He moves harder, faster, his body tight against mine. The sensation builds fast—that sharp, rising pull low in my belly. I brace my palms on the window ledge and push back against him, chasing it.
“Lila,” he murmurs against my neck, kissing along the curve.
It hits me in a rush. My muscles grip around him, once, twice, again, and I come hard, my whole body tightening around his cock. He lets out a raw growl, locks both arms around me, and drives deep.
I feel it when he releases—thick pulses inside me, his body shuddering against my back.
He stays buried in me, still moving through the last steady thrusts as the remnants of my orgasm taper off, leaving my legs loose and my weight resting fully in his hold.
He keeps his arms around me while we catch our breath, our bodies joined, the fire crackling behind us and the snow falling outside.
When we’re finally done,he carries me back to the nest of blankets by the fire before lowering us both into the warmth. His arm curls around me, drawing me close until we fit together like we were shaped that way.
For a while neither of us speaks. The only sound is the soft crackle of the fire and our breathing. My body feels weightless, my thoughts even more so—like the entire night has folded into this one blissful moment.
Then something small and absurd bubbles up through the haze. “Holt,” I whisper. “Guess what?”
“Mmm?”
“It’s Christmas.”
He chuckles. “Best one I’ve ever had.”
I laugh too, and look around at all the pretty, sparkly decorations. He tightens his hold, presses a slow kiss to the top of my head, For the first time in years, I feel a little of that old Christmas magic stirring.
We stay curled into each other, that sweet, deep ache blooming every time he shifts against me. The scent of smoke and pine fills the air; beneath it, him—warm, masculine, barely tamed. All mine.
Eventually he draws back, murmuring into my hair, “You hungry?”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Starved.”
He kisses the side of my neck, tenderly. “That I can fix.”
He untangles himself from the blankets, stands, and pulls on the flannel pants he abandoned hours ago. Watching him move through the cabin, huge, yet agile in the low morning light, makes my heart twist in the best way.
He tests the light switches. The power’s still out, but the stove clicks when he tries it. Gas. Salvation.
He rummages through the cupboards and comes up with a dented stovetop espresso pot, holding it up like treasure.
“Coffee,” he announces with mock solemnity. “We’re saved.”
I grin, clutching the blanket around me. “You make it, I’ll judge.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, that half-smile I’m already addicted to. “Tough critic, huh?”
“Fancy-coffee girl.”
Clothes are scattered where we left them—his flannel shirt over the armchair, my jeans in a heap by the fire. I grab the shirt and pull it on. It’s far too big, the sleeves past my hands, but it smells like him. The hem brushes my thighs as I cross to the stove.
He’s standing there, barefoot, watching the moka pot hiss on the flame. When he sees me in his shirt, a smile tugs at his lips.
“Fits you better,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get used to it,” I murmur, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile.
He pours the coffee into two mismatched mugs and hands one to me. The steam rises between us, rich and comforting.
“Merry Christmas, Lila.”
