Page 124 of Saddle and Scent
And me? I'm the enthusiastic amateur, eager to learn and probably more hindrance than help, but gradually picking up skills and confidence as the morning progresses.
"Like this?" I ask, positioning a board according to Callum's instructions.
"Perfect," he says, moving to stand beside me. "Now you need to nail it in place. Three nails on each end, driven at a slight angle for maximum holding power."
He hands me a hammer, and I heft the tool experimentally. It's heavier than I expected, with a solid weight that speaks to serious business.
"I don't want to mess this up," I admit, studying the board with worried concentration.
"You won't," Callum says confidently. "Just remember what I taught you about grip and follow-through."
I position the first nail carefully, then raise the hammer and bring it down with what I hope is appropriate force. The nail bends sideways with the kind of stubborn refusal to cooperate that seems to characterize all my attempts at manual labor.
"Shit," I mutter, trying to straighten it with the claw end of the hammer.
"Here," Callum says, moving to stand directly behind me. "Let me show you."
His chest presses against my back as he reaches around to cover my hands with his own, adjusting my grip on the hammer handle. The contact is casual, instructional, but it sends electricity racing through every nerve ending.
"Feel the weight of the hammer," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Let gravity do most of the work. Your job is just to guide it."
His hands are warm and callused from years of manual labor, completely dwarfing mine as he demonstrates the proper motion. The scent of him—pine and motor oil and clean male sweat—surrounds me like a cloud, making it difficult to concentrate on anything except the solid heat of his body pressed against mine.
"Now try," he says, but he doesn't step away.
I raise the hammer, acutely aware of his hands still covering mine, and bring it down in a smooth arc. This time, the nail drives straight and true, sinking into the wood with a satisfying thunk.
"Perfect," he says, and there's something in his voice that has nothing to do with carpentry.
I turn in the circle of his arms, meaning to thank him for the instruction, but the movement brings us face to face with barely inches between us. His eyes are dark with something that makes my breath catch, and I can feel the tension radiating from his body like heat from a forge.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, caught in that electric space between intention and action. His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, and I can see the exact moment when his control starts to fracture.
"Juniper," he says, my name rough with want.
"Yeah?"
"If you don't step back right now, I'm going to kiss you. And if I start kissing you, I'm not going to want to stop."
The warning should probably make me step away. Should trigger my self-preservation instincts and remind me that we're supposed to be taking things slow, building trust, establishing boundaries.
Instead, it makes me lean closer.
"Maybe I don't want you to stop," I whisper.
His control snaps with an almost audible crack.
One hand slides into my hair while the other spans my waist, pulling me flush against him as his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is desperate, hungry, full of ten years of want and the kind of raw need that burns through every carefully constructed barrier.
I melt into him, hands fisting in his shirt, and for a moment the rest of the world ceases to exist. There's only the taste of him,the solid strength of his body, the way he kisses me like I'm air and he's been drowning.
"Ahem."
Wes's deliberately loud throat-clearing cuts through the haze of desire like a bucket of cold water.
We break apart, both breathing hard, to find him and Beckett watching with expressions of amused resignation.
"Not that this isn't entertaining," Wes continues with a grin, "but we've got about six more hours of work ahead of us, and at this rate, we'll be lucky to finish by Christmas."
