Chisel me, Please

The workshop smelled of fresh-cut pine and sawdust, like the scent of a man who knew how to carve something wild into submission. I sat on the old stool in the corner, knees pressed together, pretending to read the book I hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. But my eyes weren’t on words. They were on him.
 

He stood at the bench, shirtless, the low light from the hanging bulb sliding over the ridges of his back like a lover’s tongue. Every time he leaned into the wood, the muscles along his shoulders flexed, corded and glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. His hands (God, those hands!) gripped the chisel with the same brutal tenderness he used on me in the dark. The blade bit into the owl’s wing, shaving away curls of pine that fell like secrets at his feet. The owl was coming alive under him. It had fierce eyes, hooked beak, wings half-spread as if ready to hunt. 

Just like him.
 

I watched the way his jaw tightened in concentration, that faint shadow of stubble catching the light. The way his breath came steady and deep, chest rising, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the low waistband of his workshop pants. Everything about him was obscene in its beauty. The quiet grunt he made when he adjusted his grip. The way his forearm veins stood out like ropes when he sanded the curve of the owl’s breast. The masculine scent of him. What was it? Was it woodsmoke, salt, and something darker? It always made my mouth water.
 

My thighs clenched harder. Heat pooled low in my belly, insistently, until I could feel the slick slide of my own arousal between my legs. No panties tonight. I’d stopped wearing them weeks ago; the constant ache for him made fabric feel like a punishment. I imagined those rough, calloused fingers, still dusted with sawdust, sliding up my skirt right now, finding me soaked and swollen, parting me without asking. 

He wouldn’t need to. He never did. He’d know. He always knew.
 

I bit my lip until I tasted copper. In my mind I was already on my knees in front of that bench, mouth open, tongue tracing the same slow path his chisel took across the wood. I wanted to taste the salt on his throat, feel the vibration of his groan against my lips when I took him deep. I wanted him to keep carving while I sucked him, to watch his hands never falter even as I swallowed every inch of him like the greedy, desperate thing I was. The owl would stare down at us with those blank wooden eyes while I choked on the man who made it.
 

He shifted his stance, his pants pulling tight across his ass, and I had to press my palm between my legs just to keep from moaning out loud. Everything he did was foreplay. The way he blew sawdust off the owl’s feathers. breath. The way his thumb stroked along the curve of the beak, testing its sharpness. I wanted that thumb on my clit, circling, pressing, and owning. I wanted those strong arms to pin me down on this filthy bench, to spread me open right beside his half-finished masterpiece while he fucked me slow and deep, whispering filthy things against my ear.
 

My breath hitched. The need was darker now.  I needed him inside me so badly my teeth ached with it. Needed to mark him, to scratch my nails down that sweat-slick back while he buried himself to the hilt and filled me until I couldn’t remember my own name. I wanted to ruin the careful focus on his face, to make him drop the chisel and growl my name like a curse. I wanted him feral. I wanted him ruined for anyone but me.
 

He glanced up then, catching me staring. Those almond brown eyes narrowed, reading every filthy thought painted across my flushed cheeks. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth.
 

“See something you like, love?”
 

My voice came out hoarse, dripping with hunger. “Everything. Every goddamn thing.”
 

He set the chisel down with deliberate care, wiped his hands on a rag, and started toward me. The owl watched from the bench, silent and proud, as if it already knew what was coming.
 

And I let my legs fall open just enough for him to see exactly how wet his hobby had made me.
 

Because this was what he did to me. Every time. With every stroke of wood, he carved something far more dangerous than an owl. He carved pure, aching need into my soul.