Page 93 of Fall is Brewing

Brooks braces his palms on my legs, just above the knees. His hands, warm and steady, coax my legs apart and my balance vanishes so completely that I have to grip the edge of the barrel. He kisses just above my kneecap. Then lower, then up again, sliding my legs open with strokes of his thumbs. His mouth finds a spot on the hollow of my inner thigh that’s so tender, my vision flickers white for the beat that his tongue darts out against it.

I let my head thump back against the wall, the musky, fermented air tilting sideways around me, everything in the world dropping away except the rough wood at my back and the impossible heat of his mouth.

It’s all rougher and sweeter and almost too much—the thought of him down on his knees for me, the taste of cider on his lips, the gentle way he bites just enough to leave a mark.

He’s patient, bordering on reverent. I want to tell him to stop teasing, but all I can do is gasp when his tongue finds the seam of me, working with such careful, decadent slowness it nearly undoes me. My hips rock, involuntary, but he just holds me steady, a palm on each thigh, fingers curled with a gentle but absolute command. The edges of the world go soft. When his mouth closes greedily around me, I lose any pretense of self-control—or sound. He laughs against my skin, low and wicked, as if he’s pleased I finally gave up the orchard stoicism for something raw and real.

I grip the barrel so hard my knuckles ache. My legs shake from it, from him. When he looks up at me again, his eyes are dark and demanding as his tongue flicks out, moving faster across my clit before pausing to press inside of me.

I groan, my eyes fluttering closed as he picks up speed, his pace and pressure unrelenting.

Then, my world caves in.

My back arches, vision going molten around the edges. I cry out his name at least once, maybe twice—and I’m pretty sure I leave half moon divots in the flesh on his shoulders where I clutch him, desperate for something to keep me anchored while the rest of my body is nothing but raw electricity and heat.

Brooks doesn’t move until I stop shaking, stop pulsing against his mouth. He just holds me there, one hand spread across my belly, the other still pinning my knee open like a prize he’s not ready to give back.

When my eyes finally flutter open, he’s watching me like he wants to memorize every second, every shiver I can’t hide. I’m still braced against the barrel, legs trembling, when I pull him up to me for another kiss. I taste myself on his lips and, to my utter surprise, I like it.

He’s impossibly hard beneath his jeans, pressed to me, and when I grind against him he groans, deep and ragged.

I want more. Suddenly, dramatically, it’s not enough to be half-nude with the rest of my clothes twisted and bunched at my waist and elbows. I want skin, heat, no space left between us.

I don’t ask permission—I’m beyond that—I just start to undress him, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his flannel and pushing it down off his shoulders and past his thick biceps.

My bra is next and it catches, the straps a tangled mess, and he laughs, breathless with laughter and not a little desperation. He helps, sliding it off my shoulders with a tenderness I can hardly stand.

His eyes go bright, pausing to lean back and take me in, fully nude, sitting in front of him. “Willa,” he says, voice raspy. “You’re a sight.”

I swallow, not sure what to say to that and tug at his tshirt, pulling it overhead.

Now, shirtless, it’s my turn to stare at him. He’s leaner than I expected. Tan from a season outdoors, and I realize that every orchard rumor about Brooks Calder’s back was criminally understated. He's sculpted like a statue, torso and biceps cut with muscle that’s all utility and no vanity, the uneven tan lines and hay-bale scars telling his story in a wild, shy language.

He fumbles one-handed at his belt, still managing to keep his other arm steadying me, the movement urgent in a way that betrays the cool mask he so often wears. He sheds his jeans and boxers in a single practiced motion and oh my god, maybe orchard rumors don’t even begin to cover it.

There’s no time—or inclination—for embarrassment. I run a palm up his thigh, every rough callus and nick a testament to the sort of man who could build a life from nothing but soil and sweat.

I graze my fingers lighting over him where he’s already hard and straining. He lets out a breath that’s more of a hiss, a tightness that vibrates through every inch of him as I wrap my hand around his shaft and stroke him once from root to tip.

I want to memorize all of it: the tense line from hipbone to navel, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when I stroke his length, all of it smooth, heavy in my hand, veined and flushed dark beneath my fingers.

For a beat, I just trace my thumb along the tip. He closes his eyes, breathing through gritted teeth, racked with something that might be pleasure or torture or maybe a perfect combination of both. “Willa,” he says, more prayer than name, and the sound of it winds through my center like a dare.

But Brooks is nothing if not responsible. He manages to pull back from where I stroke him to fish a condom from his discarded jeans pocket, the silver square already so battered at the edges I want to laugh.

He rips open the foil with his teeth and slides the condom over his length.

He kisses me again, slow and hot, the kind of kiss you can feel down into your bones. He’s all hands, gripping my hips and then sliding one hand down the inside of my thigh, guiding it up around his waist.

When his length nudges between my legs, he locks eyes with me—a silent, confirmation.

I nod, and as he pushes inside, there's a thick, dizzying stretch that makes me gasp—the force and fullness of it, every inch of him anchoring me against the barrel like I’m the only thing left in this cold, fermenting world.

I wrap my other leg around his hip, hooking my heel above his ass, holding him right there as he sinks deeper and deeper until there’s nowhere left to go. I dip my head and pant against his shoulder, fingers digging into his biceps with more want than sense.

He doesn’t move at first. Just lets me feel him, lets me get used to the impossible, perfect pressure of him inside me. Even the quiet is full—his sweat damp on my shoulder, the tremor in his arms as he braces himself so he doesn’t crush me. There are so many things people forget to mention about sex. The heat, the strangeness, the hilarity of it all, and how greedily honest it makes you.

Brooks groans, low and thick, and holds perfectly still when he’s all the way inside, letting my body decide when to move. Only when I rock my hips does he start up a rhythm, gentle and sure and devastating.