Page 46 of Embers in Autumn
Every time his hips slammed into mine, I gasped, the rhythm relentless, delicious. He reached around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing hard and fast in perfect time with his thrusts. My knees buckled, my moans spilling unrestrained into the hot air.
“You like that, baby?” he rasped. “Like being fucked against the wall?”
“Yes—yes, God—don’t stop,” I gasped, my body on fire, every nerve sparking under his touch.
He bit my shoulder, his pace wild now, slamming deep, each thrust making me cry out louder. My climax tore through me like lightning, sudden and violent, my body clenching around him, dragging him down with me.
“Amber—fuck—” His groan was rough, guttural, as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into me, his hips jerking, his breath hot against my neck.
The shower pounded down on us, washing away everything but the tremors still wracking my body. I sagged against the wall, my forehead pressed to the tile, Dean’s weight solid and heavy behind me, his chest heaving with each ragged breath.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the sound of water, our gasps, our hearts were still hammering in sync when Dean finally eased back, the water cascading between us. My legs wobbled, but his arms were already there, steady, guiding me out of the stream. He reached for a towel, wrapping me init gently, his hands careful on my shoulders and back. It was almost disarming, the way the same man who’d just whispered the filthiest things in my ear now dried me off with such quiet tenderness.
I smiled at him, cheeks still flushed, hair damp and wild around my face. He kissed my temple, then handed me another towel for my hair.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“Always,” he said simply, pulling on his jeans while I slipped into fresh clothes.
As I fastened the buttons on my dress, I glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still thick with gray. Drops clung to the glass, catching what little light broke through the clouds.
“I should get back downstairs. Maybe the weather clearing will bring in a few customers. Can’t afford another slow day.”
He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching me with that steady gaze that made my stomach flip. “Have you eaten anything today?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “I haven’t even had my coffee properly,” I admitted, giving him a mock stern look. “I’m going to file a complaint with the fire department about that.”
His mouth twitched into a grin. “You should. The fire department takes those complaints very seriously.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I teased, brushing past him with a laugh.
Downstairs, the shop still smelled faintly of rain and fresh wood. I flipped the sign back toopen, the familiar little bell chiming above us. Dean followed, his presence filling the quiet space, grounding me.
“I’ll go down the street,” he said, already reaching for his jacket. “There’s a bakery. They’ve got the best croissants in town. I’ll bring us back a couple.”
Warmth spread through me, unexpected but fierce.Something about his simple concern—the thought of him walking through drizzle just to bring me pastry—made my chest ache in the best way.
“That’s… really nice of you,” I said softly.
He winked, already at the door. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you taste them.”
He winked as he stepped out, leaving me with a smile I couldn’t wipe away. And for the first time in a long time, the shop didn’t feel quite so quiet.
The bell chimed, and in came a pair of older women wrapped in scarves, shaking drizzle off their umbrellas. I greeted them with a warm smile and pointed them toward the new arrivals. They were easy, friendly, drifting off with quiet chatter.
The next customer, however, was a man in his fifties who knew exactly what he wanted but apparently needed me to read his mind.
“Do you have any real mysteries?” he asked, brows drawn together.
“Real…?” I echoed.
“Not the cozy ones with cats and tea shops,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Something with grit. Blood. Something that doesn’t waste my time.”
I bit back a sigh, pulling out a few titles and giving him my most professional smile. “These are darker, more classic detective style. No cats, I promise.”
He frowned at each one like they’d personally offended him. I kept my voice polite, patient—really trying, the way one does when customer service requires sainthood.
The bell chimed again, and over his shoulder I saw Dean come in, drizzle still on his shoulders, a brown paper bag in hand. He moved to the counter, set it down—then caught my look.
