He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh and kisses me again, quick and soft this time.
“We’ll figure it out when the road opens,” he says, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Saint Pierce. All of it.”
“And until then?” I ask, heart in my mouth.
His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, and there’s nothing grumpy in it now. Just heat and something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Until then,” he says, voice low, “I’m gonna spend an irresponsible amount of time kissing you on this couch.”
My pulse trips over itself. “Sounds like a very solid content strategy.”
He groans softly. “You and your content.”
“You knew what I was when you let me in your barn,” I tease.
He kisses me again before I can say anything else, and this time there’s no space left between us at all.
The storm outside has finally gone quiet.
Inside, I’m a blizzard.
TEN
RHETT
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this.
Like my chest isn’t a locked box. Like the air isn’t too thin. Like the past doesn’t have both hands on my throat.
I didn’t plan to talk about Iraq. I never do. It usually lives in that locked box with the lid nailed shut and a warning label no one gets to read.
But Ivy isn’t just anyone.
She sat there on my couch, listening like what I said mattered. No flinching. No pity. No cheap “thank you for your service” to wrap it up in a nice bow. Just those big, soft eyes and that quiet, steady presence that somehow made the story less jagged coming out.
Now she’s half in my lap and my hands are on her, and I don’t know at what point the world tilted this far—but I’m not interested in tilting it back.
Her mouth moves under mine, hot and eager, and every nerve I thought had gone numb years ago is firing like it just got thememo that I’m still alive. She makes this small sound in the back of her throat—part laugh, part sigh—and I swear I feel it in places battle didn’t touch.
“Ivy,” I murmur against her lips, because I need to say her name or I’m going to forget the concept of language altogether.
“Mhm?” she breathes, fingers curling in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
“As strategies go,” I say, kissing the corner of her mouth, “this is highly distracting.”
“Good,” she whispers, smiling against my skin. “I’m going for full disruption.”
I huff a laugh that turns into a groan when she shifts, swinging one leg fully over my lap to straddle me. The quilt slips, pooling around her hips. She’s warm and soft and impossibly close, and suddenly the storm outside is nothing compared to what’s happening in my ribcage.
My hands find her waist—just to steady her, that’s the lie I tell myself—but then she settles, and my grip tightens on reflex. Her breath stutters. Mine does too.
“It’s okay,” she says, eyes searching mine, all that sparkle focused and fierce now. “You can touch me.”
I don’t deserve that kind of trust. I take it anyway and promise myself I’ll be worthy of it.
Slow. I go slow.
My palms slide up her sides over the thick knit of her sweater, feeling the heat of her body beneath. She shivers like my hands are a match and she’s dry kindling. I trace the curve of her waist,the line of her back, memorizing every curve. Everything in me is hungry, but the hunger is wrapped in something bigger. Deeper.
