Only then do I crawl up her body, untie the ribbon, and kiss the faint red marks on her wrists.
She wraps her freed arms around my neck and kisses me like she’ll die if she doesn’t.
Eventually, I roll to the side and pull her into me, her back to my front, my arm locked around her waist like I’m afraid she’ll vanish.
She traces the ink on my forearm with one lazy finger.
“So,” she says, voice still hoarse, “that was item two.”
I press a kiss to the mark I left on her neck. “Two down.”
She laughs softly. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
She goes quiet for a minute. “Tell me something real, Flynn.”
I tighten my arm around her. “I never forgot you. I’ve thought about you every day since we met.”
Her breath catches.
“Your turn,” I murmur.
She’s been quiet for so long, I think she won’t answer. Then she says, “I kept the napkin. The original one. It’s in a book in my apartment. I used to take it out and read it when I was lonely.”
My heart feels too big for my chest.
We lie there until the fire needs another log and our stomachs start growling.
I make coffee and pancakes while she steals one of my flannel shirts and walks around barefoot, hair a wild mess, looking like she belongs here.
We eat at the table, and we talk. Really talk.
I tell her about my time in the military. About the friends I carried lost and the nightmares that still wake me up. She listens without flinching, fingers laced with mine across the table.
She tells me about growing up with her great-aunt after her parents died, about the corporate job that’s been slowly killing her soul, about how the inheritance money is supposed to be freedom but somehow feels like another cage.
“I thought if I came here and got your signature,” she says quietly, “I could finally close the door on the wildest thing I ever did.”
I squeeze her hand. “And now?”
She looks around the cabin (at the fire, at the single bed, at me), and her eyes are soft and scared and hopeful all at once.
“Now I’m not sure I want any doors closed,” she whispers.
I stand up, round the table, and pull her into my lap right there on the kitchen chair. She straddles me, arms around my neck, and we hold each other while the snow keeps falling outside.
Afternoon slides into evening. Every time our shoulders brush, or our fingers touch, the air crackles. By the time the sun drops behind the peaks, the cabin is warm and smells like her.
I bank the fire high, then crook a finger at her.
“Item three,” I say. “Blindfolded and pleasured with ice.”
She raises a brow. “Already?”
“There are only four more days till Christmas.”
I grab the black bandana from my drawer and a cup from the kitchen. I quickly open the door and scoop it full of fresh snow from the porch. Then I set it aside.
