Muscle and Miter

I don't usually date men who own their own homes.

That sounds shallow. Maybe it is. But at twenty-four, living in a shared apartment with a roommate who steals my oat milk and never replaces it, a man with a two-car garage and a backyard feels like a different species. Like something I should study from a safe distance, not touch.

Marcus is thirty-four. He has a corner office at a cybersecurity firm and calloused hands from rebuilding motorcycle engines on weekends. His apartment smells like sawdust and leather and something darker, something I couldn't name until the first time he kissed me and I realized it was him. Just him. The scent of a man who doesn't need cologne because he already knows what he is.

I met him at a coffee shop three weeks ago. I was reading, he was reading, and when he stood up to leave he paused at my table and said, "That's a first edition."

I looked at the book in my hands. A beat-up paperback I'd bought for three dollars at a thrift store. "It's not."

"The binding's wrong." He smiled. Not a nice smile. A knowing one. "But the story's good. You'll like the ending."

He walked out before I could ask how he knew what I was reading. I spent the next two days telling myself I wasn't checking my phone every five minutes. I spent the next two nights touching myself in the dark, thinking about his hands, his voice, the way he'd looked at me like he already knew exactly how I'd sound when I came.

He texted on the third day. A picture of the same book, a real first edition, spine cracked and pages yellowed. *Found it at a shop near your place. Thought you might want to borrow it.*

I was at his apartment within the hour.

That was three weeks ago. Three weeks of dinners and late night calls and texts that started innocent and ended with me biting my pillow so my roommate wouldn't hear. Three weeks of learning the map of his body, the hard planes of his chest, the scars on his knuckles, the way his voice dropped an octave when he was about to lose control.

Three weeks of never having been inside his house.

He mentioned it on our fourth date. A casual thing, slipped between sips of whiskey. "I've got a workshop in the back. Woodwork. You'd like it."

I didn't ask what that meant. I didn't ask why he was telling me. I just filed it away, a piece of him I hadn't seen yet, and waited.

Tonight, he finally invited me over.

His house is in a part of the city I don't usually have reason to visit. Quiet streets, old trees, houses that have been standing since before my grandparents were born. His is a Craftsman, painted dark gray with a porch that wraps around the side. There's a truck in the driveway, black and battered, and a motorcycle under a tarp that I recognize from the pictures he's shown me.

He opens the door before I knock.

"Hey." He's wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest like it's holding on for dear life. His arms are bare, covered in ink that winds from his wrists to his shoulders, patterns I've traced with my fingers but never fully deciphered. He's six-four and built like he could break me in half, and when he looks at me like this, like I'm the only thing in his field of vision, I believe he might.

"Hey." I step inside and the door closes behind me, a solid click that seals us in.

The house is warm. Not just temperature, but the feel of it. Wood floors, exposed beams, a fireplace that looks like it actually gets used. Bookshelves line one wall, stuffed with volumes that look read and reread. There's a guitar in the corner, a leather jacket draped over a chair, a pair of boots kicked off by the door. It's a home. Not a showroom, not a set piece. A place where someone actually lives.

"It's nice," I say. Stupid. Inadequate.

He shrugs, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes. Pleasure, maybe. Or relief. "Want the tour?"

He shows me the kitchen first, all stainless steel and butcher block counters. The living room, with its deep couches and a record player I want to examine closer. The bathroom, which is surprisingly normal, white tile and a shower curtain with fish on it. His bedroom, which I only glance into because if I look too long I'll lose my train of thought entirely.

Then he leads me to the back door.

"You said you wanted to see the shop."

I did say that. Two weeks ago, after too much wine, I told him I wanted to see everything. Every part of him, every corner of his life. I'd meant it then. I mean it now.

He opens the door and I step into the garage.

It's not a garage. Not really. It's a workshop, fully converted, with high ceilings and fluorescent lights that cast a clean white glow over everything. The walls are lined with tools, organized by size and function, each one hanging on its own hook. There's a massive table in the center, scarred and stained, covered in sawdust and pencil marks. The air smells like cedar and sweat and something metallic, like blood but not quite.

"Jesus," I breathe.

He laughs, low and warm. "That's usually what people say."

I walk to the table, run my fingers over the surface. The wood is smooth in some places, rough in others, worn down by years of use. There are clamps and chisels and a half-finished project, a chair leg maybe, curved and elegant even in its incomplete state.

"What do you make?"

"Whatever I need." He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. "Tables. Chairs. Frames. Sometimes just blocks of wood that look like something until I decide what they are."

"That's very philosophical."

"I'm a very philosophical guy."

I turn to look at him. He's watching me with that same intensity he had at the coffee shop, like he's reading something in my face that I haven't written yet. His hands are in his pockets, casual, but there's a tension in his shoulders that tells me he's not as relaxed as he seems.

"Show me," I say. "Show me what you're working on."

He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he reaches out, takes my hand, and leads me to the back of the workshop.

There's a piece of wood on a smaller table. Walnut, I think, dark and rich, carved into a shape I can't quite identify. He picks it up, turns it over in his hands, and I see what it is.

A woman's body. Not explicit, not detailed, but unmistakable. The curve of a hip, the swell of a breast, the arch of a back. He's carved it from a single block, no seams, no joints, just the grain of the wood following the lines of the form like it was always meant to be there.

"Who is she?" I ask.

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and I feel the heat rise to my face.

"It's not me."

"No." He runs his thumb along the curve of the figure's waist. "It's no one. Just an idea. Just a shape I couldn't get out of my head."

I want to ask more. I want to know what kind of man carves women out of wood in his spare time, what kind of man has hands gentle enough to shape something so beautiful and rough enough to leave bruises on my thighs. But I don't ask. Because he's looking at me again, that look, and I don't want to break it.

"Can I touch it?"

He hands it to me without hesitation.

The wood is warm, smoother than I expected. I trace the same path his thumb took, feel the dip of the waist, the rise of the hip. It's erotic in a way I can't explain, this object he made with his own hands, this piece of his imagination given form.

"I've never shown anyone this," he says.

I look up. He's closer now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar above his eyebrow, the way his jaw tightens when he's waiting for a reaction.

"Why me?"

"Because you asked." He takes the carving from my hands, sets it back on the table. "And because I think you understand."

"I don't understand anything."

"You will."

He steps closer. His body blocks the light, casts me in shadow. I can smell the sawdust on his clothes, the soap on his skin, the faint salt of sweat. My heart is pounding, hard enough that I know he can see it in my throat.

"Marcus."

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me."

He does. But not the way I expected. Not hard and demanding, not the way he's kissed me before. This is slow, deliberate, his lips brushing mine like he's testing something. Like he's waiting to see if I'll pull away.

I don't.

His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. He tilts my head back, deepens the kiss, and I feel it everywhere. In my chest, my stomach, between my legs. A warmth that spreads like honey, slow and sweet and dangerous.

He breaks the kiss, presses his forehead to mine.

"I want to fuck you in here."

The words hit me like a punch. Direct. Unapologetic. I feel myself clench, a pulse of heat that makes me dizzy.

"Okay."

"Not like before." He pulls back, looks at me. "I want to take my time. I want to watch you fall apart on this table. I want to hear you say my name when you come."

I can barely breathe. "Okay."

He smiles. That knowing smile, the one that says he sees right through me. "Say it."

"Marcus."

"Again."

"Marcus."

"Good girl."

He takes my hand, leads me to the center table. The one covered in sawdust and pencil marks. He sweeps it clean with one arm, sending shavings flying, and then he lifts me onto it.

The wood is cool against my thighs. I'm wearing a dress, short and black, and he pushes it up without asking, baring me to the waist. His hands settle on my knees, spread them apart.

"You're beautiful," he says. Not like a compliment. Like a fact. Like something he's known for a long time and is only now saying out loud.

I want to say something back. Something clever, something that matches his intensity. But my brain is static, my body is humming, and all I can do is watch as he lowers himself to his knees.

He looks up at me, his hands on my thighs, his mouth inches from where I need him most.

"Tell me what you want."

"You." My voice is hoarse. "I want you."

"Not good enough." He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh, soft, almost reverent. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do."

I've never been good at this. Saying what I need out loud. It feels like admitting something, like giving away a piece of myself I can't get back. But he's looking at me, waiting, and I know he won't move until I give him what he wants.

"I want you to taste me."

His eyes darken. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Say please."

"Please."

He smiles. And then he lowers his head.

His mouth is hot, even through the fabric of my underwear. He kisses me there, open-mouthed, like he's tasting me through the cotton. I gasp, grip the edge of the table, and he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down.

The air hits me, cool and sharp. He looks at me, bare and open, and I feel exposed in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. It's powerful. It's terrifying. It's exactly what I wanted.

He leans in and licks me, slow and flat-tongued, from bottom to top. I moan, a sound I didn't know I could make, and he does it again, harder this time, his hands gripping my thighs to keep me open.

"Marcus."

"Mm." He doesn't stop. He finds my clit with his tongue, circles it, and I see stars.

This is what he does. He takes his time. He learns my body like he learns a piece of wood, finding the grain, following it, shaping it to his will. He knows exactly where to touch, how hard, how fast. He reads my reactions, adjusts, pushes me closer to the edge.

I'm close. I can feel it building, a pressure in my core that demands release. I tighten my grip on the table, arch into his mouth, and he pulls back.

"No."

"What?"

"Not yet." He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm not done with you."

He unbuttons his jeans. Slow. Deliberate. I watch his hands, those hands that carve wood and rebuild engines, and I want them on me. Everywhere.

He pulls himself out. He's hard, thick, the head slick and dark. He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes on mine.

"You're going to take all of me," he says. "And you're going to look at me when you do."

I nod. I can't speak.

He steps between my legs, lines himself up, and pushes in.

It's not gentle. It's not slow. It's a single, smooth thrust that fills me completely, and I cry out, a broken sound that echoes off the walls. He pauses, lets me adjust, and I feel him everywhere. Inside me, around me, above me.

"Look at me."

I do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and there's something raw in his face. Something that looks almost like pain.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"It's not."

"Good."

He starts to move. Long, deep strokes that hit a spot I didn't know existed. Each thrust pushes me higher, closer, and I can't look away. I can't do anything but hold on and let him take me apart.

He reaches between us, finds my clit with his thumb, and I shatter.

It's not a gentle orgasm. It's violent, overwhelming, a wave that crashes through me and leaves me gasping. He doesn't stop. He keeps fucking me through it, his rhythm faltering, his breath ragged.

"Fuck," he groans. "Fuck, you feel so good."

I'm still coming, still clenching around him, and he follows me over the edge. He buries himself deep, his body shuddering, and I feel him pulse inside me, hot and thick.

He stays there for a long moment. His forehead rests against mine, his breath mixing with mine, and I can feel his heart pounding through his chest.

Then he pulls out, slowly, and I feel the loss like a physical ache.

He helps me off the table, steadies me when my legs wobble. He finds my underwear, helps me step into them, and pulls my dress down. His hands are gentle now, careful, and I want to cry.

"Hey." He cups my face, tilts it up. "You okay?"

I nod. My throat is too tight for words.

He kisses me, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to what we just did.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He leads me back into the house, through the kitchen, to the bathroom with the fish shower curtain. He starts the water, waits for it to warm, and then he undresses me, piece by piece, like I'm something precious.

We shower together. He washes my hair, my body. He kisses my shoulders, my neck, the small of my back. He doesn't say much, and neither do I. It's enough to be here, in this space he's made, with this man who carved a woman out of wood and fucked me on a table covered in sawdust.

After, he wraps me in a towel and leads me to his bedroom. The bed is huge, covered in dark sheets, and I sink into it like I've been here a thousand times.

He lies beside me, pulls me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, rhythmic, a lullaby I didn't know I needed.

"Stay," he says. "Stay the weekend."

I should say no. I should go home, think about what just happened, process it in the safety of my own space. But his arms are around me, his body is warm, and I don't want to leave.

"Okay."

He kisses the top of my head. "Good."

I close my eyes. I feel his hand stroking my hair, his breath evening out, and I let myself drift.

But before I fall asleep, I think about the carving. The woman's body, curved and smooth, shaped by his hands. I think about what he said, that she was an idea he couldn't get out of his head.

I wonder what ideas he has about me.

I wonder if I'll recognize myself when he's done.