Chapter 4: The Unseen Witness
The brass bell above the workshop door chimed, a sound so sharp in the quiet space that Jacinta jumped.Tom didn’t. He just smiled, a slow, easy curve of his mouth, and kept running the sandpaper along the edge of the oak shelf. “Hey you.”
“Hey.” She hovered just inside, the door clicking shut behind her.The air was thick with the scent of cut wood and beeswax, warm and masculine. It was a world away from the baby powder and soured milk of her own house. Sunlight streamed through the high, dusty windows, catching motes of sawdust that floated like gold.
“He’s with Marcus,” she said, answering the unasked question. “Saturday visit to his parents.” She twisted her fingers together.“I… I was just driving. Ended up here.”
He set the sandpaper down, wiped his hands on his jeans. His gaze was steady, taking in her nervous posture, the way she’d dressed—a simple cotton dress, no bra, her hair down. “I’m glad you did.” He crossed the space between them, the worn floorboards creaking under his boots.He didn’t touch her, just stood close. “You okay?”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin.”
“That good, huh?” The tease was gentle.She met his eyes.“It’s confusing.”
He nodded, understanding. He’d been divorced; he knew the topography of a crumbling marriage. “Come here.” This time, he did touch her, just a hand on her waist, guiding her deeper into the workshop. He leaned back against a solid workbench, pulling her into the space between his legs. His hands rested on her hips.“You want to talk? Or you want to not talk?”
She leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his flannel shirt.She could feel the solid beat of his heart. “Not talk.”
His hands moved up her back, strong and sure. One settled at the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair.He tipped her face up and kissed her. It was slower than before, a deep, tasting kiss that melted the last of her tension. She kissed him back, pouring every ounce of the past week’s confusion and longing into it.
When she finally pulled back for air, her lips felt swollen. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she confessed, her voice hushed.“About you.”
“Same.” His thumbs stroked her jaw. “Every damn time I plane a board.”
She laughed, a surprised, genuine sound. It felt good. Emboldened, she let her hands slide down his chest, over the soft fabric, to the buckle of his belt.She felt him stiffen, his breath catching. Her own pulse hammered in her throat.“What are you doing, Jacinta?” His voice was rough.
“Something for me.” She sank to her knees on the dusty floorboards.
The view from here was intimate, domestic. The faded denim, the scuff on his boot, the faint sawdust clinging to his laces. She looked up, meeting his darkened hazel eyes, and held his gaze as she worked the button of his jeans, then the zipper. She freed him, her hands firm, learning the weight and heat of him. He groaned, his head falling back against the shelf behind him with a soft thump.She didn’t tease. She took him into her mouth, her tongue flat against the sensitive underside.He was salt and musk and clean skin. He hissed, his hands coming down to cradle her head, not pushing, just holding. She found a rhythm, one hand working the base, her mouth taking him deep. Her other hand pressed against the front of his thigh, feeling the corded muscle tense with every movement of her tongue.
“Jesus, Jacinta.” The words were a strained prayer.She loved the power of it, the raw feedback. His hips gave a slight, involuntary jerk and she took him deeper, swallowing around him. The sound he made was ragged, desperate.Her own body clenched in response, warm and wet. She was lost in it, in the act, in the giving and the taking, when his hands tightened in her hair.
“Stop.Stop, or I’m gonna—” He tugged, gently.
She released him, her lips slick, breathing hard.She looked up, dazed.
“My turn,” he said, and his voice brooked no argument. He bent, hooking his hands under her arms, and lifted her to her feet as if she weighed nothing. In one smooth motion, he turned her and sat her on the edge of the workbench, sweeping a space clear of tools with his arm. The wood was cool and solid beneath her thighs.He pushed her dress up around her waist. His eyes locked on hers as he hooked his fingers in the sides of her plain cotton panties and dragged them down her legs, letting them fall to the floor.The air was cool on her damp skin. He stepped back, just for a second, just looking.
“So damn beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Then he was on her, his mouth crashing down on hers as he pulled her to the very edge of the bench. He entered her in one fierce, deep thrust, seating himself to the hilt.She cried out, the sound swallowed by his kiss.There was no slow build this time. It was all hunger, a raw claiming that answered the frantic need coiled in her own belly. He drove into her, his hips snapping, the workbench shuddering against the wall with each powerful stroke. Her heels locked behind his back, pulling him deeper. Her fingernails scraped against his shoulders through the flannel.It was fast, and hard, and perfect. The tension that had gripped her for weeks shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces. Her climax ripped through her, sharp and seismic, a silent scream tearing from her throat as she convulsed around him. He followed a moment later, his own release a series of deep, shuddering thrusts, his face buried hard in the curve of her neck, his groan a low, broken vibration against her skin.
For a long minute, they stayed like that, connected, panting, the smell of their sweat mixing with the pine and dust. He softened inside her, but made no move to withdraw, just held her close, his breath hot on her shoulder.Outside, unnoticed, a silver sedan pulled into the gravel lot beside the workshop. Marcus cut the engine. The baby, exhausted from the aborted visit to his parents, was finally asleep in the back.Marcus had forgotten the diaper bag.Again. He knew there was a spare in the trunk, an old one Jacinta kept for emergencies. He got out, quietly, not wanting to wake the child.
He popped the trunk, rummaged in the mess, his mind already back at the office, on the quarterly reports waiting on his laptop. As he straightened, bag in hand, his eyes drifted absently toward the workshop window.
It was grimy, streaked with years of dust and weather.But the scene inside was clear as a film.
Jacinta, on a workbench, her dress rucked up around her waist, her bare legs wrapped around Tom the carpenter’s back.Tom, his jeans around his thighs, his shirt still on, buried deep inside her. Their bodies were still joined, locked in the final, intimate tremors of the act.Marcus froze. The plastic handle of the diaper bag dug into his palm.
He saw the way Tom held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, a gesture of possession and tenderness that Marcus himself had forgotten how to perform. He saw Jacinta’s face, turned toward the window, her eyes closed, her expression one of shattered, profound release. An expression he had never seen, never come close to eliciting.A hot, sick wave of nausea rolled through him.Betrayal. Rage.Humiliation.Then, another feeling, unexpected and vile, surged up alongside them.
Arousal.
His own body responded traitorously to the raw carnality of it, to the sight of his wife’s pleasure, so openly given to another man. To the powerful, easy way the carpenter moved against her. His own cock twitched, stiffening in his chinos, a physical echo of the scene behind the glass.
He stood there, breath fogging a small circle on the dirty pane, paralyzed by the collision of emotions. The baby stirred in the car, giving a soft, sleeping whimper.The sound broke the spell.Jacinta’s eyes fluttered open. She looked dazed, sated. She whispered something to Tom, who smiled, a slow, tender smile, and pulled out of her. He helped her down from the bench, his hands gentle as he smoothed her dress.Marcus stumbled back from the window.He dropped the diaper bag in the gravel. He fumbled for his keys, his hands shaking.He had to get out. He had to think.He slid back into the driver’s seat, his heart pounding against his ribs. He looked in the rearview mirror.His son slept on, oblivious. He looked at the workshop door.In a minute, she would come out.Would her hair be messy? Would her cheeks be flushed?Would she know?He started the car, the engine too loud in the quiet lot. He reversed, gravel spraying, and pulled onto the road, driving away without looking back. His mind was a white noise of shock, his body a confusing map of anger and a sick, shameful heat.Inside the workshop, Tom handed Jacinta her discarded underwear. “You’re shaking,” he said, his voice soft.“Adrenaline crash,” she said, trying to smile. She felt glorious, and hollowed out, and terrified.“Stay,” he said. “Just for a bit.Have a coffee.”
She nodded, slipping her dress straps back onto her shoulders. She felt his gaze on her, warm and steadying. She had no idea that just beyond the dusty glass, the life she knew had just been cracked down the middle. She finished her water, the cool liquid doing nothing to soothe the new, different kind of vibration thrumming beneath her skin.