Imogen is curled against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, her hair everywhere, breath warm on my collarbone. She smells like vanilla and sex. My arm is numb where it’s pinned underher, but I’d rather lose the damn thing than move and wake her up yet.
It’s Christmas. Today is the day the list ends. Today is the day I tell her.
I’ve known it since I opened my door. Maybe I’ve known it since Las Vegas. It doesn’t matter. I know it now with a certainty that sits in my bones like truth.
I love her.
The fire has burned down to coals. I ease out from under her. She makes a sleepy protesting sound and tries to burrow closer, but I kiss her forehead and whisper, “Got a present for you, baby. Stay right there.”
I walk naked to the hearth, toss on more wood, and blow gently until flames catch and roar up the chimney. The cabin fills with heat and the sharp, sweet smell of burning pitch. The bearskin rug lies in front of the hearth like it’s been waiting for this exact morning.
I go back to the bed, slide my arms under her, and lift. She comes awake slowly, arms looping around my neck, legs wrapping my waist on instinct.
“Flynn?” Her voice is husky with sleep.
“Shh. Item eleven.”
She blinks, sees the fire, the rug, the soft glow of the tree lights, and understanding melts across her face. She buries her smile against my throat.
I lower us both to the rug. The fur is warm from the fire, soft against my knees. I lay her down like she’s made of glass and stretch out over her, bracing on my forearms so I can see every inch of her face in the dancing light.
She’s breathtaking.
I start slow.
I kiss her forehead, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, the corner of her mouth. I taste the salt on her neck, the faintsweetness behind her ear. My beard scrapes over her collarbone and she shivers. I mouth my way down the slope of one breast, circle her nipple with my tongue until it’s a tight, perfect peak, then draw it into my mouth and suck gently. She arches, fingers threading into my hair.
I take my time. Every inch of her gets worshipped (the soft underside of her breast, the curve of her waist, the faint silver stretch marks on her hips that I trace with my tongue like they’re treasure maps). When I finally settle between her thighs, she’s trembling, thighs slick, breath coming in soft little gasps.
I lick her open slow, savoring. She tastes like home. She comes with ease. Then I crawl back up her body and slide inside her in one slow, endless push.
I move unhurried, in deep, rolling thrusts that drag over every sensitive place inside her. The fire crackles beside us, throwing gold light across her skin, across the sweat starting to shine between her breasts. The bearskin is soft under my knees, rougher against her back, and every shift makes the fur brush her skin and pull another broken sound from her throat.
I keep our rhythm slow enough that I can feel everything. Her pulse fluttering against my lips when I kiss her throat, the way her thighs tighten around my hips when I hit just the right angle, the tiny catch in her breath every time I bottom out.
Her hands are everywhere urging me to go faster and harder. I lace our fingers and press them into the rug above her head.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
Her eyes open, dark and glassy and so full it steals my breath.
I lean down until our foreheads touch. “I love you, Imogen.”
The words come out rough, scraped raw, but steady.
She stills beneath me, breath catching.
“I love you so fucking much it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want a divorce. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here, or anywhere, as long as it’s with me. I want mornings and nightsand fights and making up and kids who look like you and grow up thinking snow is a food group. I want forever, baby. With you.”
Her eyes fill. Tears spill over, sliding into her hair.
“I love you too,” she whispers, voice cracking. “God, Flynn, I love you so much it hurts. I don’t want the divorce either. I just want you.”
I kiss her. My hips never stop moving, and the tears on her cheeks taste like salt and relief when I lick them away.
We come together quietly, shattering, her crying my name, me groaning hers against her neck as I spill inside her.
After, we lie tangled on the rug, hearts hammering in sync. I pull the quilt from the couch and drape it over us. The heat from the fire and from her skin keeps the cold at bay.
