Worth The Effort (The Worth Series Book 4: A Copper Country Romance)

by Mara Jacobs

  “Come here,” she said, and turned back to the small one-car garage. He followed as she went to a shelf that ran the length of the building and lifted an old, dust-covered terra cotta flowerpot. “I keep a spare key here.” She pointed to the regular entrance door on the opposite side of the garage from the large door where her car entered. “That door is unlocked all the time, since there’s nothing valuable in here.”

  “Except the spare key to your house.”

  She shrugged. “It’s the Copper Country. And no one knows about this key. Thieves would be looking closer to the house, around that door.” She breezed past him through the main door and then pressed the button to close it once Sawyer had followed her out. “Just in case you beat me here again, I wanted you to know about the key. And tell you that you could let yourself in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Sorry I didn’t think of it earlier.”

  “You didn’t know I’d have time to kill.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him once she made it to the bottom of the hillside stairs. “No, I didn’t. Not all of us can waltz in and out of the office when we feel like it,” she teased, flashing that dimple as she smiled. When she got to the door, she started to unlock it, but stopped.

  “You know, I wasn’t sure when I’d see you again for sure. And I was sure shocked to see Lucy at the office.”

  “Yeah. Lucy got your affection, but there was none for me.”

  “Not in the office, that’s right. Your little arm around my shoulder last week is going to be all I share with that group about what we do privately. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. But, what I meant was, I wasn’t expecting you to be here. And…umm…I’m not the greatest housekeeper in the best of times.”

  “What’s different about these times?”

  She shook her head, waved a hand. “Nothing. Nothing. I mean, I have no idea if my house is…guy ready.”

  “Oh, shit, Deni. Do you think I care about that kind of stuff? I’m sleeping on a mattress in a gutted house right now. Do you have a bed that’s on a frame?”

  “Yes.”

  “And an actual matching sheet set? ’Cause if so, you’re way ahead of me, and this will be a huge step up.” He took her keys from her, opened the door, and stepped back for her to enter.

  “Yes, but I’m sure the bed is unmade, and I can’t testify to how clean the sheets are.”

  She walked past him, as did Lucy. They were in the foyer, stairs ahead of them. The living room was to his right and what looked like a dining room and then kitchen—which he couldn’t see fully—was to his left.

  She took her keys from him and placed them on a side table that held a glass bowl and some other knick-knacks. Then she peeled off her coat and hat, hanging her coat on one of the hooks she’d installed, and kicked off her boots. Another turtleneck, cardigan, wool skirt, and tights combination. At least this time the skirt had a plaid pattern.

  The vision of her in red satin bra and panties flashed through his mind. As did the mind-bending blowjob in the sauna, and going down on her in front of the glass wall.

  He threw the pizza box on the table and started pawing at the zipper on his parka, quickly taking it off as he too kicked off his boots.

  “I don’t care about clean sheets,” he said as he walked the two steps to her and pulled her close. He kissed her, longer and deeper, with nothing in his way. She wrapped her arms around his neck and shimmied her leg up the outside of his thigh.

  “And having the bed unmade just saves time,” he said after pulling his mouth from hers. He held her face in his hands. “I’m not in the mood for pizza,” he said, and then kissed her again.

  “I’m not even hungry,” she said—gasped—as he put his arms under her thighs and lifted her up. She instinctively put her legs around his waist—hitting his growing cock at a very pleasurable angle—and he started carrying her up the stairs. Each step he took brought them into closer contact, and she moaned his name, rubbing herself against him.

  Reaching the top of the stairs (too fucking many and yet too fucking few), he knew he couldn’t even take another step without being inside her. He backed down two steps and then leaned forward so that he could lay her down on the floor at the top of the stairs. There was a small stained-glass window and the dwindling light shone through, casting jewel-toned colors against her black sweater and across her face.

  “Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he said, sliding her skirt up her long legs. Bunching it around her waist, he pulled the black tights down, mesmerized as they gave way to her pale skin. Black cotton panties today, but right now they seemed as sexy as the red satin…and just as dispensable.

  “Sawyer,” she said, her hips starting to move. “Hurry.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I can’t wait.”

  “I don’t want you to,” she said, her voice as breathless as he felt.

  He fumbled with his belt and then the fly to the khakis. Damn, where were his easy jeans when he needed them? She was pulling her panties off herself, lifting her ass up and peeling them down and off one leg. They stayed wrapped around one ankle, even as she moved her feet to the curve of the last step, her knees bent and in the air, legs spread.

  “This is going to be fast. I’m sorry. Next time—”

  “Will you stop apologizing and just do it?” she said with both teasing and pleading in her voice.

  He pushed down his pants and briefs together, just barely to his knees, but it was enough. Cock in hand, he opened Deni’s folds, getting even harder seeing how wet this was making her. Being two steps below her put him at exactly the right angle to—

  “Oh my God,” she moaned as he pushed, none too gently, into her.

  “Too much?” he asked, but she was shaking her head, which quickly became a thrashing of her head as he started pumping into her hard and fast.

  “Never too much,” she gasped.

  The glass reflection was putting patterns of reds and purples across her thighs. He rubbed his hands down them and then palmed the back of her thighs. He pushed them up, bringing her knees to her chest and him that much deeper.

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  Needing to see her tits while he pounded into her, he tore at the buttons of her cardigan. Mid-thrust, he gave up and ripped the damn thing apart. Then he pulled up her turtleneck so it bunched around her shoulders, much like her skirt did at her waist.

  Unable to keep fucking her and undo her bra while she lay on her back, he just pulled the cups down, freeing her luscious globes. Leaning forward, which in turn pushed her legs even farther back, he held one breast and brought his mouth to it. He sucked on the pebbled nipple as his other hand slid around to her ass, holding her in place as he continued to stroke.

  “Sawyer.” His name came out on a sigh. He felt her tense around him in that moment just before—

  “Oh, Sawyer,” she moaned again as she came. He sucked her other nipple hard and then gave it a gentle bite, which sent another convulsion through her. Her pussy muscles clenched him tightly, and he gave over to the intense feelings as he came with one last thrust.

  It seemed to go on and on as she milked every last bit out of him.

  At some point, he regained his senses. Enough to realize that he had Deni pinned to the carpet. He had to be careful so he didn’t fall backward down a long flight of stairs.

  And yet he still didn’t want to pull out of her. Being inside Deni’s body gave him a peace he’d forgotten existed.

  He scooped her up, trying to keep his balance, and climbed the last two stairs carefully. When he was at the top, his pants fell to his ankles and he still wouldn’t put her down.

  “Which is the bedroom?” he said as he duck-walked down the hallway.

  “First one on the left,” she said in a dreamy voice, her arms around his shoulders, her mouth burrowing into his neck, gently kissing him.

  He entered the room and turned the light on with his e
lbow. She’d been right; the bed was unmade and seemed to have an inordinate amount of layers on it. He counted a comforter and at least two blankets. He knew these older homes had a lot of character but were heating challenged. Hers must be particularly bad.

  He sat on the bed with her still wrapped around him. Her knees hit the mattress on either side of his thighs as she straddled him.

  “I’ve wanted you back in this position since that afternoon in Iron Mountain,” he said as he peeled the hanging cardigan from her and lifted the turtleneck over her head, throwing both in the general direction of an overflowing laundry basket along the wall. Reaching behind her, he unhooked her bra and removed that as well. She moved away from him to allow him unzip her skirt and pull it over her head, but then quickly re-wrapped herself around him, her mouth seeking his.

  They kissed and kissed. Gentle, exhausted kisses while he kicked his pants, briefs, and socks off. Deep, tongue-tangling kisses as he stroked his hands all over her naked body. Urgent, straining kisses as her trembling hands unbuttoned his work shirt and pulled it from him. She lifted his tee-shirt, their kisses interrupted as the cotton to slid over his head.

  And finally tender, sweet kisses as he turned them, rolled her under him and made love to her again.

  Deni woke in the middle of the night. Well, it was only midnight, but for her that was the middle of the night. She reached for Sawyer, but found the bed empty. The light in the bedroom was out, which hadn’t been the case as she’d drifted off to sleep in Sawyer’s arms.

  She saw a glow coming from down the hallway and got out of bed. She wrapped her oversized fleece robe around herself, slipped on her fuzzy slippers and went down the hall to her workroom where the light shone.

  “Sawyer? Are you okay?” she said as she entered the room.

  “Hmmm? Yeah, I’m good. I needed to feed Lucy and let her out.” He had his back to her and didn’t turn around as he spoke. Lucy lay in the corner. She raised her head at Deni, as if in greeting, then laid it back down. She looked settled in, so Sawyer had obviously been in here a while. In his hand was one of her sketches. There were many strewn all over the office area. Lots were pinned to the corkboard-covered walls. Some were of real projects, past and perhaps future. Most were close-up sketches of particular elements she found fascinating. A rung of a wooden balustrade with an elegant flourish. The archway of an entryway. The shape of a window.

  “These are amazing,” he said, finally turning around to face her. “I mean, I knew you could draw, because I’d seen your sketches of the driving range. But these…” He held up the papers in his hand, then circled his arm around the room. He’d put his pants back on. And his shirt, but it was unbuttoned and open so she could see his bare chest and long torso. With his rumpled hair and the top button of his khakis undone, he looked sexy as hell. She walked toward him, wondering if three times in one night was too much for a forty-year-old man.

  “All of these. It’s like art. You should seriously consider framing them. They’d look great going up your staircase. With the light from the stained glass hitting them…” He was shaking his head as his thought finished, looking once again at the sketches in his hand.

  She stopped in her tracks, the breath leaving her body. In that moment, she felt that same sense of rightness that she’d felt that long ago day on Brockway Mountain. The feeling she tried to describe to Alison.

  Treasured.

  If she’d been three quarters of the way in love with Sawyer Beck in the glass house, she’d just plunged over the last quarter.

  “That was exactly my intention. To frame some and put them up the staircase wall,” she said.

  “Why haven’t you?” he asked.

  “I wanted to crop some in ways that fit the sketch. I realized I’d probably need to do some custom framing.”

  He was nodding. He went to the wall and took down one of the sketches she particularly loved. “This one for sure. So, yeah, custom frames…”

  “And then I thought that maybe it’d be cool to design the frames myself. And find a local woodworker or something.”

  “Great idea,” he said, taking another one down from the wall and starting a pile. They definitely shared the same taste; he was gathering all the ones she’d planned on framing.

  Until the SAD hit her last fall, and the whole project seemed so huge, so insurmountable that the sketches sat.

  While Deni slept.

  “Who are you working with? I know some guys who’d probably do a good job for you.”

  “I haven’t gotten that far, yet. That’s the next step,” she semi-lied. He didn’t know that the small step of sketching a frame design and calling a guy about making them for her was just beyond what she was capable of this winter. Making it to work each day, going to therapy, and seeing to very basic grocery and laundry needs maxed her out.

  “Let me know if you need any names,” he said, still making his pile of her sketches.

  “I will,” she said.

  “Whoa, what’s this one?” he asked. She looked at the one he’d put in a different spot, not in the pile.

  She smiled, she hadn’t seen that sketch in a long time. It must have been buried beneath the more recent ones she’d done. This particular one was at least eight years old, maybe more.

  “Is that the view from Brockway Mountain?” he asked.

  She stepped behind him and reached out to pull down the framed photo of her father and herself on top of Brockway that day twenty years ago. It was of their backs, she on the concrete pedestal at the “View-Master” and her father beside her, his hand on her shoulder. Deni’s mother had taken it, unbeknownst to them at the time. She’d given the framed photo to Deni on her high school graduation to take with her when she entered Tech.

  Deni held the photo in front of Sawyer, but stayed behind him, resting her cheek on his back and sliding her other hand around his waist.

  “Yep. The sketch is of what I wanted to see on this day. What I saw in my mind.”

  “The hermit’s shack? Seriously?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve had a fascination with that legend since I was eight years old.” He started to turn around, but she clutched him tighter and dug her face deeper into his back, stopping his movement. “I so badly wanted to believe in him. For years, I drew floor plans and sketches of what I thought his hut looked like. It may be the reason I became an engineer.”

  He held up her sketch in one hand. It was a dwelling of intricacy that blended in with the surrounding area, and yet was very much a pleasant place to live.

  “I saw Bill’s shack before they tore it down. It didn’t look like this. It was—”

  “Shhh,” she said. “I don’t want to know. I want to keep my memory of the hermit alive. I want to think that he lived in this place.” She kissed his back between his shoulder blades, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. “And I want to believe that there’s a reason I’m dating the man who had been jokingly called the hermit.”

  She placed the photo down on the table in front of him and turned to walk to the doorway. “Sawyer,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him.

  “Hmm?” He was still looking at the sketch in his had, but his head finally picked up when he heard the whoosh of her robe dropping.

  “Race you back to bed,” she said and ran, bare-ass naked out of the room.

  He beat her back to the bed.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keep out the joy.

  ~ Jim Rohn

  “What’s that?” Sawyer asked her when she entered her kitchen the next morning. He was dressed exactly like he’d been when she found him in her office—pants slung low, shirt undone, and chest bare. He was drinking a mug of coffee and looking suspiciously at her light box.

  Time to face the SAD music.

  “Oh, that,” she said breezily, like big light boxes often took up half her kitchen table. “That’s a light box. You know, to get the effects of the sun d
uring the winter.”

  “Yeah, I know what a light box is.”

  Irritability started to crawl over her skin. She kept her voice even as she said, “Then why did you ask?” She got a mug out of the cupboard and poured herself some coffee. She’d been drinking tea most of the winter, trying to take in less caffeine, but coffee sounded good this morning. “Thanks for making this, by the way.”

  “Sure thing. I’m not the one who has to be to the office by eight.”

  “Nope, that’s for us worker bees,” she said. She retrieved her purse from the foyer where she’d dropped it last night—right before Sawyer had hoisted her in his arms and taken her at the top of the steps. Back in the kitchen, she rummaged in the fridge and pulled out a yogurt that she’d take with her. She’d barely make it in time as it was. Sawyer had pulled her back into bed when she’d tried to get up and she was now—happily—going to work with hair still wet from her shower.

  “I mean, why do you have a light box on your kitchen table?”

  “Listen, I’m running late. I’m very happy for the reason why”—she gave him a quick kiss as she passed him—“but can we have this discussion—”

  “Deni,” he said, grabbing her arm, stopping her. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

  She looked at the looming white machine, then at Sawyer. “Last October I started sleeping a lot more than normal, had a lack of energy, and some other things.”

  The look of suspicion on his face slowly turned to disbelief. “Are you shitting me? You’re only telling me this now?”

  “It’s not major depression, Sawyer,” she explained, putting her hand on the hand that still held her arm. “It’s SAD. Seasonal affect—”

  “I know what SAD is,” he said a little harshly.

  “Then you know that it’s seasonal and will go away when the days get longer. And, I also have a very mild case of it. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Christ. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she says.” He released her arm and turned away from her, setting his mug on the counter.