"Told you." I hold it up to the light, watching it catch fire in the sun. "The mountain wants me to find its secrets.”
He studies the coin, then my face, and there's something in his expression that makes my heart stutter. "Guess it does."
The air between us shifts again. I feel the same pull as last night, heavier now. The wind dips, the world goes still. He reaches out, tucks my hair behind my ear with fingers that linger, then traces the line of my jaw.
"Gia," he says, and it sounds like a warning and a surrender all at once.
I lean into his touch. "Yeah?"
"We should go inside."
"We should," I agree, but neither of us moves.
Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, drawing me in, and his mouth crashes against mine. This kiss is hungry, desperate, full of all the things we haven't said. His other hand fists in my jacket, pulling me closer, and I can feel the hard line of his body even through all these layers.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Inside," he says again, voice rough. "Now."
Back inside, neither of us says much. We leave boots by the door, shake the snow from our clothes with trembling fingers.
I set the gold coin on the table with a soft clink. "It was on your property, so this belongs to you.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Finders keepers. You know, most people would sell it."
I meet his eyes, see the heat there, the question. "Most people aren't me."
He steps closer, and I can feel the cold radiating off his clothes, but underneath there's warmth. Always warmth. "No. They're not."
And then his hand's at my jaw again, rough and warm, tilting my face up. The kiss starts soft, testing, but turns hungry fast, like we've both been holding our breath for too long.
His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip and I open for him with a gasp. He tastes like coffee and want, and when his hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, I can feel every hard plane of his body.
"Too many layers," I mumble against his mouth.
He makes a sound low in his throat—half laugh, half growl—and his hands find the zipper of my jacket. He pulls it down slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
I push his jacket off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor in a heap. His Henley's next, and when I drag it up over his head, I finally get to see what I've been imagining. He's built like he was carved from the mountain itself—broad shoulders, muscled chest scattered with dark hair, abs that flex when I run my fingers over them.
"Jesus," I breathe.
"That's not my name." But his voice is strained, and when I look up, his eyes are nearly black with desire.
He backs me toward the bed, hands spanning my waist, lifting me easily. My laugh breaks against his mouth, muffled andbreathless. The quilt's soft beneath me, smelling of cedar andhim.
He follows me down, settling between my thighs, and the weight of him is perfect… solid, real, exactly what I need. His mouth finds mine again, then trails down my jaw, my throat, the hollow at the base of my neck where my pulse hammers.
"You smell like snow," he murmurs against my skin, and I feel the words as much as hear them.
"You smell like smoke," I counter, and he smiles against my collarbone.
His hands find the hem of my thermal shirt, slide beneath it. His palms are rough, calloused from years of working metal, and when they close over my breasts through the thin lace of my bra, I arch into him with a sound I don't recognize.
"Thatcher," I gasp.
"I know," he says. "I know."
He pulls my shirt off in one smooth motion, then just looks at me, like he's memorizing every curve, every freckle. His gaze is so intense, it practically burns my skin.
