"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me, hot and wet and perfect.
I arch up, hands fisting in his hair, and let myself fall. Time slows, narrows down to just this—his hands on my skin, the rasp of his breath, the way he says my name like it's something sacred.
He takes his time, learning every curve, every place that makes me gasp. When he finally strips away the last barriers between us, there's a moment where we just look at each other, and I see everything in his eyes. The lust, yes, but also somethingmore. Something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"You're sure?" he asks, his voice rough.
I pull him down to me, answering with a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.
When we finally come together, it's like everything else falls away—the storm, the mountain, the outside world. There's only this: the slide of skin on skin, the rhythm we find together, the way he whispers my name against my throat like a prayer.
It builds slowly, then all at once, and when I shatter, he's right there with me, holding me through it.
After, we lie tangled together under the quilt, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
"So," I say eventually, "still think I'm trouble?"
I feel his laugh rumble through his chest. "The absolute worst kind."
"Good." I press a kiss to his sternum. "I'd hate to disappoint."
Outside, the wind's picked up again, but in here, wrapped in his warmth, I've never felt safer.
Chapter 6
Thatcher
Thefireburnedlowsometime before dawn, and I added wood without waking her.
Now the light coming through the window is blue and thin, the kind of light that only exists in deep winter, and snow's piled so high outside that the world looks soft-edged, like a photograph left too long in the sun.
Gia's still asleep, curled against my chest, hair a wild tangle across the pillow. Her skin's warm where it presses against mine, soft and smooth except for a small scar on her shoulder blade that my thumb keeps finding. She makes a small sound in her sleep, something content, and burrows closer.
I should be thinking about what comes next, once the roads are cleared and the real world calls her back, but all I can think is that the cabin feels right with her in it. The air, the silence, the way the world pauses for a heartbeat between storms.
She stirs and murmurs, voice soft and rough with sleep. "You're awake."
"Barely."
She smiles without opening her eyes, one hand sliding up my chest to rest over my heart. Her palm's small and warm, and I can feel my pulse jump under her touch. "You're warm. Don’t move. Stay like this."
So I do.
We lie there while the snow slides from the roof in slow sighs, while the morning light strengthens and turns the room golden. She traces idle patterns on my chest—circles, figure eights, the outline of the scar below my ribs from a slip with a grinding wheel years ago.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asks finally.
"Miss what?"
"Living closer to people. It’s Christmastime, you know. Mercury Ridge is twinkling with lights and life.”
"Sometimes." I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathe in the scent of her. "Then I remember how much I love peace and quiet."
She laughs softly. "But I’m loud."
I smile. “You’re not quiet,” I agree, “but you’re not loud. Your voice is better than any Christmas music to my ears.”
She tilts her head back to look at me, and her eyes are soft, still hazy with sleep and satisfaction. "Smooth talker."
