a few days off, but the day and a half we’re able to manage will still be a great time. I’m not a huge fan of antiquing—it’s more for Cass than it is for me. Still, I might find a few things for the new house while we’re out and keep an open mind. I want her to design the space so she’ll see herself in it once the renovations are complete. Since I signed the paperwork, I’ve thought of the house as ours, not only mine.

We stop at a small café that serves buttery, flakey as fuck croissants—Cass and I will need a delicious snack tomorrow’s antiquing adventure. I’ll bring back a dozen to the station tomorrow afternoon and drop off another dozen for the nurses station at the hospital, even if Cassidy fights me on it.

With croissants in tow, we arrive at the bed and breakfast. Fall is the perfect time to visit, not a tourist in sight. We may be the only two people staying the night and the thought makes me smile. Not because no one will hear her scream as she comes, but because selfishly I’ll have her all to myself. Cass could make friends with a pet rock. Give her an elderly inn keeper? I’ll have maybe ten minutes with my girl all night.

Once we’re settled in our room, she throws back the floral comforter, and slides into bed. Patting the mattress, she insists, “Nap time.”

While I would prefer naked nap time with her, fully clothed will suffice for now. I climb into bed, spooning behind her. I kiss her neck, breathing her in; she smells like the flowers of our shop. Every time I’m with her, I experience the most bizarre combination of swirled feelings. On one hand, she calms me. On the other, my whole body aches, needing to be closer. She’s a ball of chaos, but I’ll never get enough of her.

At the end of the day, she works too damn much and needs to slow down. She doesn’t need the money, and her physical health—and mental health—will begin to suffer. It isn’t as if she’d let anyone take care of her. Except, I want to be the one to do it. Not because she needs me to, but because I want to be her person, the one she leans on when things are too much to handle, the one she shares everything with. Her burdens should also be mine, and I accept them without judgment.

After a quick hour nap, Cass wakes first, turning in my arms to face me. My eyes flutter open, and I can’t help closing the distance to kiss her. I spent so many years wishing she was mine, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for lost time. She shifts until she’s straddling me, and I would happily spend eternity kissing this woman.

My hands slide up her thighs until I reach her hips, guiding her to grind onto my cock. The friction is incredible, though it couldnever compare to her warm, wet pussy riding me. She sits up and begins taking off her shirt when there’s a knock at the door.

A sweet woman’s voice calls from the other side. “Hi there. Just checking that everything is satisfactory. Dinner will be served in twenty minutes.”

I shout back, “We’re doing great, Wendy.”

“Wanda,” Cass whisper-shouts.

“Wanda,” I correct, and Cassidy’s new best friend retreats. Sliding my hands under Cass’ shirt, I groan. “I only have twenty minutes to make you come. Mouth, cock, or hand?”

She pulls her shirt over her head, tosses it to the ground, and leans in to whisper, “All three, baby.”

After a sleepless night fucking like rabbits, Cass and I are both sore and snooze the seven o’clock alarm. Waking up with her in my arms feels too fucking right, and it has nothing to do with my dick pressed against her ass. We need to take things slow, but I can’t help imagining our lives years from now. When we have kids—does she want kids?—it’ll be harder to escape for a weekend like this.

A few hours of restless sleep later, I kiss her shoulder, murmuring against her skin, “Come on, beautiful. We need to look at old as fuck furniture and lamps.” She chuckles, and I savor the vibration against my chest.

Turning in my arms, Cass nuzzles her face in my neck. “But you’re so warm, anddamnyou smell good.”

“I’m pretty sure I smell like you,” I tease, keeping her close.

“No, you smell like Christmas—freshly baked cookies, cinnamon, a little citrus, and pine.”

I don’t remember the last time she was this relaxed. Most days she’s pounding coffee in between shifts, borderline spastic. Her energy is electric, and I love how full of life she is, but this Cass? This calm, sweet, affectionate Cass? Fuck, I adore her.

“Fine,” she groans. “But can I have five more minutes?” I give her ten, then we finally slink out of bed.

After having breakfast downstairs, we leave the bed and breakfast. Cass found a map online that includes every antique and thrift store in Linton, and we make our way to our first stop.

As we walk inside, I’m instantly hit with a distinct musk of old wood and something powdery. There are several rows of furniture, none of which have an order—armoires next to dining tables, midcentury modern beside Victorian. Cass glides her fingertips across each piece we pass, humming to herself as we walk down the aisles.

While she’s looking at a chest of drawers, I continue to a glass case nestled between two large displays filled with nicknacks. There are ornate broaches, several rings, and necklaces, but my eyes zero in on a pair of diamond stud earrings—they remind me of my grandmother’s. While some people are gifted family wedding rings to give to their bride-to-be, my grandmother left me her Tiffany earrings. Cass never wears earrings, but an idea strikes me for a Christmas gift… or perhaps something a little more meaningful.

I make my way back to her, and she’s moved on to admire a set of bedside tables. They are simple, sturdy, and would look great in my new bedroom. After pulling out the drawers to ensure nothing is broken, I call over a sales associate to inquire about cost—not a single piece here has a price tag.

“These are three-hundred as a set.” The woman pauses expectantly.Does she want me to haggle?

“We’ll take them,” Cass insists.

I counter, “Two-fifty and we have a deal.”

The woman eyes me suspiciously. “Two-eighty.”

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