Rugged(55)

“It’s brilliant,” I say, shrugging. I know that sounds kind of simple, but I say it with complete honesty. “It feels personal, somehow.”

“What do you mean?” Flint sounds kind of wary. Strange. I clear my throat.

“Like you designed this for yourself,” I say, not sure what else I mean. Flint’s shoulders relax. He nods.

“Something like that.” He walks out of the room with me. “You saw the view, of course? From the living room?”

I mean, I did, but it’s not every day you have the architect and contractor show you around. We head back to the living room, watching the last rays of daylight strike the tops of the trees in a fiery burst. The sky is dusky rose. We’re going to have to leave soon, before it really gets dark. Which is too bad, because I hate to think of leaving this moment. Flint takes me over to the living room fireplace, kneels down, and shows me something carved into the bottom corner of the wall.

“See that?” he says, pointing it out. It looks like a flower. “Sunflowers. There’s one here, one at the other end of the room.” I peer back over my shoulder, and there it is, right across from us. Another little wooden sunflower, freshly carved. “They should match up with each other perfectly.” Flint stands.

“Two sunflowers,” I say. Flowers. Why does that ring a bell? “You didn’t strike me as the flowery type of man. Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” I say quickly.

Flint smiles. “It’s a personal touch. Sort of a stamp.”

“Why sunflowers in particular?” I ask. He shrugs. Again, that maddening quiet falls. He’s brooding again, retreating into himself. Better switch topics, stat. “This has to be amazing. I mean, seeing your vision brought to life on camera,” I say, waving my hand around the empty space like I’m showing it on a game show.

“It’s different,” he says. Now his brow furrows, and he paces back to the windows. There he is, closed off man on the mountaintop again. And I am trying my best not to find it hot.

“So,” I say, walking up to him. He doesn’t respond, so I keep going. “Guess we should head out. Right now. You know. Scoot.” It’s rapidly growing dark outside, and although the wiring is in place there’s no actual electricity in here yet. I can barely see Flint now, just a giant silhouette before me, facing the window.

“Mmm.” Now he looks at me, his jaw tight. My stomach sinks. Maybe the awkwardness is because he wants to talk about how stupid that night in my hotel room was. That he was secretly embarrassed for me, and wants to make sure that I understand we’re not a thing. We thinged for one evening—okay, two—and now we are thinged out. That would explain the awkward silence, the showing me minor details on the house. He’s trying to build up the courage to let me down easy. I take a breath.

“Flint, I understand—”

“Fuck it,” he growls. He pulls me to him, lifts me off the ground, and then kisses me so fiercely I’m instantly lost in a blazing torrent of heat and bliss and want.

No, need. I need this.

My nails are digging into his broad shoulders, squeezing the muscles there, and he groans with desire that matches my own. His tongue strokes against mine, aggressive and dominant, and I gasp when we pull apart. I lean back to look up at him, safe in his arms. I’m pretty sure if Flint set me down right now, I’d fall over.

His eyes, even in the dim light, are dark with lust. I put my hand to his cheek, and I can feel his pulse hammering against my skin.

Flint kissed me. Definitely no misunderstanding on this one. And it’s the first time we’ve kissed without any booze involved. And it was even better without it.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for too long,” he says, his chest rising and falling with his deep breathing. He doesn’t put me down, and I don’t ask him to.

“Since when?” I ask. I mean it to sound teasing, but it’s actually a little hushed.

“Since LA. Every day after has been torture. I couldn’t hold back anymore.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I say. “But what changed your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he says, but his eyes trace around the room again. “Being in here. Thinking about—” His face shifts; the troubled look passes over his features again as he glances across the living room. “About the show,” he says at last. I get the feeling he was going to say something else, but I don’t press it.

“So. What do we do now? Apart from maybe get a flashlight?” We are in serious near dark here. Flint puts me down, and my shoes echo on the wood floors. Or maybe that’s just my heart.

“I was thinking, there’s a great little place in Montague. The Bookmill,” Flint says as we emerge into the crisp evening air. He smiles. “It’s a converted mill. With, you know. Books in it.”

“Okay.” Well that’s…handy?

“Also has a pretty good restaurant. So if you want I could take you to dinner there, tonight. If you’re interested?” He keeps his voice casual, but I think—I hope—I detect a little note of eagerness.

“Well, I’ve heard the dining around here is also really exquisite,” I say, drawing it out a little. Flint pulls me closer against him and leans in.

“It really is something,” he says, his lips brushing softly against mine. Sparks shoot through my body. Much as I want to keep toying with him, I can’t contain myself. I put my hands in his hair and pull his head down toward me, moaning as our tongues curl around each other, his thrusting deep and steady like he’s f*cking my mouth with it.