Page 62 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I helped where I could, but Webb kept me at a distance while they carried the men into the building. It was remote, sturdy, and looked built like a bunker with thick walls and a single locked entry. By the time they’d secured the prisoners and set up a rotating watch schedule, the sun was high in the sky, and the air smelled like dry hay and dust.

Marcus clapped Webb on the back. “Your usual place is open.”

Webb gave him a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Appreciate it.”

We left the others behind and walked toward a small cottage on the edge of the property. It was made of white clapboard, with a deep porch and a narrow path lit by strings of solar lights that flickered to life as we passed.

Inside, the cabin was simple but warm, with a lived-in kind of charm. Just a single open room that held everything—a bed tucked against one wall, a worn couch facing a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been used in months, and a small kitchen area in the corner. Webb locked the door behind us, then turned and leaned against it, watching me with an unreadable expression.

“You did good today.”

“I stole a car,” I pointed out, kicking off my boots. “Technically.”

“Borrowed,” he corrected. “From a man who was planning to kidnap you. I don’t think the law’s gonna split hairs.”

We didn’t speak for a moment after that. The weight of the day pressed down on us both. There were so many moving parts,each one entwined with the next—threats layered beneath even more threats. And the silence stretching between us was thick with everything we hadn’t said.

“Shower?” Webb offered softly.

I nodded, suddenly feeling like that was the best plan at this moment. “Please.”

The bathroom was small, the kind where you could touch every wall if you stretched, but it had hot water, and the window was cracked open to let in the cool night breeze. Webb turned the knobs, testing the temperature, until steam began to fog the mirror.

I stepped in behind him, sliding my hands under his shirt and lifting it slowly over his head. He let me, watching me in the mirror with that steady look of his like I was something he wasn’t sure he deserved but wasn’t about to let go.

He turned to face me, his hands gliding down to the hem of my top. With deliberate slowness, he undressed me, one piece at a time. Our fingers brushed as he pulled the fabric over my head, a quiet spark passing between us, our breaths gradually falling into sync. Piece by piece, our clothes slipped to the floor in soft, unhurried piles.

When we stepped into the shower, the heat wrapped around us instantly. I leaned back against the tile, and Webb’s hands came to my hips, his body pressing close to mine under the spray. The water ran over his shoulders, down the lines of muscle, over the curve of his jaw and that mouth that had kissed me like I was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

I caught sight of the water pooling in the curves of his gauges before dripping steadily from them, and for a moment, I gotcaught up watching it. It reminded me to keep my fingers away from them, even though the urge to touch every part of him was strong and stupidly hard to ignore.

He leaned in and kissed me again—slower this time, with less desperation and more intent. Every movement felt deliberate like he wanted me to feel exactly what he wasn’t saying out loud.

The kind of kiss that told you everything he hadn’t said today. That we were safe, for now. That he still needed me close. That there were lines between us that had blurred long before tonight, and he wasn’t ready to draw them again.

His fingers slid through my wet hair, and my hands found his back, pulling him even closer.

The heat of the water was nothing compared to the warmth of his hands.

Webb’s palms slid down my sides, slow and sure, like he needed to relearn every inch of me now that we weren’t in danger, at least not for this moment. His mouth trailed from mine to my neck, the hairs of his beard scraping gently against my skin and sending little shivers through me that had nothing to do with the cold.

I tilted my head to give him space, and he took it—his lips dragging along my throat, down to my collarbone, where he lingered like he couldn’t decide which part he wanted to memorize first.

“I thought we’d lost control of all of it when those assholes got to you,” he murmured against my skin. “But I never lost this.”

I cupped his face in my hands and guided his mouth back to mine. The kiss was deeper and wetter now, with the steamcurling around us, as his tongue stroked against mine with a kind of quiet reverence that made me ache.

I shifted my hips and felt him—hard and hot against my stomach—and my breath hitched.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, his voice low and frayed.

“You,” I whispered against his lips. “Just you.”

That was all it took. He turned us gently and pressed me back against the warm tile, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of my thighs. I lifted one leg instinctively, wrapping it around his waist, and he caught me with ease. His body was flush against mine, every inch of him aligned with every inch of me.

He reached between us and guided himself to my entrance, the tip of him nudging against me and sliding through the wet heat already slick from more than just the shower. And then, slowly and deliberately, he pushed inside.

I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he sank into me, inch by inch, filling me completely. We moved together like we’d done it a hundred times before—like our bodies already knew the rhythm, the pressure, the way we liked to be touched, taken, and owned.

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