Chapter 23: Workshop Ruin
The workshop door was never locked. Stone pushed it open, the rusted hinges issuing a low groan that sounded like weariness. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cut pine, machine oil, and the faint, arid smell of sawdust. A single bulb hung over the central workbench, casting a stark white circle of light that left the corners in deep, velvety shadow. Erik’s back was to her, muscles taut beneath a faded grey t-shirt as he planed a length of cherrywood, the rhythmic shush-shush of the tool filling the silence.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him work. The denim shorts she’d chosen were obscenely short, the frayed hem riding high on her thighs. She knew what they did to her ass. She’d checked in the hall mirror before coming out.
“Mom’s crying again,” she said, her voice cutting through the methodical sound.
The planing stopped. His shoulders tightened, but he didn’t turn. “She’ll be alright.”
“Will she?” Stone pushed off the frame and drifted into the room, her bare feet silent on the dusty concrete floor. She traced a finger along the edge of the workbench, over chisel marks and old coffee stains. “She thinks you’re fucking someone else.”
This time, he did turn. His face was all hard angles in the unforgiving light, his blue eyes like chips of winter sky. Sweat gleamed at his temples. “Stone.”
“What?” She feigned innocence, tilting her head. The long fall of her red hair shifted over one shoulder. “It’s what she said. She told me last night. Said you flinch when she touches you.” She took a step closer, now inside his space, the heat from his body a palpable force. The smell of him—clean sweat and woodsmoke and something purely male—flooded her senses. “Do you? Flinch?”
“Stop it.” His voice was a low rumble, a warning.
“Why?” She closed the final distance, her hips brushing against the workbench behind him, trapping him. She looked up at him, her green eyes wide, guileless. “Is it because it’s true? Or because you don’t want to lie?”
His jaw worked. A muscle ticked in his cheek. She could see the battle in him, the ethics warring with the raw, hungry want. She’d felt it in his touch, in the desperate way he’d taken her before. He’d fought this for years. She could see the fight dying now, in real time, smothered by the proximity of her lips, the swell of her breasts against her thin tank top, the knowing look in her eyes.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, but it lacked conviction. It was a last, feeble fence.
Stone didn’t answer with words. She let her gaze drop, down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, to the prominent bulge straining against the worn fabric of his jeans. She licked her lips, a slow, deliberate motion.
“Mommy knows,” she breathed, the words barely a whisper. She saw his abdomen clench. “She can smell it on you. On the sheets. On me.”
His control snapped.
A rough hand shot out and gripped the back of her neck, not hurting, but possessing, holding her in place. His other hand fumbled for the buckle of his belt. The leather slid free with a hiss. The button of his jeans popped. The zipper growled down.
Before he could push her, she was sinking, her knees hitting the cool concrete. She looked up at him from between his legs, his cock already springing free, thick and heavy and flushed with blood. The sight of it, the sheer reality of it so close to her face, sent a jolt of pure, slick heat between her own legs.
“Too late to pretend now, Daddy,” she murmured, her breath hot against the head. She watched a pearl of pre-cum well up at the tip. “Might as well make me scream.”
She didn’t wait for permission. She opened her mouth and took him in, not slowly, not teasingly, but with a hungry, deep-throated urgency that made him gasp above her. She swallowed him to the root, her nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base, her throat convulsing around his girth. The taste of him—salty, musky, profoundly intimate—flooded her tongue.
“Fucking hell, Stone,” he choked out, his fingers tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
She pulled back, letting him slide almost all the way out, her lips tight around the ridge of his head, then plunged down again, setting a ruthless, deep rhythm. She hollowed her cheeks, her tongue working the pulsing vein underneath. She used her hand to cup and squeeze his balls, rolling the heavy weight in her palm. The obscene, wet sounds of her sucking filled the workshop, louder than any tool.
“That’s it,” he growled, his hips beginning to thrust in shallow, involuntary jerks. “Take it. Greedy little slut. Take all of it.”
The filth from his mouth, the names, poured gasoline on the fire in her belly. She moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs tremble. She was so wet she could feel it soaking through her shorts. She reached between her own legs with her free hand, rubbing hard, frantic circles over the denim.
He was getting close. His breathing turned ragged, his thrusts more urgent, less controlled. She could feel him swelling, hardening to an impossible degree in her mouth. She redoubled her efforts, her jaw aching, her own pleasure coiling tight.
He pulled her head back by her hair, his cock slipping from her lips with a slick pop. “Not like that,” he rasped, his eyes wild. “Turn around.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She turned, on her knees, bracing her hands on the dusty floor. She heard him spit, twice, a crude, wet sound. Then his hands were on her hips, yanking the denim shorts and her panties down to her knees in one violent motion. The cool air hit her exposed skin.
There was no preamble, no gentleness. He positioned himself and drove into her in one long, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that echoed off the tin roof.
“Jesus Christ,” he ground out, his hands digging into the soft flesh of her hips. “You’re so fucking tight. Even after.”
He began to fuck her in earnest, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, a relentless, pistoning rhythm that shook her entire body. Each thrust jolted her forward, her hands slipping on the floor. The workshop dissolved into a blur of sensation: the burn of stretch, the overwhelming fullness, the slap of his skin against hers, the creak of his leather belt. The unfinished furniture around them stood as silent, wooden witnesses.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his voice strained. “Huh? My cock in my workshop? Like some cheap whore?”
“Yes!” she screamed, pushing back against him, meeting each thrust. “God, yes! Fuck me, Daddy! Fuck your little whore!”
Her own climax was building, a terrifying wave rising from the base of her spine. The friction, the degradation, the sheer wrongness of it all were the kindling. His next words were the spark.
“Your mother,” he panted, his rhythm fracturing, becoming erratic, “she cries… and you… you come in here… you take her place…”
He was losing it. With a final, deep grind, he shoved into her, his body going rigid against her back. A hot, liquid pulse flooded her insides, again and again, a claiming so intimate it made her sob. The feel of him emptying into her, unchecked, raw, triggered her own release. It wrecked her, convulsing through her in violent, blinding waves, her vision spotting, her cries muffled against the concrete floor.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint, persistent hum of the bare bulb.
Slowly, he softened inside her and slid out. A hot trickle followed, down her inner thigh. She stayed on her knees, her forehead pressed to the cool floor, spent.
He zipped his jeans with a definitive sound. When she finally gathered the strength to look up, he was standing over her, buckling his belt. His face was unreadable, a mask of spent passion and encroaching horror.
Without a word, he turned and walked to the sink in the corner. He turned on the tap, splashed water on his face. He didn’t look at her.
Stone, her legs trembling, pulled her shorts up. The damp denim clung unpleasantly. She stood, a profound soreness settling deep in her core. She wanted to say something, something that would tether this moment to her, to them.
But he spoke first, his back still to her, his voice flat and hollow. “Get out.”
She walked to the door, each step feeling foreign. As she crossed the threshold from the circle of light back into the gathering dusk, she glanced back. He was staring at his hands under the running water, as if he could scrub away what had just happened.
Stone stepped outside, the warm evening air a shock after the workshop’s cloistered intensity. She closed the door softly behind her, leaving him in his sanctuary, now forever stained. A slow, secret smile touched her lips. He was inside her. Literally, a part of him was inside her right now, seeping into her.
She walked back to the house, her gait slightly unsteady, the evidence of their sin cooling on her skin. Let him wrestle with his conscience. She had what she wanted. The seed was planted. Now, she just had to make it grow.