Chapter 20 Getting Cleaned Up
She took a deep breath, her own decision solidifying in her mind. “I think I’ll keep Bea’s cabin,” she confessed aloud, pulling her head away from his chest as she spoke, the words feeling foreign and exhilarating on her tongue.
Ethan’s head turned, his eyes wide with surprise. He hadn’t expected that. “What about your job in Denver?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.
Clara offered a small, crooked smile. “I may not have a job in Denver,” she admitted. After two two-week extensions and a third that was more of an “indefinite” one. Her company would probably not hold her job for her. They had probably already filled her position. The thought, which would have filled her with dread before, now felt liberating.
Ethan’s brow furrowed, a mixture of concern and a nascent hope flickering in his eyes. “So, what are you going to do?”
Clara sighed, a long, weary, yet utterly resolute sound. She didn’t know. Not precisely. And for the first time, not knowing didn’t feel like a plummet into chaos, but like standing at the edge of a vast, beautiful, uncharted wilderness.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, met his gaze, and for the first time, she saw a tentative smile begin to form on his lips, a crack in the pain. “Maybe I’ll ask Eleanor for a job in Crestline.”
The fire continued to burn, warming them, illuminating the path forward, however uncertain, however wild.
The first dawn Clara Vance had truly slept through in days broke over the Colorado Rockies, painting the peaks in hues of rose and gold. Last night, after they had allowed themselves to be vulnerable in front of each other, and she’d made a decision about where she wanted to go in life, she’d sunk into a deep, dreamless slumber, not stirring until the mid-morning sun streamed through the cabin’s window, warm on her face.
She stretched, a lazy, contented sigh escaping her lips. She actually never remembered going to bed, which meant that Ethan had carried her in there, undressed her, and put her to bed. From outside, she heard the rhythmic clang of metal, the low rumble of an engine being tinkered with. Ethan.
Pulling on an oversized flannel shirt that smelled faintly of his unique masculine scent, she padded out to the shed, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. He was bent over the open hood of his battered pickup, a wrench in one hand, grease smudged along his jawline. His muscles flexed under the worn denim of his shirt as he adjusted something deep within the engine.
He didn't look up immediately, so Clara leaned against the doorframe, just watching him. The sun caught the glint of his dark hair, the rugged line of his profile. He was a creature of these mountains, wild and untamed in a way she was still learning to understand, yet his presence was calming, grounding.
Finally, he straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, and his eyes, the color of a winter sky, found hers. A slow smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re finally up,” he beamed, the sound a low, resonant rumble.
Clara laughed, a light, genuine sound that surprised even herself. “Guess I was tired.”
“Lack of sleep does that,” he said, his gaze lingering on her. “You want breakfast, or should we go straight to lunch?”
Her eyebrows arched, a playful glint in her eyes. “That almost sounds like a pick-up line, Kincaid.”
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made a pleasant shiver run down her spine. “Great. Did it work?”
“Oh, you,” she began, stepping closer, her heart doing a little flutter-kick in her chest. The easy banter flowed between them, a new, exhilarating dance. “You don’t need a pick-up line. You just need to smile at me.” Her eyes were twinkling, challenging him.
He took a step towards her, his smile widening, the full force of his charm hitting her. “Hmmm…” He leaned in, and his lips, warm and tasting faintly of engine oil and coffee, met hers. It was a soft, tender kiss at first, then deepened, a promise. He pulled back slightly, his eyes still holding hers. “Can’t touch you,” he murmured, gesturing to his greasy hands. “Wouldn’t want to ruin that very fetching… flannel shirt.”
She laughed again, a little breathy this time. The casual intimacy was intoxicating. “How about we get you cleaned up?”
The suggestion hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then dipped lower, a slow, appreciative journey. He nodded, a barely perceptible inclination of his head, his eyes darkening with desire.
She led him back into the cabin, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. The bathroom was small, rustic, but the water in the shower was blessedly hot. He shucked off his dirty clothes, his eyes never leaving hers, and Clara felt a flush creep up her neck. Her own clothes followed, discarded in a soft pile on the wooden floor.
The steam instantly fogged the small space as they stepped under the spray. Clara reached for the soap, a bar of lavender-scented goat’s milk she’d found. She started with his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. His breath hitched when her hands drifted lower, over his chest, down his lean stomach.
When she reached his hips, her fingers brushed against him, already growing, thick and heavy. A soft groan rumbled in his chest, and his hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks as she soaped him, her touch deliberate, tantalizing. He was magnificent, a primal force barely contained, and the sight of him, slick with water and desire, made her own core clench with need.
She stroked him slowly, circling the base, then moving upwards, feeling his erection strengthen, becoming a rigid steel rod under her touch. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back under the spray, raw pleasure etched on his face. Squatting in front of him, she leaned in, letting the water pour over her head, and brought her mouth to him, running her tongue around the head of his member. He shuddered, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her.
With a soft hum of approval, she took him deep into her mouth, feeling him fill her, the subtle saltiness of his skin, the powerful thrust. She worked him, her mouth bobbing up and down on his erection, drawing him in, releasing him, over and over, until he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Clara,” he gasped, his voice rough with need, and he hauled her up from the floor, her body slick against his. The water rained down on them, mixing with the sweat already beading on their skin. He pinned her against the cool tiles of the shower wall, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, locking around his hips.
He entered her with a powerful thrust, a gasp escaping her lips as she took him deep, instantly filled. He plunged deeper and faster inside of her, a primal rhythm building between them. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he drove into her, each thrust harder, faster, until pleasure became an unbearable, exquisite agony. She heard a sound, realizing it was her own high-pitched scream, calling his name, as orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shattering tremor. The contractions of her orgasm pulsed through her, clenching around him, sending him over the top as well, a guttural roar echoing in the small enclosure as he emptied himself into her.
They collapsed against the wall, bodies shaking, out of breath, the only sounds the pounding water and their ragged breaths.