One Last Brewery Tour

Chloe had been back in town less than six hours when Gideon cornered her outside the rehearsal dinner with that same crooked half-smile that used to wreck her in high school. Ten years had thickened his shoulders and put silver at his temples, but the way he looked at her hadn’t changed one bit.

“Petra’s already in the bridal suite crying over centerpieces,” he said, voice low. “I’ve got the keys to the brewery. Last tour before the wedding chaos swallows us. You coming, Chloe?”

She should have said no. She was thirty-two, a craft-beer photographer with a life that finally made sense on the other side of the country. Instead she followed him through the side door of the old brick building he owned now, the place that smelled like hops and wet grain and every summer they’d never quite claimed.

The main floor was quiet, fermenters glowing dull under the low lights. Gideon walked ahead of her between the tall stainless tanks, his hand brushing the small of her back once, twice, accidental only in the way he pretended. Chloe’s pulse jumped each time.

“You always smelled like this place even before you owned it,” she said, trying for lightness and failing. “Like you were born in a mash tun.”

He stopped, turned. The dim light caught the hunger he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “I waited too long last time. Let you leave for the job without saying a damn thing. I’ve been in love with you since you were twenty-two and stealing sips out of my growler behind the loading dock. Regretted every second I didn’t grab you and keep you.”

Chloe’s breath left her in a rush. She stepped closer until the heat of him soaked through her thin dress. “I felt it too. Every time. I was terrified I’d ruin the only friendship that ever felt like home. So I ran. And I’ve been half-hollow ever since.”

Their eyes locked. No more pretending. Gideon’s fingers traced the inside of her wrist, then higher, deliberate now, mapping the soft skin of her forearm. Chloe answered by sliding her palm up his chest, feeling the hard thud under the flannel. The air between them went electric, thick with everything they’d swallowed for a decade.

“I’m done being careful,” she whispered.

He kissed her like a man drowning. Backed her into the cool curve of a tank, mouth open and desperate, tongue sweeping deep while his hands fisted in her dress. Chloe moaned into it, hips rolling forward, the ridge of his cock already hard against her belly. Ten years of almosts detonated at once.

Gideon dropped to his knees right there on the concrete. He shoved her dress up, yanked her panties aside, and buried his face between her thighs like he’d been starving. The first long lick dragged a broken sound out of her throat. He held her open with both thumbs, sucking her clit in wet, rhythmic pulses while two thick fingers slid inside and curled. Chloe’s head thudded back against the steel. She came hard and fast, thighs shaking around his ears, one hand twisted in his hair, the other smearing condensation down the tank. He kept licking through it, greedy, until she was whimpering his name like a prayer she’d forgotten how to say.

He stood, spun her, bent her over a low oak barrel that still smelled faintly of whiskey. The head of his cock nudged her soaked entrance. Chloe pushed back, needing it.

“Fuck, Chloe—look at you. Taking me like you were made for it.” He sank in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching her until she felt owned. Once he was buried he stayed there, breathing hard against her neck. “I love you. Never stopped. Never will.”

“I love you too,” she gasped, rocking back to take him deeper. “God, Gideon, move.”

He fucked her deep and deliberate, one hand braced on the barrel, the other sliding around to rub her clit in tight circles. Every thrust dragged over the spot that made her vision white out. Words spilled between them—half confessions, half curses—how many nights he’d jerked off thinking of this exact heat, how many cities she’d wandered wishing the sheets smelled like him. The slap of skin filled the quiet brewery. Chloe came again with a raw cry, clenching around him so hard he cursed and pulled out just long enough to keep from following.

He dragged a stack of grain sacks down, spread a clean work blanket over them, and sat with his back against another tank. Chloe climbed on, straddling him, guiding his cock back inside. She sank down until she was full again and started to ride—grinding hard, rolling her hips so every stroke ground her clit against the base of him. Their eyes never left each other. Sweat slicked their skin. Gideon’s hands gripped her ass, helping her slam down, thumbs spreading her open so he could watch himself disappear into her.

“Stay,” he rasped. “This time stay. Marry me someday. Build something that doesn’t end when the tour does.”

Chloe leaned in, foreheads pressed together, and rode him through the last rising wave. “Yes. I’m not leaving again.” They came together—raw, shaking, mouths open on each other’s names—her walls fluttering around the hot pulse of him as he filled her deep.

Afterward they lay tangled and bare on the blanket among the tall fermenters, the only sound the soft hiss of CO2 vents and their slowing breaths. Gideon kissed the damp hair at her temple, then the corner of her mouth, lazy and tender. He reached into the pocket of the jeans he’d kicked aside and pulled out a thin gold band set with a tiny emerald—his grandmother’s, the one he’d kept in a drawer for years without knowing why until tonight.

He slid it onto her finger while she watched, eyes wet. “Not a full proposal yet. Just a promise. We get to choose the future this time.”

Chloe curled closer, the ring cool against her skin, his cock still half-hard and sticky against her thigh. The brewery felt like the beginning of everything instead of the end of a tour.

She nuzzled under his jaw and murmured against his throat, “So when do we tell Petra she’s about to lose her photographer to the best man for good?”