Page 10 of Big and Grumpy
His hand slips between our bodies, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation of him filling me completely while his thumb works tight circles against my most sensitive spot is overwhelming.
"Let go," he whispers, his own control visibly slipping, sweat beading on his forehead. "I've got you, Marigold. Let go for me."
His words, combined with the perfect pressure of his body against mine, inside mine, catapult me over the edge. When he finally claims me completely, I cry out his name with such perfect abandon that I feel something fundamental shift inside my chest. This isn't just physical—it's emotional, spiritual, the kind of connection I'd given up believing in after my ex-fiancé shattered my faith in love.
"Holt," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as waves of sensation crash over me. "Oh God, Holt."
I shatter around him, my inner walls pulsing and clenching, pulling him deeper. Pleasure so intense it's almost pain washes through me in endless waves. The intensity of my release triggers his own—he follows moments later, burying himself to the hilt as he finds his release, filling me hot and deep.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest and his arms wrapped protectively around me. The storm still ragesoutside, rattling the windows and lashing rain against the roof, but here in the warmth of his bed, I feel a peace I haven't known in years. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
I sigh happily, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I should probably warn you—I'm not good at casual."
"Good," Holt says firmly. "Because neither am I."
six
Holt
Threedayslater,Marigoldis officially moved into my cabin, though we're both pretending it's temporary. "Just until the roads are completely clear," I'd said gruffly, but when she'd started to pack her things to go back to her own place, the look of panic on my face had been unmistakable.
"Or maybe a little longer," she'd suggested, and the relief in my eyes had told her everything she needed to know.
Now she's working at my kitchen table while I repair a client's chair in my workshop, and the domestic routine feels more natural than anything I've ever experienced. We move around each other with an ease that suggests we've been doing this for years instead of days.
"How's the logo coming?" I ask, emerging from the workshop with sawdust in my hair and grease on my hands.
"Good. The client loves the direction." She saves her work and closes the laptop, stretching muscles that are stiff from sitting too long. "How's the chair?"
"Finished. Should be good for another decade." I move to the sink to wash my hands, very aware of how she's watching me with appreciation.
"You know," she says carefully, "if you ever wanted to start taking on more projects like that, I could help you set up a website. Maybe some marketing materials."
I can’t help but sigh. "I told you, I'm not in construction anymore."
"I'm not talking about construction. I'm talking about custom woodworking, furniture restoration, things like that." She stands up and moves to lean against the counter beside me. "You're incredibly talented, Holt. People would pay good money for work like yours."
The suggestion should irritate me. I've been very clear about wanting to be left alone, about not wanting to rebuild what I lost. But looking into Marigold's earnest face, I see something I haven't seen in years—someone who believes in me.
"It's not that simple," I say finally.
"Why not?"
"Because..." I struggle for the words to explain something I'm not sure I understand myself. "Because last time I tried to build something that mattered, it all fell apart. And I'm not sure I'm strong enough to go through that again."
She reaches up and cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "What if it doesn't fall apart this time?"
"What if it does?"
"Then we deal with it together." Her voice is soft but certain. "But Holt, you can't live your whole life afraid of taking risks just because one person let you down."
She's right, and I know it. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two very different things.
"I'll think about it," I say finally.
"That's all I'm asking."
That evening, we're cooking dinner together when my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and frown.
