And by insisted, I meant he’d said, “This is how I die, Maggie. Alone. Blue. Tragic. Tell my story,” then dramatically collapsed on the hallway floor until I gave in and dragged the heater into my room.
So now I was warmer than Roman. And alone.
I was just starting to drift off, caught in that floaty, in-between space where dreams stretch into real things, when I felt the mattress dip behind me. I caught the scent of pine and skin and something undeniably Roman. It was familiar. Grounding. And warmed me faster than the heater ever could.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he murmured, voice shaking with cold and exhaustion. “But I’m fucking freezing to death. Can I sleep in here with you?”
I didn’t have time to answer. He was already halfway under the blankets, like sharing my bed had always been the logical next step. His bare chest met my back, and suddenly the cold wasn’t my main concern anymore.
The heat of him soaked through me instantly. He shifted behind me, tugging the blanket higher over both of us, then slung one arm across my waist. Not tight. Not pushy. Justthere.
But oh, it was there.
I was wearing one of his old T-shirts—his clothes kept mysteriously mixing in with my laundry. No bra. Just underwear and this threadbare cotton that smelled like him. His breath warmed the back of my neck. His chest pressed against my spine with every inhale. I could feel him—allof him—close enough to send a shiver down my back that had nothing to do with the cold.
I told myself it was fine. We were simply keeping warm.
Except his fingers were splayed gently on my waist as if they’d always belonged there. Like my body was familiar ground he was afraid to disturb but couldn’t stop touching.
I shifted slightly. Just enough to close the last inch between us.
He stilled.
So did I.
We were playing a dangerous game with no reset button, and I didn’t want to stop.
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, sliding across the fabric of my shirt—hisshirt—down to where the hem rested against my hip. His fingertips skimmed under the edge, warm on my bare skin. I exhaled shakily.
His lips brushed against my ear. “Tell me to stop.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead, I turned to face him, heart pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it. His eyes caught mine in the dark—soft, serious, waiting. He was giving me a chance to back out.
That was all it took.
We moved at the same time, crashing together, mouths hungry and clumsy and perfect. It wasn’t smooth. Wasn’t choreographed. But it was desperate, and God, it was real.
He kissed me like he’d been starving for it, like he couldn’t believe I was finally letting him have me. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into my mouth. His hands slid down my spine, pressing me closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between us.
I tugged impatiently at the waistband of his sweats. He broke the kiss only long enough to rip my shirt over my head, eyes raking over me like he was memorizing every inch. His palms skimmed up my ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of my breasts before sliding lower. When he gripped my hip, I arched into him without thinking.
We stripped each other in a mess of limbs and blankets—no finesse, no pause—until we were bare, skin to skin.
Until there was nothing between us but heat.
He kissed me like he needed to taste every sound I made, and cupped my jaw like I was something worth worshipping. I gasped when his fingers trailed between my thighs, stroking me in slow, filthy circles until I was rocking into his touch.
“Already so wet for me,” he murmured against my neck, his voice thick with desire. “You’ve been wanting this too, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I panted. “God, yes.”
He lined himself up with me, eyes locked on mine, and when he entered me, the air punched out of my lungs. My back arched, my legs locking around his waist as I moaned his name.
“God, Maggie…” His voice was wrecked, like he could barely hold it together. “You feel so fucking good.”
He started slow, deep, like he was mapping every inch of me from the inside. Every thrust made me gasp and dig my nails into his back. He groaned when I rolled my hips up to meet him, and the pace shifted—faster now, harder, like he couldn’t stop himself.
“Just like that,” he praised, his mouth brushing mine between breaths. “Take me… that’s it. My perfect girl.”
