Page 22 of Tinsel & Timber
No music, no distractions.
Just the sound of my pulse still hammering in my ears.
By the time I park outside my place, the heat from her skin has already faded, but the memory of it hasn’t. Every time I blink, I see her—hair mussed, lips parted, and coming for me.
I kill the engine and just sit there for a minute, hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m not proud of how close I came to losing all self-control. But I’m not ashamed, either. Not when she lookedat me the way she did.
Eventually, I head inside. I’m in desperate need of a shower to clean up before I head the Preservation Office to actually get some work done.
I toe off my boots, shrug out of my coat, and stand there for a long time staring at the mess of papers on my dining table—maps of Mistletoe Bay, half-finished notes for the preservation grant I should’ve filed weeks ago, a few old photos I keep meaning to hang. All pieces of the things that are supposed to anchor me.
Instead, all I can think about is the way I felt peace with Mara in my arms.
She was never supposed to be part of this equation. I’d planned to spend the winter quietly updating the preservation society records and avoiding small-town gossip. Now, I can’t wait to unwrap her all over again.
On my way to the bathroom, my phone pings with an incoming message:
Rhett:Heard you were at the Kensington place bright and early today. Be careful, G. Those old houses—and their owners—can swallow a man whole.
I huff out a laugh, typing out a simple reply.
Me:Too late.
He’ll give me shit about it later but for now, I toss my phone onto the bathroom counter and turn on the shower.
I should feel calm now. Relaxed. Proud of myself for stopping when I did. For remembering that wanting something isn’t the same as being ready for it.
But I don’t feel calm. I feel restless. Like some gear inside me has shifted out of place, and no amount of reason can set it right again.
I feel like…I need Mara more than my next breath, and that terrifies the fuck out of me.
Because for the first time since I can remember, I don’tjustwant her.
I wantmore.
By the time I strip down and step into the shower, I’m already hard again.
Consumed by thoughts of Mara in a blindfold. Tied up with my favorite rope. Spread out for me to have my wicked way with.
My hand goes straight to my dick. Before I can stop myself, my eyes close and I’m picturing Mara on her knees, taking my cock in her mouth and sucking me off before I bend her over the antique sofa in her living room.
“Fuck yes, Mara,” I whisper to myself. “Swallow my cock.”
I jerk myself harder, faster. With my free hand, I roll my balls between my fingers and shudder.
And then, my orgasm hits like a tidal wave. My knees feel weak. Long ropes of cum splatter onto the shower floor and are washed down the drain.
I’m so fucked.
five
. . .
Mara
All of thepent-up sexual energy that lingered long after Graham left yesterday served as great motivation when the moving truck arrived a short while later with the things I wanted to bring with me.
By the time the truck pulled away last night, I’d scrubbed one of the bedrooms until my arms ached and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil instead of dust. There’s something about cleaning that room—clearing space—that made it feel less like work and more like preparing.
