LS Phoenix's Blog, page 2

Too Wild for Me: Chaper Two - The Match

Kelsey swears she’s fine after last night—the bonfire, the guy who grabbed her, the moment Cade stepped in like it was nothing. She can pretend it didn’t shake her. She can pretend she doesn’t care that he saw the crack in her armor.

But the morning after? She’s wound tighter than she wants to admit… and Cade Lawson is somehow the only person she can’t stop thinking about.

She runs into him at the lumber yard, determined to get the upper hand with teasing and bravado. Cade doesn’t bite. He just stands there—steady, unbothered, maddeningly calm—until she pushes so hard he finally snaps.

One kiss. Rough, consuming, all control.

And then he pulls away like it was a mistake.

Chapter Two

Kelsey

The Match

The morning hits harder than the hangover. Not because of the drinks, but because every time I close my eyes, I feel that guy’s hands on my body—too tight, unfamiliar, too sure I was playing along.

I should’ve shaken it off by now.

I should be scrolling through my camera roll, laughing at blurry bonfire photos, texting Kelsey-brand jokes about the night.

But instead, the only thing stuck in my head is Cade’s hand closing around that guy’s wrist. The steady way he said, “She’s not interested.”

Quiet. Controlled. Like the whole thing barely scratched his pulse.

I hate that he saw me like that.

Last night got out of control, and he caught it. Caught me. I’m not used to anyone seeing that side.

Me being… vulnerable.

I wish he hadn’t seen it let alone stopped what was happening.

I tell myself I’m not looking for him when I cut through the lumber yard on my walk to get coffee. It’s a shortcut. A path I’ve taken a hundred times. Nothing to do with the sound of wood being stacked or the low thud of something heavy being carried.

But I see him.

Cade’s at the back of the lot, loading long boards onto the flatbed of a truck. Sun hits the cut of his shoulders, the sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. His forearms flex with every lift, veins standing out. He works like he’s done it his whole life. Efficient. Quiet. Completely focused.

Of course he doesn’t notice me. Why would he.

I inhale, fix my hair, roll my shoulders back, and pretend my heart isn’t still jittering from everything that went down.

I step closer. “Wow. Look at you. Finally doing some real work.”

His eyes flick toward me. Just one glance. Then he secures the strap on the boards like I didn’t just offer him an opening.

“It’s morning,” he says. “Most people work in the morning.”

I snort. “I work. Just… not like this.”

“Mhm.” He finishes tightening the strap. Not mocking or teasing. Just existing in that steady, infuriating way he does.

It grates more than if he’d smirked.

I fold my arms. “So, about last night.”

His attention shifts fully to me now, and I regret it instantly. His gaze is too level. Too clear. Like he sees everything I’m trying to hide.

“You alright?” he asks, concern etched on his face.

Two words. And they crack something I didn’t want cracked. And God, he says it with that older-guy calmness, the kind that comes from living more life than me.

“Yeah. I’m good. Barely even a blip,” I say, too breezy to be believable. “I’ve dealt with worse drunks.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. “He grabbed you hard.”

“Only for a second.”

He doesn’t correct me, but he doesn’t buy it either. That’s worse. If he’d rolled his eyes or teased me, I could work with that. But this… quiet concern? It unsettles me.

“I’m good,” I insist. “You can stop staring like I’m going to keel over.”

He wipes his hands on a rag, then props one hip against the truck. “I’m not staring.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m making sure you’re alright.”

There it is again. That simple, steady care that knocks all my defenses sideways.

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. My fingers shake just a little, and I hate that he sees it. “I didn’t need saving.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“But you still jumped in,” I push.

“Guy crossed a line,” he says simply. “I wasn’t about to let that slide. Besides, he shouldn't have had his hands on you in the first place. Simple as that.”

It should make me feel better. It doesn’t. It makes me feel stupid. Exposed. Like last night wasn’t just a scare. More like it meant something that I’m not ready to unpack.

I force a smirk. “Well, thanks for the hero act. Next time I’ll try not to ruin your boots.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Try harder.”

God, he’s impossible.

And somehow, impossibly steady. Which is why I hear myself say, softer than I want, “I’m fine. Really.”

His eyes stay on mine. Quiet. Searching. “Good.”

I break first. I look away, pretending a stack of plywood is suddenly very fascinating. Anything to stop feeling like he’s reading the parts of me I keep hidden on purpose.

“I should get coffee,” I say.

He nods once. “Be careful.”

Two words again. And they hit harder than last night’s waves.

I walk off fast enough to look unaffected, slow enough not to look shaken. But my pulse betrays me. I hate that he got to see me weak. I hate even more that he didn’t use it against me.

And as I leave the yard, one thought sticks like burrs under my skin.

This man is going to be a problem.

I head toward the coffee shop because I need something to do with my hands. If I stand there another second with Cade’s steady eyes on me, I’ll combust. The morning air is warm enough that the walk isn’t bad, but every step feels too loud.

The bell over the door jingles when I push inside. It smells like espresso and sugar and the kind of peace I pretend doesn’t bother me. Two tourists glance over, then lose interest. 

I step up to the counter and order a large iced coffee, extra sweet because I need something to cut through the knot in my stomach. While the barista presses buttons and pulls levers, I tap my fingers against my thigh, a little restless, a little wired.

I keep replaying last night. The guy’s hands. Cade’s voice. The way my breath caught before I could hide it. I’ve been grabbed before. Guys who think touching me is a reward they earned. Usually it rolls right off me. Last night didn’t. It stuck. I can still feel the exact spots his fingers dug into my arms and hips.

Maybe that’s why I hate that Cade stepped in. Because he saw the moment the mask cracked. The part of me I don’t let anyone get close enough to notice.

The barista slides the cup toward me. I thank her and pay, grab a straw, and head outside. I take a long sip and wince. It’s too sweet, but I don’t feel like fixing it.

I wander toward the boardwalk, needing space, needing movement. Shops are still opening, lifting metal gates and sweeping sidewalks. The whole place feels half-asleep, like the town hasn’t decided who it’s supposed to be yet. I know the feeling.

A kid skateboards past me, nearly clipping my ankle. His mom yells after him. A dog shakes saltwater all over my legs when I walk by. Little annoyances, easy distractions. They help for about thirty seconds, then Cade’s face flashes in my head again. Calm. Steady. Hands that didn’t shake even once.

I take another sip and try to force my shoulders to relax. I should be proud I didn’t fall apart last night. I didn’t cry. I didn’t freeze. I didn’t make a scene. I brushed it off. I performed. That’s what I do.

But when I think about his hand closing around that guy’s wrist, it isn’t embarrassment that hits me. It’s the way my pulse kicked. The way something hot curled low in my stomach. The way I noticed him instead of the guy who grabbed me.

I shouldn’t like that. Not even a little.

And I do.

I toss the straw wrapper in a trash bin and keep walking, pretending the coffee is the reason my pulse is still jumpy. Pretending he didn’t get under my skin.

Pretending he didn’t see me.

Because the truth is simple. He did. And I can’t shake it.

I tell myself I’m just walking. Just passing by,  taking the long way back to the house.

I’m lying. Obviously.

Cade’s workshop sits behind the lumber yard, half-open garage door, sawdust drifting into the warm air. I hear the low hum of a sander and step inside before I can talk myself out of it.

He doesn’t see me at first. He’s focused on a board pinned to the workbench, one strong hand bracing it while the other moves steady and sure. His T-shirt is stretched across his back, light catching the lines of his shoulders. He looks like he was carved or sculpted.

My mouth goes a little dry. I hate that.

He glances up when he senses me. Always senses me. “You lost?”

“No,” I say, leaning against the stack of lumber like I belong here. “Just exploring.”

His brows lift. “Do you explore random places like it’s a hobby?”

“Only the ones with interesting scenery.”

He looks at me the way he did last night. Slow and assessing. Like he can see every layer I try to hide. It rattles me more than I want to admit, so I push back with the only thing I know works.

I step closer, close enough to smell sawdust and soap on his skin. “Didn’t get a chance to thank you properly for last night.”

“I didn’t ask for thanks.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second. Barely more. But it’s enough to spike something low and hot in my stomach. I slide my fingers over the edge of the workbench, letting my body angle toward his.

“You always this serious, Lawson?”

“You always this nosey?” he asks, quiet, like he’s offering the line for me to pick up. 

There it is again, that slightly older, steadier edge that makes me feel half-wild just standing near him.

“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

He steps in. Not fast or rough. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing while I’m still pretending I’m not affected. Just close enough that my breath catches. He sets the board aside, wipes his hands on a rag, and tosses it onto the bench behind me.

“Kelsey,” he says, my name hitting deeper than it should. “What are you doing?”

“Whatever I want.”

His gaze sweeps my face, my throat, the rise and fall of my chest. “That’s the problem.”

“Or the fun part.”

Something snaps in the air. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe whatever has been brewing since the fire. His hand comes up to the side of my neck, just firm enough that I’m sure he can feel my pulse jump under his thumb.

He backs me into the workbench without a word. The wood digs into my lower back, grounding me just long enough for him to bend and kiss me.

It’s not soft. Or slow. It’s a hard, consuming crush of his mouth against mine, his fingers curling at my jaw, his body crowding me like he’s been holding this in and finally let himself feel it.

I gasp, and he takes the sound. He kisses like he works. Steady hands, absolute control, no hesitation. Every brush of his mouth is precise, like he knows exactly where to touch to steal the strength from my knees.

My fingers fist in his shirt. I don’t pull him closer. I yank.

His other hand finds my hip, sliding under the hem of my top, thumb pressing into warm skin. It sparks down my spine. I try to find the upper hand, to bite his lip or tilt his head, anything to flip the dynamic.

I can’t. He doesn’t let me.

He kisses me like he already knows the rhythm of my breath. Like he knows exactly how much pressure I can take. Like he knew I’d come looking for him even when I wanted to pretend I wouldn’t.

Heat floods through me in a sharp, dizzy rush. For the first time in a long time, I’m not the one steering the moment.

And I want more. I want all of it. Harder. Closer. Deeper.

“Cade,” I breathe against his mouth, already reaching for more.

Which is why it hits like a slap when he suddenly goes still.

He pulls back. Quiet. Controlled. Like the last thirty seconds weren’t enough to level me.

I blink up at him, lips swollen, breath uneven, brain still trying to catch up. “Why did you stop?”

He drags his thumb across the corner of his mouth, casual in a way that makes me want to shake him. “Because that was a mistake. I’m older than you. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

My heart kicks. “It wasn’t a mistake and who gives a shit that you’re older than me. Jesus, you act like you’re ancient. You’re only 38.”

His eyes hold mine, steady and certain in a way that makes my chest squeeze. “Thirty-eight isn’t ancient,” he says, voice low. “But it’s old enough to know when I’m crossing a line. I shouldn’t have done that Kelsey.”

“Yes,” I shoot back, breath still unsteady. “You should have.”

He exhales once, a low frustrated sound lodged somewhere in his throat, and looks away like he needs the distance just to think.

“You came here,” He nods toward the doorway. “looking for trouble.”

“Maybe I was looking for a good time,” I snap.

He doesn’t bite. Of course he doesn’t. He just studies me, calm as ever, that infuriating quiet settling back over him like armor. “Matches burn fast, Kelsey.”

I feel it like a punch to the chest.

He steps back, picks up the board he was working on, and braces it against the table like he didn’t just wreck my entire nervous system. Like he didn’t have me melting into his hands a second ago.

“That’s it?” I demand, heat crawling up my neck. “You’re done?”

He acts like he doesn’t hear me. Which we both know is a damn lie.

My voice jumps. “You kiss me like that and then go back to woodworking?”

He shrugs. A tiny one. The kind that says he’s absolutely in control of every breath I take right now. “You pushed. I reacted. Don’t read more into it.”

I stare at him, stunned and furious and lightheaded all at once. I can still taste him. Still feel the print of his fingers on my skin. My pulse still hasn’t settled.

He doesn’t look affected at all.

I swallow hard, fire pooling low, steady and dangerous. “Fine,” I say, stepping back toward the door. “If that’s how you want to play.”

His eyes flick up, steady and sure. “I don’t play.”

That line lands somewhere deep inside me, hot and sharp.

I turn and walk out before I do something stupid. Or beg for round two.

Because one thing is very clear as soon as I hit the sunlight outside.

I’m going to ruin that calm of his.

I’m going to light every match I can find.

And he’s going to feel it.

Come back tomorrow for chapter two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Too Wild for Me: Chapter One - The Spark

Morning hits harder than the waves that nearly took Kelsey under, but she’s not about to let Cade see her rattled. When she “accidentally” runs into him at the lumber yard, she’s ready with all her usual flirty fire. Cade, steady and unreadable as ever, refuses to take the bait. One quiet look from him hits deeper than any attention she chased last night… and Kelsey hates how much she feels it.

Too Wild for Me

Kelsey

The Spark

The fire’s burning low, but the night’s still alive. Music blares from somebody’s truck speakers, bass carrying across the dunes like it’s got something to prove. A circle of people sway closer to the flames, bottles lifted, voices raised too loud for the hour.

And me? I’m right in the middle of it. Where else would I be?

I lean back against a driftwood log, a beer bottle sweating in my hand, laughing at some guy’s story I’ve already forgotten. He’s trying too hard, gesturing with wide arms, flexing like I’m supposed to notice. I give him a smile anyway, the kind that makes his friends elbow him with envy. He’ll think he won. He didn’t.

That’s the thing: people expect me to be the wild one, so I give them exactly that. Easy smiles, quick comebacks, one too many sips straight from the bottle when someone dares me. It’s not hard. They laugh, they cheer, they label me the fun one. No one looks closer. No one asks what’s underneath.

I tip my head back and let the beer slide down my throat, cool-ish and not too crisp now that the cooler ice has melted. Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else yells my name. I grin, licking the foam from my lip like it’s a performance, because it is.

“Damn, Kels, you’re gonna drink us under the table.”

I wink at the guy across from me. “That’s the plan.”

He blushes, which makes his buddies howl. I take a bow and snag another drink, my skirt swishing around my thighs as I weave through the crowd. It’s too easy. All I have to do is laugh a little louder, move a little closer, and every eye finds me.

It should feel good, being wanted, being noticed. Most nights, it does. But sometimes, like now, I catch myself wondering if they’d still clap if I stopped playing the part. If I sat down, went quiet, and let the noise pass me by.

Probably not.

So I toss my hair over my shoulder, plant myself between two locals who can’t decide if they want to flirt with me or each other, and laugh at the right time. My hand brushes a guy’s arm when I take the bottle he offers, and he looks at me like I’ve already promised him something I haven’t.

It’s always the same. And I’m good at it.

But tonight the fire feels hotter than usual, the music too loud. Every move I make, every smile I hand out, it’s all a little too easy. A little too thin.

Still, I keep at it, because if I stop, someone might notice that I don’t want to go home yet, that the thought of being alone makes my skin itch. That maybe the wild one isn’t half as wild as she wants them to believe.

I take another swig and laugh when someone dares me to dance. My body sways to the beat, skirt rucked up by the wind, my laugh carrying above the crowd. And just like that, I’m back in control.

Exactly what they came for. Exactly what I’m supposed to be.

It’s the shift in the crowd that tips me off, eyes cutting toward the edge of the dunes, attention pulled somewhere else. I follow it and spot him, away from the chaos, half-shadowed by his motorcycle.

Not drinking from a red cup or yelling over the music. Just leaning against the seat, bottle in hand, boots planted in the sand like he owns the spot. A man who doesn’t need the firelight or the noise to make him stand out.

Cade Lawson. I’ve seen him around town, working with his hands, head down, like he’s got no interest in anything but the wood he’s shaping or the boards he’s loading. Tonight’s no different, he looks calm, steady, like the party could burn itself out and it wouldn’t faze him.

My gaze lingers. Not just because he’s broad-shouldered in that fitted tee, or because his forearms flex easily when he tips the bottle to his mouth. It’s his eyes. Steady, level, cutting through the dark like they’ve seen more than anyone here ever will. That’s ex-military in him. I’ve seen it in my dad. The kind of posture that says he’s been places, done things, and come back with zero patience for games.

Which makes him perfect.

I toss a smile across the sand, bright enough to catch. Most guys trip over themselves when I aim one their way. Cade however, glances at me once, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes drag from head to toe, slow enough to make my skin tingle, then he looks away. Back to his drink.

That’s it.

No smirk. No chase. No stumble over his own feet to get to me. Just one clean sweep, then dismissal.

The nerve.

I sidle closer, hips swaying with the beat, pretending like I’m just shifting spots in the crowd. But my eyes stay locked on him, daring him to look again. When he doesn’t, I let out a laugh loud enough to carry and tip my head back, hair tumbling over my shoulders like a shampoo commercial.

Still nothing.

I catch the eyes of a guy near me and let him pop the cap off my beer. He thinks I’m flirting with him. I’m not. I’m angling myself so Cade has a front-row seat to the way I wrap my lips around the bottle neck, slow and deliberate.

This time, Cade looks.

It’s not rushed or hungry. It’s that same unhurried once-over, like he’s cataloging me piece by piece. And then, just when I think I’ve got him, he tips the bottle back and stares past me at the fire like I’m background noise.

My chest sparks with irritation, or maybe intrigue. I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Nobody shrugs me off. Nobody looks at me like I’m some sideshow they can take or leave. And damn if it doesn’t make me want to climb onto the seat of that bike just to see if he’d finally blink.

Instead, I flash another smile, sweeter this time, and call across the sand, “Careful, Lawson. You keep staring like that, people will think you like me.”

His only reply is the faintest curve of a mouth that looks way too good smirking. Then nothing.

Like I didn’t just set myself on fire trying to get his attention.

I can only take so much.

He’s leaned there all night, cool as stone, watching me without really watching me. Letting every smile, every laugh, every sway of my hips bounce right off him like I’m just another flicker of the fire. And maybe everyone else is satisfied with their little moments of my attention, but I can’t stomach being dismissed.

Not by him.

So I ditch the crowd and head straight for the bike. The sand crunches under my sandals, and I make sure my steps are slow, deliberate—like I’ve got nowhere better to be. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift an inch. Just tips his bottle back and lets the firelight catch on the line of his jaw.

When I stop in front of him, he finally lowers it, eyes meeting mine. Steady. Unbothered.

“You play with fire, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and smooth as whiskey. “You’ll get burned.”

The corner of my mouth curves, heat sparking in my chest. “Then you better keep an eye on me.”

For half a second, something flickers there—amusement, maybe interest—but then it’s gone, replaced with that infuriating calm. He smirks, barely, like he’s humoring me. Then he shifts his weight back against the bike, relaxed as ever, and tips his drink again like the conversation’s already over.

I blink, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw the bottle at his chest just to make him react. Nobody brushes me off. Nobody.

“Wow,” I drawl, crossing my arms, letting my skirt ride higher on my thighs when the breeze catches it. “That’s it? One line and a smirk?”

His gaze tracks the movement—slow, deliberate—but he doesn’t bite. Doesn’t lean forward. Doesn’t reach for me. Just meets my eyes again with that same steady look, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and won’t give me the satisfaction.

“You expected more?” he asks, tone as casual as if we’re talking about the weather.

My laugh comes out harder than I meant it to. “Most guys don’t need an instruction manual when I hand them an opening.”

“Most guys aren’t me.”

The words are simple, but they hit like a challenge. My skin prickles. My mouth goes dry. He doesn’t even raise his voice; he doesn’t have to. That quiet certainty carries more weight than any of the cheers or whistles I’ve gotten all night.

I hate how much I feel it.

I step closer, enough that the space between us tightens, enough that I can smell the mix of smoke and clean soap clinging to him. “So what are you, then?” I ask. “Too good for a little fun?”

He tips his head slightly, studying me the way someone might study a flame, close enough to feel the heat but not close enough to get singed.

“Not too good,” he says finally. “Just not easy.”

And then he looks past me again, back toward the fire, like I’m dismissed all over again.

It should piss me off. It does piss me off. But it also hooks something deep and low inside me, because that calm control is more infuriating, and more intriguing, than any wide-eyed attention I’ve gotten tonight.

If I can’t get under his skin, maybe I can lose myself in the crowd again.

I don’t let him see me rattled. The second his attention slides back to the fire, I spin on my heel like it’s me doing the dismissing, not him. My laugh rings out too bright as I rejoin the circle, snagging another drink off the nearest cooler like I don’t have a care in the world. I left the other on near him and I’ll be damned if I go back for it. 

Outwardly it seems like I won, even though I know I didn’t.

And damn it, the only eyes I wish were on me, the only ones I actually want, aren’t.

I shove my way back into the circle, their hands grabbing too quick, too eager, like they’ve been waiting their turn.

One loops an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into a half-spin near the flames. I let it happen, laughing, pretending the tug on my waist is part of the fun. But his hand slips lower, fingers digging into my hip like he’s claiming something I never offered.

I twist, still laughing like I mean it, but his grip only tightens. Irritation spikes hot under my skin. It’s not the first time someone’s taken my act too literally, and usually I can handle it. Usually I can stay in control.

This time, though, when I push at his chest to put space between us, he doesn’t let go. His hand slides from my hip to my upper arms, both of them clamped hard enough that the laugh dies in my throat. His fingers bite into my skin, holding me still.

“You’re hurting me,” I hiss, my smile breaking, panic flashing sharp through the haze of noise and firelight. I wrench against him, but he only squeezes harder, grinning like he thinks it’s still all a game.

Before I can shove him off, another hand closes around his wrist. Steady. Unmovable.

Cade.

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t posture. Just holds the guy’s arm with calm steel, his voice low enough to cut through the music. “She’s not interested.”

The guy bristles, mutters something about me not looking uninterested a minute ago. Cade doesn’t so much as blink. He releases him with a firm shove that leaves no room for argument. “Walk away.”

And just like that, it’s over. The guy slinks back toward the circle, grumbling. My pulse is still hammering, not from fear, more from the quiet certainty in Cade’s voice. Like he could’ve leveled the whole bonfire without raising his tone.

When his eyes flick to me, they’re steady as ever. No lecture. No demand. Just one line, calm as the ocean behind him.

“Careful, sweetheart. Keep playing like that, and you’ll get burned.”

The words land harder than they should. Because I’ve played this game a thousand times, and I’ve never felt anything close to this burn.

The guy’s hands still burn on my arms even though Cade stopped him and he walked away. I should laugh it off, spin back into the crowd like nothing happened. That’s what they expect from, —the wild one who can handle anything.

But my laugh isn’t coming this time. And if I can’t laugh, then what am I? Without it, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.

I stand there for a beat too long, bottle sweating in my hand, pulse thudding in my throat. When I finally look at Cade, he’s watching me. Calm. Steady. Like he knows exactly what just cracked.

“Thanks for that,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be. I try for a smirk, but it feels thin. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

One corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “Guess you were wrong.”

The words hit harder than they should, and I hate how much they land.

So I turn away and push back into the crowd, bottle still clutched in my hand, laughter rising up around me like I’m supposed to join in. But I don’t. My pulse is still hammering, my skin still buzzing, my thoughts stuck on the man I just walked away from.

And for the first time, I’m not sure if I want to light another fire or if I’m already burning.

Come back tomorrow for chapter two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Why We Love an Age Gap Romance (and Why This One Hits Different)

 

Age-gap romance isn’t about scandal—it’s about timing, growth, second chances, and the moment two people finally collide when life stops getting in the way.

Evan and Lena were never meant to work back then. She was young, building her future. He was raising his daughter and trying to hold everything together.

But years later?

The playing field is level.

The timing is right.

And the spark they ignored is suddenly impossible to put out.

Whether it’s older man/younger woman, older woman/younger man, or somewhere in between, age-gap stories give us:

• characters who’ve lived real lives

• slow, earned tension

• deep emotional payoff

• that “we shouldn’t… but we really should” energy

• the ultimate mix of maturity + magnetic chemistry

If you’ve been following Lena and Evan, you already know:

Sometimes the right person just shows up at the wrong time…until the timing finally catches up.

Want recs? Want tropes? Want more? Tell me your favorite age-gap pairings in the comments.

Teach Me Tonight: Chapter Five

 The morning after shouldn’t feel this easy… but it does.

Sunlight, coffee, soft teasing, and a slow unraveling of every truth they never said years ago. Lena and Evan finally face what’s been simmering between them—what they both wanted and never admitted.

There’s no shame, no awkwardness, just warmth and connection and the quiet realization that last night wasn’t a mistake.

Not even close.

And when he leans in with a smile that promises more, the only question left is the one neither of them wants to answer wrong:

What comes next?

Chapter Five

Lena

After Class

Morning light filters through the curtains, warm and pale, catching on the edges of the room like it’s trying to wake us gently. My body definitely doesn’t feel gentle, though. Every inch of me is aware of what happened last night, of his hands, his mouth, the way he said my name like it meant everything.

I blink up at the ceiling, half expecting to be alone.

I’m not.

Evan is stretched out beside me, one arm slung over his stomach, breathing slow and even. His hair’s a little messy, jaw shadowed, chest rising and falling under the thin sheet. He looks… peaceful. Younger. Like whatever weight he normally carries decided to clock out.

It’s unfair how attractive he looks first thing in the morning.

His eyes open before I can look away.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and sleep-rough, the kind that goes straight through me.

“Hey.”

A slow smile curves at the corner of his mouth. “You okay?”

My cheeks warm. “Pretty sure I’m the one who should be asking that.”

He laughs softly, rolling to his side, head propped on his hand. “If you’re referring to the part where you nearly killed me twice… yeah. I’ll survive.”

I groan, dragging a pillow over my face. “Stop.”

“No,” he says, tugging it down just enough to see my eyes. “You started it.”

His grin is impossible not to return.

I become vaguely aware of the way the sheet’s slipped down, the way my body aches in the best possible way, all loose and satisfied and a little sore. It hits me in a slow wave. We really did that.

He watches me for a beat, eyes softer now. “Regrets?”

The question’s quiet, careful.

I shake my head. “No. You?”

“Not even close.”

He sits up, stretching, and the blanket slips low on his hips in a way that absolutely should be illegal before coffee. “Speaking of starting things,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed, “I can offer caffeine. Black, with cream, or with enough sugar to qualify as dessert?”

“Coffee,” I say, pulling the sheet around me and sitting up. “Only if it comes with extra credit.”

He pauses in the doorway, looks back at me with a smirk that could melt concrete. “Trust me,” he says, “you earned it.”

Heat rushes through me again, traitorous and immediate.

I find the T-shirt he handed me last night draped over a chair and tug it on. It falls mid-thigh, soft and worn from age. The smell of him clings to the fabric, warm and clean and stupidly addictive. As I pad down the hallway, I catch glimpses of his life in the daylight. Photos of Mia at different ages, a framed game ticket, a picture of them where he looks tired but happy.

You really did build a life around her, I think, chest pulling tight.

He moves around the kitchen like he never left it, quiet, comfortable, practiced. The coffeemaker hums. Mugs clink softly. Morning sunlight catches on his bare shoulders, turning the muscles in his back into something that belongs in a very specific kind of museum.

“So,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder as I slide onto a stool at the island, “you still a ‘ Saturdays are my favorite’ girl? Or did last night bump that up the list?”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” he says, pouring coffee. “Pretty sure that ship sailed somewhere around lesson three.”

He hands me a mug, fingers brushing mine, and my body remembers exactly how he touched me last night.

“So,” he adds, “how’s your grade looking this morning?”

I take a long sip, buying time. “Pretty sure I passed.”

“Oh, you did more than pass.”

I swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”

His smile softens a little, less teasing now. “Can’t help it around you.”

That tiny shift—lighthearted to something truer—hits somewhere low in my stomach. I lean against the counter, mug warming my hands.

“Okay,” I say. “Official teacher review. You did very well. Clear effort, strong engagement, excellent… retention.”

He laughs, head tipping back. “Retention, huh?”

“Top of the class.”

“Good to know.” He takes a sip of his own coffee, then sets the mug down, watching me from where he is. “Can I make you breakfast? Or is that too much, too soon?”

“Depends,” I say. “Is it part of the extra credit package or a separate assignment?”

“Definitely bundled,” he says, lips twitching. “Full lesson plan experience.”

“Then yeah,” I murmur. “I’m not turning that down.”

He moves around the kitchen again, pulling out eggs and bread and some kind of fancy-looking cheese like this is normal, like I’ve woken up here a hundred times instead of once. The domesticity of it throws me more than the sex did. There’s something dangerously comfortable about watching him crack eggs into a bowl, bare-chested, morning-scruffy, moving with easy familiarity.

“So,” he says after a moment, fingers brushing the rim of his mug, “last night…”

He trails off, searching for the right words.

I raise an eyebrow. “Careful. You’re starting to sound nervous.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure last night says otherwise.”

My face warms. “Touché.”

He sips his coffee once, then sets it down running his finger around the rim. His voice drops, quieter. “You know… I used to imagine this.”

The words catch me off guard in a way I’m not ready for. “Imagined what?”

“You and me,” he says, eyes lifting to mine. “Talking like this. Being easy with each other again. Not exactly like this,” he adds, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “The details were different, sure. But the idea of you? That part never changed.”

My stomach flips. “You thought about that?”

“More than I should’ve at the time.” His gaze holds mine, steady and unguarded in a way that makes my chest tighten. “I didn’t say anything back then because it felt wrong. But after Mia left for school… I kept thinking about it. About you.”

I look down at my mug, letting the heat creep into my palms. “I used to think about it too.”

His brows lift, a flash of surprise and something warmer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I swallow, the confession sticking a little in my throat. “Just never thought I’d actually let myself have it.”

His ears go a little pink, which is unfairly cute for a man who had his hand between my thighs just last night.

“How so?”

His gaze drifts toward the window, then back to me, softer now. “I kept thinking I had to handle everything myself. Work. Life. All of it. Letting someone in felt… risky.”

I tilt my head. “Risky how?”

He breathes out slowly. “Because wanting something for myself wasn’t something I let myself do. Not for a long time.”

I nudge his arm lightly with mine. “So… control issues?”

“Probably.” He hesitates, then adds, “Or maybe I just didn’t find the one I was looking for.”

The words slip between teasing and confession.

I swirl my coffee, pretending to think about it. “You were always good at taking control.”

“And you were always good at pretending not to like it.”

The heat that rushes through me is instant. I glance at him, finding his eyes already on me, dark and steady.

“I don’t remember that,” I lie.

His smile is small, knowing. “You never had to say it.”

My throat works around another sip I don’t really take. ‘You have got to stop doing that to me.’

He flips the eggs, plating breakfast like this is just another morning. It isn’t. He sets a plate in front of me, then takes the stool beside mine instead of across from me, our knees brushing.

For a second, we just eat in silence, the quiet not awkward, just full. Comfortable. Charged.

He sets his fork down first, fingers tracing the edge of the plate like he’s debating saying what’s running through his mind. “I thought about reaching out to you,” he says quietly.

My breath stalls. “You did?”

He nods once. “More than once.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He lets out a slow breath. “You were in college. Starting your life. And I was…” His mouth lifts in a rueful almost-smile. “A single dad who couldn’t figure out how to send a text that didn’t sound like an awkward thank-you for tutoring my kid.”

A warmth flares in my chest. “You could’ve tried.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But it felt easier to think you were out there doing amazing things instead of risking messing it up by dragging you into my world.”

“And now?”

His eyes meet mine, steady and sure. “Now I get to look at you without pretending it’s nothing.”

My chest tightens in a way that feels too real, too soon, too everything. I stare down at my plate like it might help. “I almost called you once.”

He stills. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “A few years ago. I found your number in an old email thread with Mia. I almost dialed. Just to say hi. Just to see if you’d remember me or if that was all in my head.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Why didn’t you?”

I huff out a breath, eyes burning a little more than I want them to. “Because I overthink everything and because I talked myself out of it. Told myself I was imagining the past, that you probably didn’t even remember me.”

His eyebrows lift, like the idea is ridiculous. “Lena. I remembered you.”

Something inside me loosens, something I didn’t realize I’d been holding tight for a long time.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers over mine against the mug. The touch is soft, nothing like last night, but somehow it hits harder.

“You were… this bright spot,” he says quietly. “Back when everything was about schedules and report cards and making sure Mia didn’t fall apart. You walked in with your highlighters and your lesson plans and your ‘no shortcuts’ face and… I noticed. I just tried really hard not to.”

My throat gets tight. “You really waited until after I slept with you to say that?”

He laughs, the tension easing just enough. “Timing was never my strong suit. Plus you were young and I was older than you.”

“No kidding,” I mutter, but there’s no real bite in it.

He squeezes my hand once before letting go, like he’s testing how much contact I can handle before I bolt. I don’t move.

“So,” I say, quietly uncertain and stupidly hopeful. “What now? Does the age difference still bother you?”

He picks up his mug again, but his gaze stays on me. “Well, professor,” he says, voice low, “we’ve covered the basics. Intro to Bad Ideas. Advanced Extra Credit.”

He leans in slightly. “Pretty sure the only thing bothering me was how long it took me to stop pretending it mattered.”

I snort. “So that was just the intro?”

He smiles. “I’m calling it a strong start.”

“Evan.”

He sobers, the playfulness softening into something more grounded. “Moving forward… we don’t pretend this was just one night. Not unless that’s what you want.”

My heart stumbles. ‘Do I want that? No. God, no.’

“I don’t,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.

“Good,” he murmurs, relief flickering across his face so quickly I almost miss it.

He steps closer, setting his mug down, hand sliding along my waist, warm and steady.

“Guess,” he says, voice dropping, “we find out what the next lesson is.”

A smile pulls at my lips. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in, “I’m counting on it.”

His mouth brushes mine, soft and unhurried, a promise instead of a demand. It tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like hope.

And just like that, the morning shifts with promise, heat, and something neither of us is pretending away anymore.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Teach Me Tonight: Chapter Four

Things were supposed to slow down once the door closed. Instead, everything between us snaps open.

One kiss becomes a challenge.

One touch becomes a dare. And the man who used to watch me from a careful distance is suddenly the one calling the shots.

He’s patient. He’s commanding.

And the way he handles me feels like he’s been waiting years for this exact moment.

But it’s not just physical.

It’s the way he looks at me like he’s learning every inch of me— and the way I have absolutely no intention of stopping him.

Tonight isn’t about the past. Tonight is about control… and who’s willing to give it up.

Chapter 4

Lena

The Lesson

By the time Evan comes back, my heartbeat has barely started to slow.

I hear the low murmur of his voice at the door, something polite and short. Then the soft click of it shutting again. Footsteps.

I stay where he left me, pressed against the counter, arms braced behind me like I need the support. I probably do.

He steps back into the kitchen, jaw a little tight, eyes a lot darker. “Wrong house. Teenagers. Thought they had the right address for a party.”

My lungs remember how to work, barely, as air rushed back into them. “Kids these days.”

His gaze drags over me like he is picking up exactly where he left off. “Yeah. No respect for timing.”

My laugh comes out thin. “We were kind of in the middle of something.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We were.”

The space between us is only a few steps, but it feels like a decision. I could grab my purse, make a joke, pretend this was a near miss and nothing more. Go home.

I do not move.

But he does.

Evan crosses the room slowly, like he is giving me time to change my mind. I won’t. My fingers curl tighter on the counter instead.

When he reaches me, he stops close enough that I can feel his body heat, close enough that I have to tilt my head just a little to keep eye contact.

“Still want that extra credit?” he asks.

My pulse stutters. “Thought I was the one handing it out.”

His mouth curves, that slow, dangerous smile that started all of this. “Maybe it is my turn. Even if you are the teacher,” he says, voice low and sure, “I think there are a few things you could learn from me.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. 

“Even teachers have lessons left to learn, Lena.”

He lifts his hand, pushing a strand of hair back from my face, fingers brushing the side of my neck. “You used to make me nervous. Did you know that?”

My breath catches. “I did not.”

“You did,” he says, thumb stroking lightly along my jaw. “You sitting at my kitchen table, focused, bossing Mia around, looking at those problems like they were nothing.” He shifts closer. “You had all the control. I just stood there and tried not to think about how wrong it would be to want you.”

Heat slams through me. “And now?”

His eyes hold mine like he is done pretending. “Now here you are, in my kitchen, and nothing about this feels wrong.”

My chest squeezes tight. ‘Bad idea. Really good bad idea.’

“Evan,” I whisper.

He dips his head, lips hovering just above mine. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

I don’t. I lean in first.

The kiss hits like we never actually stopped. His mouth finds mine, hot and sure, and whatever distance that was left between us disappears. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there, not rough, but firm enough that I feel every ounce of intention behind it.

I clutch his shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer. His chest is solid against mine, his body pinning me gently to the counter.

He groans, low and quiet, when I open for him. The sound shoots straight through me. His tongue slides against mine, slow at first, then with more pressure like he is learning every inch of me.

Pulling back slightly, “You always this bad at following directions?” I manage against his mouth, breathless.

He smiles into the kiss, lips brushing mine. “Guess the student caught up.”

The words go off inside me like a spark.

I drag him closer, nothing subtle about it, my hips shifting against his. The unmistakable hardness against my hip I feel is definite, very real, and sends a hot rush of satisfaction through me.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, thumb rubbing along my lower lip. “You have no idea, do you?”

“About what?”

“How much I learned watching you,” he says, voice low. “How focused you are. How stubborn. How you bite your lip when you are trying not to react.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Makes a man think about what you would do if you stopped holding back.”

My whole body flushes. My lip betrays me and catches between my teeth.

His eyes darken completely. “Just like that.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time, one hand sliding down my side, over my hip, anchoring me where he wants me. The other stays at my neck, thumb tracing small, grounding circles that only make the rest of me feel more unsteady.

The edge of the counter isn’t enough to ground me. I want more.

“Evan,” I breathe, breaking away for air. “Maybe we should not…”

He rests his forehead against mine, breath fanning my lips. “We can stop.”

I hate how much I do not want that.

I look up at him, heart pounding. “I did not say that.”

Something shifts in his expression, like that was the last piece he needed.

He steps back just enough to hold out his hand. “Come.”

My fingers slide into his before I can overthink it. His palm is warm, grip sure and steady. He leads me down the hallway, lights dim, house quiet in that way that feels like it is holding its breath.

I’ve been in this house before, but never here. His room feels different—private in a way that makes my pulse skip. Soft light spills from the bedside lamp, casting everything in a warm glow.

He closes the door behind us, then turns back to me.

“You can still walk away,” he says, searching my face.

I shake my head, stepping closer until my chest brushes his. “I think we are a little past that.”

His hand comes up, fingers curling around the side of my neck, thumb resting under my jaw. “Last chance, Lena.”

Instead of answering, I rise onto my toes and kiss him. 

Hard.

And just like that any tension left, breaks.

He responds like he has been holding himself back for years. And maybe he has. His hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me fully against him. I can feel exactly how much he wants this, wants me, and something hungry snaps loose inside me.

My fingers push under the hem of his shirt, finding warm skin and muscle. He sucks in a breath when my nails skim along his stomach.

“Thought I was the one teaching here?” he asks, voice rough.

“Pretty sure I am at least co-instructing,” I say, even as I tug his shirt up.

He huffs out a laugh, helping me pull it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him. My hands roam over his chest, over the solid lines of his shoulders, the trail of hair that leads lower. Down to that delicious V muscle at his hips.

“God,” I whisper, half to myself. “Did you just get hotter with age, or is that actually a thing?”

His mouth curves. “You are not exactly struggling.”

His fingers find the hem of my top, toying with it, waiting.

I nod. “Off.”

That’s all he needs. He peels it up slowly, knuckles brushing bare skin as he goes. The fabric leaves my body and suddenly the air feels even warmer, his gaze dragging over me in a way that makes my stomach swoop.

“Lena,” he says quietly, almost like a warning and a prayer all at once. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” I say, even as heat spreads under my skin.

He steps in again, hands at my waist, thumbs brushing the edge of my bra. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”

‘I might,’ I think, feeling the hard press of him against my hip.

His mouth finds my neck, slow, reverent, like he is testing what I like and what makes me shiver. When he hits the spot just below my ear, my fingers tighten on his shoulders.

“Right there,” I breathe.

He smiles against my skin. “Lesson noted.”

He keeps going, kissing down my throat, across my collarbone, while his hands slide up my ribs. When his thumbs pass over the swell of my breasts, even through the thin fabric, my breath stutters.

“Evan,” I whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, fingers toying with the strap. “You want me to stop?”

“I absolutely do not.”

His eyes hold mine as he unhooks my bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. The way he looks at me then, like he’s seeing something precious and not just something he wants, makes my chest ache in a whole new way.

“You… are beautiful,” he says, simple and sure.

His voice slides right through my defenses before I can stop it. I swallow, heat flushing my face. “You are biased.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Still true.”

Then he is bending his head, mouth closing around my nipple, and every thought in my head pretty much ceases to exist.

A gasp slips out before I can catch it. My hand flies to the back of his neck, holding him there, and he takes that as permission to keep going. His tongue flicks, his teeth tease lightly, just enough to send a sharp little bolt of pleasure down my spine. The hand that is not on my breast slides lower, over my stomach, to the button of my jeans.

He pauses, glancing up. “Yes?”

I nod, breathless. “Yes. God yes.”

He undoes them, slow, fingers brushing my skin every chance he gets. He pushes the denim down over my hips, taking my underwear with it, and suddenly I am bare in front of him, nothing left between us.

For a second, I almost flinch, old insecurities trying to claw their way in.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly, straightening. His hand comes up, cupping my cheek. “Are you okay?”

I nod, forcing a breath out. “Yeah. Just… out of practice.”

His thumb strokes my skin. “Then I’ll take it from here.”

The knot in my chest loosens. I exhale, a shaky laugh slipping free. “Bossy.”

He smiles. “You knew that when you walked in.”

He guides me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I sink down, heart pounding, watching him as he shucks his own jeans, leaving his boxer briefs clinging to his hips and not doing much else.

I drag my gaze back up slowly. “Show-off.”

“You complaining?”

“Not even close.”

He climbs onto the bed with me, bracing himself over me, weight held back so I do not feel trapped, just surrounded. His mouth finds mine again, kissing me slow and deep, one hand sliding between my thighs.

The first touch of his fingers against me pulls a sound from my chest I do not recognize. He swallows that too, his lips never leaving mine as he learns me. Mapping what makes me gasp, what makes my hips jerk, what makes my whole body tighten.

“God, you are so wet for me,” he murmurs against my mouth, voice rough with desire. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

I manage a broken laugh. “I might have a clue.”

He smiles, then focuses, fingers working me like he is solving the most important problem he has ever been given. Pressure, rhythm, patience. Every time I start to chase it, he adjusts, holding me right on the edge.

“Evan,” I whine, the word dragged out of me. “Stop teasing.”

“Thought you liked it when I took control,” he says softly.

“Not like this.”

His mouth curves against my jaw. “Lesson in letting go, then.”

When he finally, finally gives me what I need, it hits fast and hard. My back arches, fingers digging into his shoulders, a sharp rush of pleasure tearing through me as I fall apart in his hands.

He holds me through it, murmuring quiet things I can’t make out, thumb brushing gentle circles as I come back to myself.

I blink up at him, chest heaving. “Okay,” I manage. “That was… that was unfair.”

“Pretty sure I warned you,” he says, voice hoarse.

I glance down between us, at the way he is straining against his briefs. “You look like you need help.”

He laughs quietly, the sound strained. “I am trying to be a gentleman. Ladies always come first. Pun intended.”

I slide my hand down, cupping him through the fabric, delighting in the way his eyes slam shut. “Or,” I say, “you can let me return the favor.”

His head tips back, jaw tight. “Lena.”

“You said you liked learning,” I remind him, fingers curling. “Let me teach you how much I want this too.”

When he looks at me again, there is nothing held back. No distance, no doubt. Just want and something that looks a lot like the start of something bigger.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, “at this rate, I am never graduating.”

“Good,” I whisper, pulling him down into another kiss. “Because I’m not done teaching.”

Come back tomorrow for chapter five

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Teach Me Tonight: Chapter Three

One glass of wine turns into more than either of them planned.

What starts as teasing slips into something real—heat and honesty tangled between words they shouldn’t be saying and a touch that feels inevitable. But just when control finally shatters, a knock at the door threatens to break more than the moment.

Chapter 3

Lena

Lessons in Control

The door clicks shut behind me, quieter than it should be. The air feels different now, warmer, heavier. He crosses back to the counter, refilling both glasses like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Still the same bottle?” I ask, watching the way his hand curves around the stem.

He nods. “Didn’t seem right to open another one. Feels like we should finish what we started.”

I lick my lips and reply, “That’s one way to put it.”

I take the glass from him, fingers brushing his. It’s casual on the surface—everything about this is—but the spark it sends down my arm says otherwise.

He leans against the counter again, and I can’t help noticing how different he looks in this light. His hair’s longer now, streaked with gray that catches gold in the light. There’s an ease about him now that wasn’t there before, the kind that comes from surviving life.

“So,” he says, swirling the wine, “you ever take your own advice and put yourself out there? You know, that thing called dating you swore you didn’t have time for at dinner?”

I snort softly into my glass. “You really paying that much attention?”

“You made it hard not to.”

I laugh, trying to make it sound casual. “Not really my subject area anymore.”

“Any of your students brave enough to try?”

“Please,” I say, shaking my head. “They think thirty is ancient.”

He grins. “Their loss, but for what it’s worth, you aren’t ancient by any stretch of the word.”

I try not to react to that. Try not to read too much into it—but my chest still tightens. “What about you?”

He shrugs, gaze flicking toward the window. “I went on a few dates. Nothing stuck. Guess I got used to doing things on my own.”

“Control issues?”

“Probably. Or maybe I just didn’t find the one I was looking for.”

The words land somewhere between teasing and confession.

I swirl my wine, pretending to think about it. “You were always good at taking control.”

“And you were always good at pretending not to like it.”

The heat that rushes through me is instant. It’s not what he says, it’s the quiet certainty behind it. I glance at him, finding his eyes already on me, dark and steady.

“I don’t remember that,” I lie.

He tips his head, smiling slightly. “You never had to say it.”

I look away, focusing on the way the candlelight plays off the wine. “You’ve gotten bold.”

“Or maybe I just stopped worrying it was wrong.”

My pulse stumbles. “And now?”

His voice drops, soft but certain. “Now it feels right.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “Feels more like a test.”

“Then I guess I’m the student again.”

I take another slow sip, letting the moment stretch. “And what exactly are you trying to learn?”

His eyes hold mine, steady and unreadable. “How much you’ll let me get away with.”

My breath catches. “Careful,” I say quietly. “You’re close to extra credit territory.”

He chuckles, stepping around the counter, glass still in hand. “Maybe that’s the point.”

I don’t move. Not when his footsteps stop a breath away. Not when I feel the heat of him, close enough that I could lean forward and erase what’s left of the space between us.

The scent of him—soap, wine, a trace of smoke from whatever he cooked earlier—wraps around me like static.

“I missed this,” he says, his voice softer now.

“What, tutoring sessions?”

He smiles. “The way you argue with everything I say.”

“Someone had to keep you humble.”

“Guess you failed.”

I laugh, but it’s shaky this time. “Guess I did.”

He reaches past me to set his glass on the counter, his arm brushing my shoulder as he does. The movement is small, deliberate, and it steals my breath more than any words could.

For a second, I forget the rules, the years, the reasons I should leave. All I know is the pulse in my throat and the warmth at my back.

The sound of the clock ticking fills the silence, steady and slow. His hand lingers near mine, fingers close enough that one wrong breath could close the distance.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping low enough to graze my skin. “You always this good at pretending you’re not dangerous?”

I tilt my chin up. “You always this good at pretending you don’t like it?”

His breath catches, the sound subtle but real.

Neither of us moves, but everything inside me does—the weight in my chest, the ache low in my stomach, the sharp awareness of how close he is.

If this is still a lesson, I’m not sure who’s teaching who anymore.

The silence that follows stretches thin, humming between us. His words settle somewhere deep, and when I finally look up, he’s much closer than I realized.

Inches. That’s all that separates us now.

The edge of the counter presses against my back, cool and grounding, but it doesn’t do much to stop the warmth creeping through me. His gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth, and I can almost feel it, like a touch that hasn’t reached me yet.

“You really think you can still teach me something?” he asks, voice low enough that it vibrates through me instead of over the air.

The corner of my mouth curves. “Pretty sure I could.”

He leans in, slow, deliberate. “You always did like having control.”

“Someone had to keep you in line.”

His chuckle is quiet, dangerous. “You sure that’s what you’re doing now?”

My heart stumbles. “What do you think I’m doing?”

He takes another step forward. The air shifts. The faint smell of rosemary and wine and heat surrounds us, familiar and disarming all at once.

“I think,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “you’re testing how much I can take.”

I swallow hard. “And?”

His breath brushes my cheek. “So far? Losing.”

The tension breaks like a live wire snapping—sudden and hot. His hand slides along the edge of the counter until his fingers graze my hip, not quite touching, but enough to make every nerve in my body stand at attention.

“You should probably stop,” I murmur, though my voice sounds nothing like I mean it.

“You don’t want me to.”

My pulse skips again, traitorous and loud. “You always this confident?”

“Only when I’m right.”

Then he moves.

His hand finds my jaw, tilting it up just enough that I have to look at him. The moment stretches—his breath mingling with mine, the sound of it louder than the hum of the refrigerator or the clock ticking in the other room.

Then his mouth finds mine. No hesitation, no space left between us.

It’s not tentative. It’s a pull, deep and unhurried, like he’s taking back every year between then and now. My hands find his shirt before I even think about it, clutching the fabric like I need something solid to hold onto.

He tastes like wine and something darker, something I shouldn’t want as much as I do.

When his tongue slides against mine, the noise I make isn’t polite. He swallows it, one hand braced on the counter beside me, the other sliding into my hair. The movement sends a shock straight through me—years of quiet restraint burning off in seconds.

I pull back just enough to breathe, lips brushing his as I speak. “You always this bad at following directions?”

The words come out unsteady, half breath, half challenge.

He smirks, breath rough. “You always this good at giving them?”

Before I can answer, he kisses me again—harder this time. My back presses harder into the counter’s edge. His body fits against mine, firm, warm, and too much in all the right ways. The faint scrape of his stubble against my skin makes me shiver.

He pulls away only far enough to look at me, eyes dark and steady. “Say stop, and I will.”

“I know.” My voice catches. “That’s the problem.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, forehead resting against mine. “You make it hard to remember what’s smart.”

“Maybe we both need a refresher.”

His thumb drags along my jaw, down my throat. “Careful, Lena.”

“Or what?”

He kisses me again—slower this time, deeper, until the world narrows to the feel of his mouth and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

It’s control and chaos all at once. For lack of a better word, he’s devouring me.

And when he finally breaks away, both of us breathing like we just ran a race, his next words barely make it past his lips.

“Keep looking at me like that, and I’m not stopping at a kiss.”

I open my mouth to answer, but the sharp knock at the front door cuts through the moment like a slap of cold air.

We both freeze.

Another knock. Louder this time.

I glance toward the knocking sound, heart still racing. “Are you expecting someone?”

He shakes his head once, jaw tight. “No.”

The third knock comes harder, impatient.

He glances toward the hallway, jaw tightening. “Stay here.”

And before I can argue—or catch my breath—he’s already gone, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving me standing there, pulse still thrumming, lips still tingling, every thought in my head tangled between what just happened and what happens next?

Come back tomorrow for Chapter four

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 

Teach Me Tonight: Chapter Two

She meant to thank him for returning her grade book.

He turned it into dinner.

What starts as a harmless reunion over wine and garlic butter turns into something far more dangerous—the kind of slow, electric pull that doesn’t belong between a single dad and his daughter’s former tutor.

When laughter fades to silence, and a touch lingers a little too long, one thing becomes clear…

Some lessons are better learned the second time around.

Chapter Two

Lena

The Dinner Lesson

His address was written in the corner of a note taped to my grade book, the one that mysteriously appeared in the teacher’s lounge this morning with his handwriting all over it. Beneath it, in neat, familiar handwriting: Thought this might be important. You can thank me over dinner. My place, 7:00pm. Don’t be late.

The door opens before I can knock twice.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm and casual, like this isn’t completely insane. “Come in. Dinner’s almost done.”

The smell hits me first. Garlic, something rich and buttery, a hint of rosemary maybe? It’s familiar in a way that shouldn’t be. His house looks the same too, same framed photos, same warm lighting, though the furniture’s different. Less kid chaos, more quiet grown-up life.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

I gesture toward the table he’s setting instead. “You didn’t have to feed me as a ransom exchange.”

He grins. “You leave something behind, I take that as a sign. Dinner seemed fair. House rule.”

“House rule, huh?” I toe off my shoes by the door, an old habit from the dozen evenings I spent here years ago. Then follow him into the kitchen. “Still sound like a dad.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “And you still sound like trouble.”

I pretend to study the counter instead of the way his sleeves are pushed to his elbows, forearms flexing with easy strength, veins standing out just enough to make my pulse trip. “So you cook now?”

“Survival skill,” he says, stirring the pan. “Mia claims it’s the only reason she didn’t starve through college.”

“She’s lucky.”

“She knows it.” He pauses, turning off the burner. “Wine?”

“Sure. If you promise it’s not a trap.”

He pours us each a glass, sliding one across the counter. “It’s just dinner, Lena.”

“Mm-hm,” I say, taking a sip. “You keep telling yourself that.”

His laugh is low, quiet. “You always were stubborn.”

I arch a brow. “Pretty sure that’s why your daughter passed geometry.”

“Probably true.”

We move to the table, and the conversation flows easier than I expect, teaching stories, my students, his projects, the odd in-between of being adults now. The more he talks, the more I realize how much he’s changed. Softer in some ways. Rougher in others.

“You know, I never saw you date much back then, why not?” I ask when he mentions those years of raising Mia alone.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t really have time. Between work and her, dating never made the list.”

“And now?” I ask, biting my lip without thinking.

His gaze moves to my mouth then rises to my eyes, steady. “Still not great at it.”

I smile, tracing the rim of my glass. “So what… you’re out of practice?”

“Something like that.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “Maybe you could teach me something new.”

The words hang there, teasing but innocent enough to keep breathing. Barely.

I set my fork down. “Careful,” I say, matching his tone. “I’m a very dedicated teacher.”

“That so?”

“Ask Mia. I don’t believe in shortcuts.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Somehow I remember that.”

We finish dinner talking about everything except what’s actually happening between us. Every time our hands brush, passing the salt, reaching for our glasses, it feels like a question neither of us wants to answer yet.

When I finally push my chair back, the plates are mostly empty and my nerves are buzzing.

“That was incredible,” I tell him, meaning both the food and the tension simmering beneath it.

He stands too, collecting our plates. “Glad you liked it. I figured I owed you at least one meal after all the math problems you suffered through.”

“Oh, you have no idea how much tutoring trauma costs.”

He grins. “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you with dessert.”

“Is that another house rule?”

“Could be,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. “You still game for another lesson?”

My pulse skips at the way he says it, light and teasing, but with an edge that makes my skin warm.

“Guess it depends on the subject.”

“Guess you’ll find out.”

The clatter of dishes fills the quiet between us, louder than it should be. He rinses while I stack, our rhythm falling into sync like it used to. Except it didn’t, not like this. Not with this flirtatious undercurrent humming beneath it all.

Steam curls up from the sink, catching the soft kitchen light. I reach for a plate; his hand brushes mine. Just a light touch, enough to pull my focus.

“Still don’t believe in shortcuts?” he asks, voice low, teasing, like he’s testing how far that word lesson can stretch.

“Not when it comes to grades,” I say, sliding the plate onto the drying rack. “Dinner, maybe.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Guess that’s progress.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He glances over, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You saying I shouldn’t get cocky?”

“Exactly.” I reach for a towel, trying to sound steady, trying to ignore the way the word cocky sounds coming from him. “Pretty sure I’m still the teacher here.”

He leans a hip against the counter, folding his arms. “Maybe I like being the one learning something for once.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Yeah? What do you think you’ve learned tonight?”

“That you still bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

The towel slips from my fingers. My pulse skips once, hard. “Observant,” I say, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

“Old habit,” he says. “Hard to turn off.”

There’s nothing playful about his tone now. The banter fades, replaced by a charged stillness that settles in the air between us. I can feel it in the space where our voices fall away, in the way he’s looking at me like he’s memorizing something.

I turn back to the sink, needing motion, something to do with my hands. “So,” I say, my voice light but a little too thin. “What’s next on the lesson plan?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, slow enough that I hear the floor creak under his weight. I can feel the warmth of him at my back, close but not touching.

When I glance sideways, he’s reaching for the glass in my hand. His fingers slide over mine, deliberate this time, his thumb catching my wrist.

The air goes still.

Every thought falls out of my head in one heartbeat. The kitchen shrinks to the narrow space between us—his hand around mine, the faint pulse of heat against my skin, the sound of both our breathing changing.

“Evan…” I start, meaning to make a joke, to break the moment before it breaks me. But his name comes out softer and breathier than I expect it to, my voice barely a whisper. I turn my head to look at him.

He doesn’t move away. His eyes meet mine, gray and steady, and for a second, it feels like everything I thought I remembered about him isn’t enough.

“I don’t—” My words catch. “We probably shouldn’t…”

His thumb moves once against the inside of my wrist, a small, grounding motion. “You’re probably right.”

Neither of us steps back.

The silence stretches, long and thin and fragile, until it almost hurts. My heart beats too fast, like it’s trying to fill the space between us.

He finally exhales, breaking the tension with a soft laugh that sounds like surrender. “Guess I’m out of practice,” he says, his voice rougher now.

“Guess so.” My tone’s lighter, but the words shake.

He releases my hand, slowly and carefully, as if he doesn’t want to let go. “Thanks for coming, Lena.”

I nod, even though I can’t quite trust my voice. “Anytime. I mean, thanks. For the food, I mean.” I instinctively bite my lip again.

He grins faintly, something wistful in it. “Sure. The food.”

I grab my jacket from the hook, pretending to be absorbed in straightening the sleeve. He steps closer again, close enough that I feel the brush of warmth across my shoulder but not enough to touch.

“Night, Evan.”

He hesitates, eyes tracing my face before he answers. “Night, Lena.”

The word sits heavy, like there’s more he wants to say but won’t.

When I step outside, the cool air bites at my skin, sharp and grounding. The porch light hums softly behind me, spilling golden light across the steps. I stop halfway to my car, hand hovering at my wrist.
It still tingles where he touched me.

I tell myself it’s just adrenaline. Just curiosity. Just old familiarity made new.

But as I reach for my door handle, I stop.

I don’t want to leave.

There’s no rule saying I can’t stay. No line that hasn’t already blurred tonight. Just the quiet pulse of something that feels too unfinished to walk away from.

I turn back toward the house, the soft glow from the kitchen window catching on the glass, the outline of him still moving inside. My heart beats faster, loud enough to feel in my throat as I take the steps back up the porch.

I lift my hand to knock—But the door opens first.

He stands there like he’d been expecting me, one hand still on the knob, eyes darker now in the warm light.

Neither of us speaks.

Then his mouth curves, slow and knowing. “You forget something?”

“Maybe.”

His gaze drops to my hands twisting before meeting mine again. “Wine’s still open,” he says, voice low. “You could stay for one more glass.”

I nod, "I'd like that,” my pulse skittering as I step back inside.

Maybe dinner wasn’t the only lesson tonight. Maybe he’s the one I’m still trying to learn.

Come back tomorrow for chapter three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Teach Me Tonight: Chapter One

 When Lena walks into her favorite café on a quiet Saturday morning, the last thing she expects is to run into the man she used to know only as Coach Walker—the single dad whose kitchen table she once turned into a tutoring station.

Ten years later, he’s older, broader, and still just as off-limits. But one chance encounter and a forgotten notebook might be all it takes to remind them both that some lessons aren’t learned in the classroom.

What starts as a reunion might just turn into a crash course in temptation.

Chapter 1

Lena

The Reunion

Saturday’s are my favorite.

I tell myself I’m stopping in for the caffeine, but really, it’s the quiet that keeps me coming back.

The bookstore café sits at the corner of Main and Maple, tucked between a boutique that’s never open on time and a flower shop that always smells like sugar cookies. It’s the kind of place no one rushes through. A soft hum of jazz filters through the speakers, and the old floorboards creak like they’re in on every secret shared here.

I slide into my usual corner seat with a latte that’s already too cold and a grading folder I’ll probably ignore. The week’s been long, parent conferences, lesson plans, one too many ‘my dog ate the homework’ excuses. Teaching high school English means juggling chaos with charm, and lately, my charm’s been running on fumes.

I flip open the folder anyway. Red pen in hand, I make it through two essays before giving up and letting the page blur. The couple at the counter laughs softly; someone drops a spoon. Normal sounds. Easy ones.

This is my reset button—thirty minutes of pretending I’m not tired, not single, not the woman who’s been asked one too many times if she’s ever thought about ‘putting herself out there again.’

My phone buzzes with a text from a coworker: Wine night still on?

I smile and type back, Maybe. If I survive caffeine withdrawal.

When I look up again, the café’s gotten busier, a low hum threading through the shelves of used paperbacks and glass display cases. Dust motes float like snow in the warm light. For a second, everything feels suspended, calm, safe, unremarkable.

The smell of espresso and old books might be my favorite combination on earth. Some places are supposed to stay untouched by the past.

Fridays are for caffeine, not curveballs.

I stop in every week—part habit, part therapy—and I’ve never once run into someone I know.

Until now.  At least, until a voice I haven’t heard in almost a decade says my name. And my heart forgets the rules.

“Lena?”

The sound of my name freezes me mid–sugar pour. It’s deeper than I remember, rougher, like it’s been sanded down over time.

I turn, and there he is.

Evan Walker.

Same gray unreadable eyes. Same jawline that used to flex whenever his daughter rolled her eyes at me. But he’s older now, more worn in, like he traded clean-shaven coach vibes for scruff and a work shirt that fits way too well.

“Wow,” I manage. “Hey. Hi.”

He smiles, slow and amused. “Didn’t think that was you for a second. Guess you finally stopped hiding behind those glasses.”

I laugh, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Guess your memory’s better than mine. I didn’t think you’d remember me at all.”

“Are you kidding? You practically lived at my kitchen table for a year. I still can’t look at geometry without thinking of you.”

“Poor you.”

“Poor me,” he agrees, eyes dropping for just a second before flicking back up. There’s a pause there long enough to feel it.

I clear my throat. “How’s Mia? She must be what? Twenty-one now?”

“Graduated last spring,” he says, a little pride sneaking into his grin. “Full scholarship. I owe you for that.”

“Hardly. She did the work.”

He shakes his head. “She did the work because you made her believe she could. That mattered to me.”

For a second, it’s like the years fold in on themselves. The kitchen table, the laughter, the late-night coffee refills. And him, leaning against the counter while pretending not to listen.

“Sounds like you’ve done a good job too,” I say, trying to sound casual.

He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Maybe. But I’m realizing I should’ve asked for your number back then. Would’ve made keeping in touch easier.”

The way he says it isn’t teasing, not really. It lands heavy, sitting somewhere between flirty and sincere.

I blink. “You mean that in a friendly way, right?”

He tilts his head, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Sure. Friendly.”

My pulse jumps. “You always this smooth now, or is this just a coffee thing?”

I lift the cup already in my hand, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Already have one.”

He tips his head, eyes glinting. “Then maybe I’ll owe you a real drink sometime.”

“That so?” I ask, pretending I’m not intrigued.

He steps a little closer, voice dropping just enough to make my pulse trip. “Yeah. Something stronger than caffeine.”

I should say no. I should pretend I’m late for something. Instead, I nod.

“Maybe,” I say. “If you’re lucky.”

His grin turns slow and deliberate. “Trust me, Lena. I make my own luck.”

He glances toward the counter, but I can already feel the pull of the exit. I gather my folder and slide out of the booth, pretending the sudden rush of energy is caffeine, and not him

Our shoulders brush as I move past him to leave, light, accidental, and not accidental at all.

I don’t look back, but I’m already smiling into my coffee. Maybe I’ll take him up on that drink after all.

By the time I step outside, the air’s cooler than I expected, a thin bite sneaking under my jacket. The street hums with low traffic and faint music from somewhere down the block. I take a sip of my coffee, mostly for something to do, and feel that ridiculous flutter in my chest all over again.

What the hell just happened in there?

It’s been years since anyone managed to catch me that off guard. And Evan Walker of all people? The man who used to leave sticky notes on the counter reminding his daughter to ‘study before TikTok’?

I laugh under my breath and shake my head, trying to walk it off. Except the more I replay it, the warmer my face feels.

When I reach my car, I drop my coffee into the cup holder and set my folder on the passenger seat. My phone buzzes before I can even start the engine, Evelyn, one of the other English teachers.

“Hey, you alive?” she says the second I answer. “Principal sent another all-staff email about lesson plan deadlines.”

I groan, leaning back against the headrest. “Tell him to take it up with the caffeine gods. I’m officially out of charm for the week.”

She laughs, launching into a story about her last-period class staging a mini mutiny over vocabulary quizzes. I listen, half-smiling, letting the sound of her voice settle me back into something normal.

By the time we hang up, the coffee’s gone lukewarm and the lot’s starting to fill again. I reach for my folder to toss it in the backseat and freeze. It feels too light.

“No, no, no…” I flip it open, scanning the inside pocket. Empty. My grade book isn’t there.

Panic flares. It’s not just a notebook, it’s the notebook. Attendance, grades, notes on students who still can’t tell the difference between their and there.

I check the floorboard. The backseat. Under my jacket. Nothing.

Of course I’d leave it behind. Probably sitting right on that damn table where my brain short-circuited the second Evan smiled at me.

I glance toward the café. The after-work crowd’s in full swing now, a low hum of conversation spilling through the open door. Tables are full, a new barista behind the counter.

Perfect.

I consider waiting until tomorrow, but that grade book isn’t just paperwork, it’s my entire week. So I grab my keys, slide out of the car, and head back toward the café.

Inside, the crowd’s shifted. The after-work rush is filling the space, laughter and the hiss of the espresso machine replacing the calm that used to live here. I spot a woman wiping down my old table and weave through the narrow aisle toward her.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” I say, raising a hand. “I was sitting there little bit ago and think I left a small notebook behind. Have you seen it?”

She shakes her head, glancing at the clean tabletop. “Nothing was here when I started.”

My stomach dips. “Okay, thanks.”

I scan the counter, the floor, even the trash can beside the condiment station, nothing.

Outside again, I pause on the sidewalk, trying to convince myself it’s just a mix-up, that maybe it slid somewhere and I’ll find it tomorrow. But the thought creeps in before I can stop it.

What if he found it first?

I can practically picture it, Evan spotting the slim, spiral-bound book, flipping it open, realizing it’s mine. Maybe he’d notice the red pen marks or the notes scrawled in the margins. Maybe he’d even remember the way I used to tap my pen against his kitchen table when I was thinking.

I press a hand to my chest, trying not to smile again.

If he did find it, at least it means I’ll have to see him again.

And for once, I don’t mind the idea of a little extra credit.

Tie Me Up: Chapter Three

The storm may have passed, but the tension between Brynn and Wade hasn’t.

What starts as a final photoshoot turns into something far more intimate—a test of trust, touch, and control neither of them saw coming.

When the rope comes back out, it’s no longer just a prop.

It’s permission. It’s connection. And by the time the camera clicks again, they’ve both revealed more than they ever meant to.

Chapter Three

Brynn

When the Storm Settled

The storm hit hard enough that driving back wasn’t an option. Wade didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. He tossed me a blanket, pointed to the couch, and went quiet again, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I told myself I’d fall asleep to the sound of rain. Instead, I spent half the night listening for his footsteps in the next room.

The rain finally lets up, leaving the cabin wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after a storm. The air smells like pine and smoke, damp and heavy, like the whole forest is exhaling. The world outside drips and settles, soft and quiet, like it’s trying to remember how to breathe again.

Wade moves around the small kitchen barefoot, coffee steaming in one hand, the hem of his T-shirt tugged low like it’s been slept in. There’s nothing remarkable about the sight, except the way my pulse won’t stop tripping over itself watching him. 

We didn’t cross any lines last night. Not really. It was just that one kiss. If you can call something that intense just a kiss. But it’s the kind that rewires you a little, leaves your skin tuned to someone else’s frequency.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to really. The air between us says plenty.

“Storm passed,” he says finally, nodding toward the window.

“Seems like it.” I cradle my mug between both hands, pretending to study the condensation on the glass. “Kind of liked it, though. The quiet.”

He looks at me then, over the rim of his cup. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes quiet.”

“I like it when it feels… full,” I say. “Like there’s something underneath it.”

His mouth twitches, half smile, half challenge. “You mean like when you’re trying not to talk about what happened last yesterday?”

I should blush. Instead, I match his stare. “Maybe.”

He takes another slow sip of coffee. “You’re not the first to get caught up in the storm, Brynn.”

“Probably the first to photograph it,” I murmur.

That earns me the smallest huff of laughter. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to loosen something tight in my chest.

I glance toward my camera on the counter. The lens cap’s off. The strap’s twisted, the battery light blinking red like it’s daring me. “You know,” I say, voice lighter than I feel, “I never did get that final shot.”

Wade raises a brow. “You got plenty.”

“Not the one I want.”

He doesn’t look away this time. “What kind’s that?”

I pick up the camera, brushing my thumb along the edge. “The one that tells the truth.”

The words hang there, heavy and unintentional. He sets his mug down, slow and deliberate, then crosses the short space between us until the air feels like static.

“What truth’s that?” he asks quietly.

“That you liked it,” I whisper. “Last night. The rope. The kiss.”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t move back. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“No,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I’m just sure I wasn’t the only one shaking.”

The silence after that hums, thick enough to lean on. He’s close enough that I can smell the faint trace of cedar smoke clinging to his shirt, the salt of skin, the clean scent of soap.

Then his hand lifts, hesitant, maybe, but steady when it lands just above my hip. His thumb traces the seam of my jeans like he’s checking for permission, not taking it.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he says, voice low, rough.

“You’re not,” I whisper.

The camera strap slips from my shoulder, landing against the counter with a soft thud. I don’t care. Not when his hand moves higher, fingers curving against my waist.

This time, it’s me who reaches up, pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the steady drumbeat there. “Maybe we finish what we started,” I say, the words barely a breath. “Just one more shoot.”

He studies me, eyes darkening. “You sure that’s all you’re asking for?”

I smile, small but sure. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The rain has stopped, but the world outside still hums with the sound of it dripping from the eaves and sighing through the trees. The light through the cabin window is low and gold, soft enough to make everything look a little more dangerous.

Wade stands where I tell him to, framed in the glow from the window. He’s not resisting anymore, not even pretending. Just watching me with that quiet, unreadable patience that makes it impossible to tell who’s in control.

“Turn a little,” I say, lifting the camera. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s too careful, too steady for the way my pulse is racing. “Good. Now… chin up. Eyes on me.”

He obeys, slow and deliberate. The movement shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does. Everything does.

“Breathe,” I whisper, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Bossy, aren’t you?” His tone is low, teasing.

“Occupational hazard.”

“Sure it’s the job?”

“Positive,” I lie, snapping a photo that doesn’t matter in the slightest.

The shutter sound is a heartbeat between us—click, inhale, click. I keep shooting because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. The lens can’t save me this time. Not when he’s looking at me like that.

“You done?” he asks, and I realize I’ve stopped pretending to photograph.

“Almost.” My gaze drifts toward the coil of rope still sitting on the bench. “One last thing.”

He follows my eyes, then looks back at me. “Visual metaphor again?”

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. “Exactly.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, wordlessly, he holds out his wrists.

The gesture steals my breath. It’s not submission, it’s trust, quiet and deliberate. The kind of thing you don’t ask for and don’t take lightly.

I pick up the rope, fingers remembering the pattern he showed me the night before. My hands are steady, but my heart isn’t. The fibers slide against my skin, soft but certain, and I loop them slowly around his wrists.

“Like that?” I ask, voice barely audible.

His eyes never leave mine. “Close.”

I tighten the knot just enough to hold, feeling the shift of his pulse under my fingertips. The rope looks small against his hands, the kind of strength that doesn’t need proving.

I take a step back, camera dangling uselessly against my chest. “You trust easy for someone who hates being seen.”

“Doesn’t feel like I’m the one being looked at right now.”

He’s right. I’m the one trembling.

The rope drags faintly when he moves, the sound rough and low, matching the breath between us. I circle him without thinking, the way I would during a shoot, studying light and line, but all I can see is the way his breath changes when I pass close enough for my shoulder to brush his.

“Brynn,” he says, voice rough. Just my name, but it lands everywhere at once.

I stop behind him, my fingers brushing over his shoulder, tracing the rope down his arm until I reach his wrist. The contact is electric, tiny, deliberate, and impossible to pretend away.

He exhales, low and steady. “Your hands are shaking.”

“Maybe you should’ve done it yourself.”

He turns his head slightly, catching my gaze over his shoulder. “Maybe I like watching you try.”

The air thickens again, warm and heavy, humming with the same energy that’s been building since the first click of the camera. I rest my palm flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Guess I need another lesson.”

“Guess you do,” he murmurs.

Then, with a small shift of his wrists, the rope slides through his fingers and catches mine instead. My breath stumbles. His hand closes around both of ours, guiding, not forcing, pulling me closer until there’s no space left to pretend this is just a shoot.

The camera strap slips against my arm as I whisper, “Wade—”

“Your turn,” he says softly.

The rope catches between our hands, still warm from the last breath of the storm.

Wade’s eyes flick from my mouth to my wrist—the place where the knot sits, loose but waiting.

He gives the faintest pull. Not enough to restrain, just enough to remind me I could be.

My pulse trips hard in response.

“Still think this is about the photo?” he asks, voice a rough whisper.

“Not anymore.”

He steps closer until my back meets the edge of the table. His body doesn’t press—just hovers, heat and intent held in place by sheer will. My fingers tighten on the rope, unsure if I’m holding it or if it’s holding me.

When he leans in, the scent of him hits first—pine, smoke, rain, the faintest trace of soap from the sink. His breath grazes my cheek before his lips do, and when they finally touch, the world narrows to a heartbeat and the slide of skin.

The kiss starts patient, almost cautious. Then it deepens—slow, deliberate, reverent. His hand finds the curve of my neck, tilting my face up, the other tracing the line of the rope until his fingers close around my wrist.

“Too tight?” he murmurs.

“No.”

“Good.”

The word falls against my mouth like a promise.

He guides my hands to his chest, rope still between them, his body crowding mine against the table now. The air is thick, hot. Every movement feels choreographed by instinct.

My fingers slide under his shirt, finding heat, muscle, and the soft scratch of hair along his stomach. He groans quietly—low and real, the kind of sound that feels like a reward.

“Tell me what you want,” he says against my jaw.

“You,” I whisper. “You… here… now.”

The sound he makes is heady. His hips press forward, subtle but certain, and my back arches in answer. The table edge digs into me, grounding every electric second as heat blooms low in my stomach.

He kisses me harder, deeper, his mouth claiming mine in a rhythm that leaves no space for thought. The rope between us slides higher on my wrist when I move, a whisper of friction that sparks through every nerve it touches.

I reach for him, finding the edge of his shirt again, tugging it over his head. The fabric sticks to his skin before giving way, baring muscle and warmth and the faint sheen of sweat. He helps me with the rest, unhurried, deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

My fingers trace the scar along his collarbone, and his breath catches. “Brynn,” he murmurs, the word half warning, half plea.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper

He doesn’t.

He drags my hips forward until I’m perched at the edge of the table, knees parting easily to fit him there. His hands grip my hips instead, fingers tightening through denim as his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just above the waistband. The heat of him settles between my legs, teasing, testing.

I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist, eyes locked on mine.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m sure.”

He lets go, and I don’t hesitate. My fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper before he does the same, the small metallic clink swallowed by our breathing. His hands sliding to my waist, thumbs hooking in the denim. He pauses. I nod, and he tugs and I lift my hips, slow and deliberate, easing my jeans and panties down over my hips.

The rough fabric drags against my skin, replaced by the warmth of his palms as he helps me step free. Then his hands are back, finding the hem of my shirt. He lifts it slowly, knuckles brushing my ribs, eyes never leaving my face. The shirt clears my head and falls somewhere behind us.

The air hits my skin, cool against the heat that feels like too much.

He takes a second—just one—to look at me, eyes sweeping slow and reverent like he’s memorizing instead of judging. No smirk, no joke, just that quiet, reverent focus that makes my pulse stutter.

Then he’s back on me, mouth kissing a line down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, the rope brushing between us as I move.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice rough as he lines up.

I nod, breathless. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The first push steals away any that was left.

It’s slow—achingly slow—the kind of movement that feels like discovery more than conquest. My hand finds his shoulder, nails biting in when he rolls his hips again, deeper this time. The sound that leaves me doesn’t feel like mine.

He catches it with a kiss, swallowing it whole. The world narrows to pressure and breath, to the rhythm of his body against mine. His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me closer, holding me together when everything inside wants to come apart.

The rope drags faintly between us, forgotten but present, a reminder of how close we still are, how much of this is trust.

He moves again, harder now, and I meet him without hesitation. The sound of the storm starting outside again is nothing compared to the one inside the cabin, wood creaking, breath colliding, quiet words that don’t need to be understood.

When I finally fall apart, it isn’t from the pace or the pressure, it’s from the way he says it.

“Brynn,” he groans against my neck, the sound low and reverent, breaking on the last breath.

Hearing my name like that, with his voice rough, aching, full of everything he isn’t saying, it undoes me completely.

He follows a heartbeat later—hips stilling, a rough sound catching in his throat as his forehead drops to mine. Sweat slicks between us, breath shuddering against my lips. Every muscle in him trembles, the effort to hold himself still written in every shaky exhale.

“I don’t like cameras,” he says suddenly, voice thick.

I blink, half-dazed. “What?”

He leans back just enough to look at me fully. “Used to. Then I saw a picture once… and I didn’t recognize myself. Didn’t like the man I’d turned into.”

The honesty in it cuts through the heat like a new kind of burn.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“Marriage. Divorce. Too much pretending in between.” His thumb moves along my jaw, gentle now. “You look at me like I’m still that guy. Like I could be.”

My throat tightens. “I don’t see who you were, Wade. I see who you are. Steady. Real. The way you look when you stop trying to hide.”

His breath catches, something unspoken shifting behind his eyes. Then he kisses me again, slower this time, less about want, more about need. It’s soft, grounding, the kind of kiss that lingers long after it ends.

When he finally pulls back, he reaches for the rope between us. The knot loosens under his fingers, each movement careful, unhurried. He traces every place it left a mark, his thumb smoothing over the faint lines on my wrist like an apology.

“Didn’t hurt,” I whisper.

“Didn’t want it to,” he says.

I smile—small, real. “You didn’t.”

He leans in once more, brushing his lips over mine like punctuation. Then he steps back, eyes softer than I’ve seen them.

The camera sits forgotten on the floor. I reach for it, lift it, and frame the man in front of me. His hair is mussed, shirt off, chest rising steady. The armor’s gone, replaced by something quiet and human.

I press the shutter. Click.

“Now that’s the one,” I whisper.

He huffs a small laugh. “Guess you got your picture.”

“Yeah,” I say, lowering the camera. “And a whole lot more.”

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Tie Me Up: Chapter Two

Storms have a way of blurring the lines—between work and want, between what’s safe and what happens when you finally stop pretending it is.

Brynn came here to photograph a quiet man with an axe and an attitude. What she didn’t expect was to capture the moment his guard dropped… or how it would feel when he turned that focus on her.

Inside Wade’s cabin, the rain closes them in, the rope returns as a “prop,” and the camera isn’t the only thing out of focus. Sparks turn into something heavier, steadier, and far too real to frame. 

Chapter Two 

Brynn

Out of Focus

The light starts to fade by the time we call it quits. Clouds roll over the treetops, gray and swollen, the kind of storm that doesn’t ask permission before it hits.

Wade wipes his palms on his jeans, then glances toward the cabin. “We should move this inside before the sky decides to open up.”

I follow him up the narrow porch steps, camera still swinging against my chest. The porch smells like cedar and rain-soaked earth. His axe leans against the wall beside a stack of firewood, each piece split clean, deliberate. Everything about him is like that, precise, methodical. The kind of man who makes even silence feel intentional.

He opens the door, steps back to let me in. The inside is small but warm, the kind of cozy that comes from use, not design. A worn couch. A few framed photographs that look decades old. Boots by the door, neatly lined up. A man’s space.

“Hope you don’t mind,” I say, setting my camera bag on the counter. “Storm light makes for the best edits.”

He grunts something that might mean “go ahead.” His voice is quieter now, less guarded.

I scroll through the photos on my screen, reviewing the shots. the swing of the axe, the focused crease between his brows, that half-smirk he didn’t mean to give me. They’re better than I expected. Real, raw, unposed. Exactly what my editor wanted.

He steps closer, his shadow brushing over my shoulder. “Can I see?”

I turn the camera toward him. For a long moment, he doesn’t say a word. His eyes move across the screen, tracing the images like he’s not sure what to make of himself.

“That’s me?” he mutters finally.

“That’s you,” I say softly. “The gruff, photogenic logger in the wild.”

He exhales through his nose, a hint of a smile ghosting his mouth. “Huh. Don’t look half as miserable as I felt.”

“You weren’t miserable,” I tease. “Just stubborn.”

“Same thing.”

I tilt the screen so the last photo fills it, him standing still, axe resting on his shoulder, eyes on me instead of the blade. There’s something unguarded there, something he probably doesn’t know I caught.

He studies it for a long second, jaw tight, then glances down at me. “You make it look different.”

“Maybe you’re just seeing it different.”

His gaze lingers, heavier than before. “Depends who’s looking, I guess.”

That line shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does.

The air thickens again, that same push and pull as earlier, except quieter now, less about heat, more about awareness. My pulse keeps time with the rain starting to hit the porch roof, soft and steady.

“You ever let someone take your picture?” he asks.

“Only by accident,” I say. “Self-timers don’t count.”

He nods once, thoughtful, eyes still on the image frozen on the screen. “Figures. You like hiding behind the lens.”

“It’s where I see people best,” I answer before I think.

His eyes lift to meet mine. “And when someone’s looking back?”

That one hits deep.

I shrug, trying for casual. “Guess we’ll find out.”

A low rumble rolls through the trees, thunder chasing the light from the room. Wade moves toward the window, watching the first streaks of rain hit the glass. The muscles in his back shift beneath the flannel, and for a moment I wonder what it would take for him to look at himself the way I see him.

When he turns back, there’s something new in his expression—not quite a smile, not quite a question. Something… softer.

“Storm’s gonna trap you here awhile,” he says finally.

I lift the camera again, half-smiling. “Guess I’ll have to make good use of the light, then.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You ever put that thing down, Brynn?”

“Only when I find something better to focus on.”

His grin curves, slow and deliberate. “Careful. Might take that personal.”

“Good,” I say, raising the lens again. “You should.”

The storm outside doesn’t just settle in, it claims the evening. Rain comes down steady and hard, a constant drumming that muffles the rest of the world. Wade’s cabin smells like cedar and woodsmoke, something warm beneath the sharpness of the rain-soaked air.

He moves through it like the space knows him. Every shelf is neat, every boot lined up by the door. The man doesn’t waste movement or words. He’s the human equivalent of a level line—steady, exact, maddeningly controlled.

“Does this place double as your second home?” I ask, leaning against the counter. “Or are you secretly auditioning for a survivalist calendar?”

That earns a glance over his shoulder, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Both, maybe.”

“Guess that makes me your talent scout.”

“Pretty sure you already gave me that job title.”

“Fair. But your modeling fee’s terrible.”

“Didn’t agree to one.”

I grin. “Exactly my point.”

His answering grunt is low, almost amused, and something about that quiet, reluctant humor warms the space more than the fire crackling in the stove ever could.

I run my fingers absently over the edge of the table, tracing the grain of the wood. That’s when I spot a coil of rope draped over a peg near the door, probably for hauling wood or gear, but cleaner than the one I used outside.

I lift it with one hand. “You really have this stuff everywhere, huh?”

“Comes with the territory.”

“Of chopping wood?”

“Of fixing things that break.” His voice carries a weight that doesn’t belong entirely to the room, but I let it slide.

The rope uncoils between my fingers, smoother than I expect. I tilt my head. “You said I tied it wrong earlier. Care to demonstrate the right way, or was that just mansplaining from a safe distance?”

He looks up from where he’s stirring the fire, and the corner of his mouth kicks higher. “You really don’t like being told you’re wrong, do you?”

“I like proof.”

He crosses the room in a few slow steps, hand extended. “Here.”

I should probably hand it over. I don’t. Instead, I hold it halfway between us. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s never modeled before.”

He takes the rope anyway, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. It’s nothing, a passing touch, but my pulse jumps like it’s been caught.

He doesn’t pull away. “You want it tight,” he says quietly, twisting the rope into a small loop. His hands are sure, unhurried. “See how it folds over itself? It holds better that way.”

I try to follow the motion, but it’s hard to think with him this close. He smells like pine and smoke and something clean, soap or rain or possibly just him.

He loops the rope again, this time around my wrist, the fibers dragging lightly against my skin. “Too tight?”

“No,” I breathe. “It’s fine.”

His voice drops lower. “Fine’s not the word I’d use.”

I swallow hard. “You always this confident when you’re teaching?”

“Only when the student looks like she might bite.”

The laugh that escapes me is small and a little breathless. “Guess you’d better keep your distance then.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he steps behind me, hands finding the rope again where it rests against my wrist. His fingers skim over mine, guiding the motion, adjusting the twist. I can feel his breath at the curve of my neck, warm and deliberate.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges. “Not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to remind you it’s there.”

My throat goes dry. “You sure this is still a tutorial?”

“Sure,” he says, though it sounds anything but.

The rope moves again, slower this time, each pass a drag of texture against skin. His thumb traces along the back of my hand, and when he ties off the end, the knot rests right over my pulse.

“Better?” he asks.

I glance down. The rope looks simple, but I can feel the weight of it, the heat of where his fingers just were. “Depends on the goal.”

He tugs the end gently, testing the slack. “And what’s yours?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

He studies me for a long moment, eyes darker now, searching. Then, with that same quiet certainty, he gives the rope another small pull, barely enough to move me, but enough that I feel it in my chest, my breath, everywhere.

“You trust me?” he asks softly.

The question lands somewhere deep, cutting through the joke and the teasing, straight into something real.

“With the rope or with something else?”

His mouth curves… just barely. “Either works.”

The rope rests between us, the storm filling the silence he leaves behind. I can still feel every place his hands touched, every breath that brushed my skin.

And when I finally meet his gaze again, it hits me that maybe the real question isn’t about the rope at all.

The air between us hums, steady and low, the kind of pull that doesn’t fade when you look away.

He hasn’t stepped back yet but neither have I.

The rope still rests against my wrist, loose but present, the fibers catching on the quick rhythm of my pulse.

“Looks like you’re learning,” Wade says, voice rough around the edges.

I lift my chin, pretending my heart isn’t beating out of sync. “Think I earned an A yet?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Not grading on a curve.”

The corner of my lips tilts. “That a compliment or a warning?”

“Both.”

He gives the rope a light tug, not enough to tighten, but just enough to pull me closer. The distance between us disappears, replaced by heat and breath and the faint smell of woodsmoke clinging to his shirt.

I brace my free hand on his chest to keep from stumbling, but he doesn’t move. He just watches me, like he’s giving me every chance to stop this.

I don’t.

The moment stretches, taut as the rope between us, until something finally snaps. His mouth meets mine—firm, deliberate, not rushed. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s been waiting all day for permission.

It’s not soft, exactly. It’s patient, full of held-back things neither of us is saying. My hand fists in his flannel, dragging him closer. His free hand comes up to my jaw, thumb sweeping along my cheek, steadying me even as everything inside me tilts.

He deepens the kiss until I forget where I’m standing. The edge of the table catches behind my hips, grounding me as his body presses closer, warm and solid and unyielding.

The rope shifts when I move, a faint scrape against my wrist that makes me gasp. He feels it—the sound, the reaction—and his breath catches.

“Too much?” he murmurs, lips brushing mine.

“No.” I swallow. “Not even close.”

His answering hum vibrates against my mouth. The hand at my jaw slides lower, fingers tracing down my throat, skimming the open collar of my shirt until they stop just above my heart. He doesn’t push further. Just feels it—my heartbeat, fast and uneven beneath his touch.

Every move is measured, deliberate. A question, not a demand.

I lift my tied hand between us, letting the rope brush against his chest. “Guess I’m the one caught now,” I whisper.

His mouth curves against mine. “You sure about that?”

He tugs the rope again, drawing me back into another kiss—harder this time, hungrier. My back hits the table, his body caging mine in. The tension between control and want balances on a knife’s edge.

It’s not frantic, but it’s close. Every sound, every breath, feels louder in the quiet storm outside.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine. We’re both breathing hard, the rope hanging slack now between our hands.

“You’re supposed to be the one in front of the camera, Wade,” I manage, voice catching somewhere between a laugh and a breath.

He looks down at me, eyes dark and steady. “Not when I’ve got something better to focus on.”

o be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix