Page 13 of Higher Ground
And only then did she hear him.
“Emory.”
Chapter 6
Byron
The hot water took an age to flow through the pipes. So much so that Byron contemplated stepping under the ice-cold flow. It might have done him good, a cool shower. Truthfully, he needed it. His balls still ached and his cock still hadn’t got the message that nothing,nothing,was going to happen with Emory.
Still, her sweet laughter and bright-as-sun smile had infiltrated his mind and body even more now than they ever had. He couldn’t get the thought of her out of his head. Couldn’t shake the feeling that being flooded in was both the best and worst thing that could happen to them.
The rain pounded outside, but it wasn’t this storm he was worried about. This storm would flood the creek and spread water across some of the lowest paddocks. But that was nothing. That was a regular thing this time of year when the blasted air currents flowed whichever way they were. Sure, the cows had a little less breathing room, but the bridge was still open, and life went by just as it always did.
So, nah, it wasn’t the sheeting rain that kept coming and going as the storm swirled around them that worried Byron, it was the rain up north. That rain would fall, and it would have nowhere to go but down. It would flow down the river, an endless stream of too much water, and where the creek turned narrow just out of town, it would be forced to stop. It would dam. And when, not if, it did, the bridge would close.
Byron stuck his hand into the shower, flinching as the now-burning water hit his arm. Turning the tap down, he stepped under the waterfall and tipped his head up. Big droplets hit his face, and he closed his eyes as he let the water rush over his body. It tingled on his skin, washing away none of the dirtiness that invaded his thoughts of Emory.
They might have one more day before the SES would be forced to close the bridge to his property. They would be trapped. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and already, the tension was thick. Each blistering moment was another weight on his chest, and Byron wasn’t sure how many more he could take.
Maybe he should have bought a dinghy boat when Tucker did. At least then he’d be able to get away to breathe properly every now and then. If things kept going the way they were, he doubted his weary lungs were going to survive the pressure.
His mind raced as he carried out the motions of his shower. He did his best to keep his mind off the woman in the next room, but everything circled back to her.
Did he need more food? He might, now that Emory was staying.
How would he entertain Clayton when they couldn’t go further than the small section of manicured lawn? Hopefully, Emory had some ideas.
What would he do all day when he had no farm to tend to? What would Emory do when she couldn’t get to her shifts at the café?
Emory.
Always Emory.
His hands skated down his front, rubbing soap over his abdomen and lower between his legs. His cock hung, still half hard, and the soap that trickled over it tickled at the tip. He tugged at it, contemplating, but eventually thought better of the idea. Not when Emory wasright there, on the other side of the wall. His cock protested, but he was determined to do the right thing. If there even was a right thing anymore, now that he was so hopelessly gone for the one woman he could never have.
He’d been alone a long time, but not for lack of options. Just about every woman in town had tried her luck in the years after Josie passed. They didn’t really want Byron, though, they wanted what he stood for. The young widower, alone in his farmhouse, raising the boys that would carry on the Gardner name. Generations ago, Byron’s ancestors had called this land home, and the farm had been in the family since. The whole damn township was named for his great-great-great—however many greats—grandfather. So yeah, the women didn’t want him so much as they wanted a claim to the town.
Byron had tried for a while. Not to replace his late wife, because no woman could ever do that, but to open his heart to love again. Nothing, no one, ever felt even close to right. None of the women he tried dating made his heart sing or made the farmhouse feel like a home again. So, eventually, he’d stopped trying.
It was a cruel twist of fate when Emory arrived in town on the arm of his son. Byron didn’t believe in love at first sight, but just seeing her started to chip away at the icy walls he’d built around his heart. He’d been fighting to keep them built ever since,and it became increasingly hard when Jaxon left her, alone and pregnant, a little over three years ago.
Now, it seemed the walls were melting down faster than he could refreeze the bricks. Having her here, not being able to leave, was going to test him.
He rolled his shoulders and stood, still under the water as the soap washed free.
Turning off the tap, Byron heard something from the room behind the wall.
Frantic movements.
Laboured breaths.
He swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to hear Emory, truly, but the walls of the old farmhouse were thin and her room was right on the other side of this one.
He couldn’t say he was disappointed that he had, though. If anything, he was glad. Of a few things.
Firstly, he was glad he hadn’t rubbed one out in the shower like he had done so many times before. All those times he’d imagined Emory’s lips wrapped around his dick or her bouncing in his lap while he pumped himself dry. He’d wanted to tonight, too, he rationalised, but something had stopped him. Maybe it was knowing she was in the next room because it had felt wrong, somehow. He’d hesitated, and he was glad he did because if he hadn’t, he would have still been in the shower.
Then, he was glad of the small lull in the storm that came at just the right time. He stepped out of the shower to the sound of Emory’s heavy breaths, the slight creaking of the bed, the wet pumping as she fucked herself with … well, he imagined it was her hand.
