Chapter 185: Penny
We’ve been here for twenty minutes, and I’m already a liability
Not on purpose, obviously I grant to help. But apparently, assembling furniture requires more than reading the instructions aloud in a desatie unplea and passing him screws like I’m on a cooking show.
“Penny,” Asher says, glancing up at me from where he’s crouched over a half–built dresser, “that’s the wrong piere
I look at the wood plank in my hand. Then at the others. Then back at him.
“No it’s not,” I say, “It’s clearly the right one. It has… edges.”
He stares. Deadpan. “They all have edges.”
“Okay, but these are like, strategic edges.”
His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth tips up like he’s holding back a laugh. I love when that happens–when the soldier in him cracks just enough to let the boy out.
“Strategic edges?” he says slowly.
“Very advanced carpentry terminology,” I reply, tossing my hair like I’m the star of an HGTV show. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“I wouldn’t,” he agrees. “Which is why you’re sitting this one
”
He walks over and plucks the board from my hands with one strong arm and nudges me backward with his hip.
I gasp. “Did you just bump me with intent?”
He nods and crouches again. “With intent. Absolutely.”
“I’m being fired from furniture duty?”
“You were never hired for furniture duty.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
He grunts under his breath, fitting the panel into place like it’s nothing. I sit cross–legged on the rug and sip my soda, watching him work. His grey t–shirt clings to his back, damp with effort, and his arms flex every time he moves. His fingers are precise. Steady. Confident. It’s unfair.
“You know,” I say, “it’s honestly kind of rude how good you are at this. Makes the rest of us look bad.”
He doesn’t look up, but I see the way his jaw tenses. “You’re just good at other things.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”
He finally looks at me. And the intensity in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.
“Like making it impossible to focus,” he says simply.
My breath catches. I watch him rise slowly to his/full height, that easy grace in his body that never leaves, not even when he’s doing something as domestic as putting a dresser together. He wipes his hands on a towel, tosses it aside, and walks toward me.
Each step deliberate.
“I’m just sitting here,” I whisper.
He stops in front of me. “Exactly.”
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Chapter 185: Penny
The room feels smaller now. Warmer. My pulse kicks up as he reashes down, hands sliding under my * * hit me up onle the one bill drene like weigh nothing at all.
I suck in a sharp breath as the coal wasad meets the backs of my thighs “That’s not OSHA apprise
He smiles, close and quiet. “Good thing I’m not on duty.”
This fingers brush my knee. My shoulder. My cheek. His touch is reverent, like he’s still not used to being allowed to do this. Like it might be taban fores kun
if he rushes.
“I like you in my space,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth. “Even if you are useless with a power drill.”
I grin. “I’m good with distractions, though.”
“Oh, you’re very good at that.”
And then he kisses me. Harder than before. Like he’s been waiting all day. His hands are on my thighs, spreading them just enough to step between His lips find my neck, my collarbone, and I gasp, threading my fingers into his hair and pulling gently.
He growls–low and rough and distinctly Asher—and lifts me off the dresser with one arm. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he carries me to the couch he built yesterday.
I land on the cushions, bouncing lightly, and he leans over me, bracing himself on either side.
“Still want to help?” he asks, voice thick and dark.
I nod, breathless. “What do you need?”
“You. Quiet. For five minutes.”
I snort. “Impossible.”
He kisses me again like that’s exactly what he wants–my laughter, my now than he ever did in uniform.
sass, all of it. Like I’m not a distraction at all but the reason he’s breathing easier
And when his hands start to explore, slow and certain, all thoughts of furniture, drills, and strategic edges fall away.
The only thing I’m focused on is this room. This warmth. This man.
His lips on mine, his breath against my neck, the way he says my name like a promise.
This is where I want to be.
His hands slide under my thighs again and lift me further into him. My back arches instinctively. He’s all heat and muscle and quiet control, and somehow, I always forget just how strong he is until moments like this–when I feel so small in his hands. So breakable. And so wanted.
“Asher,” I breathe, my voice catching somewhere between his mouth and the way his fingers are slowly tracing up the hem of my shirt.
He pauses, just for a second, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me to stop if-”
“Don’t.”
He doesn’t need more than that. He crashes his mouth back to mine, deeper now, hungrier. He kisses like he fights–like it’s a mission, like he’s learned the terrain of my body and he’s not retreating. My legs tighten around his waist, grounding me against the couch, and his hand moves beneath my top, splaying wide over my ribs, up, up-
He breaks the kiss, rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“You make me forget everything I know,” he mutters.
2/3
“Good,” I whisper back, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Forget
He yanks it off over bis head in one smooth motion, and the sight of him golden skin, seared and shaded under the soft glow of the ceiling light makes my breath hitch. I trace one of the scars with my fingers, the long one across his side.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
“Only when I’m with you”
I press my mouth against the mark, then another. I kiss every scar I can see. Every wound. Until he groans and pushes me hack against the cushions, grealy, reverently.
And then he’s pulling my shirt off. His mouth finds the space between my collarbones, my shoulder, the slope of my neck, as if every inch of me is seme kind of sacred ground he’s determined to worship. When his fingers slide under the waistband of my leggings, slow and patient, I forget my own name. My hips rise to meet his touch, and he grins, just a little–one of those dark, dangerous grins I’ve only seen a few times.
“I thought you were useless at helping,” he murmurs.
“I am.”
“Good. Just stay right there then and let me take care of you.”
And when his mouth finds its way down my stomach, past the waistband, every thought dissolves.
The couch creaks. The heater hums low in the background. But all I can hear is his breathing, rough and deliberate, and my own heartbeat, pounding like the thunderstorm I survived just to find him.
He takes his time. With everything. His hands. His mouth. His words. When he finally moves inside me, slow and deep and steady, my fingers dig into his back and I swear I could cry. Not from pain. From the weight of it–how something can feel so intense and beautiful and right all at once.
“Look at me,” he whispers against my ear. “I want to see your eyes when
you come for me.”
I do.
And it unravels me.
His name is the only thing I know how to say after that. Over and over
He stays over me, in me, for a long while afterward, his nose brushing mine, our legs tangled, skin hot and sticky and aching in the best way. We’re quiet. His hand rests on my waist like he never wants to move again. I trace the back of his neck, the curve of his shoulder.
“You’re not going to be able to finish building the furniture,” I say, lips curving tiredly.
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll be sitting on the floor for a week.”
“I’ll sit on the floor if you’re in my lap.”
I laugh, and he kisses the sound off my mouth. And just like that, the world is soft again. Warm. Ours.
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