The fire pops.
Snow keeps falling.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize I don’t miss the girl I was three years ago. I don’t wish I could warn her, or speed her up, or slow her down.
She got here.
She made it.
Sebastian catches my eye. Raises his brows.
I nod, smiling softly.
We’re good.
We’re home.
We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.
The inn is quiet, the kind of quiet that only follows a day full of laughter, too many cookies, and the chaos of twin toddlers overdosing on holiday magic.
Snow taps gently at the windows. The glow from the tree downstairs flickers soft and warm, casting lazy shadows across the hallway as we tiptoe toward our room.
Sebastian’s hand slides into mine as we pass the girls’ door.
He glances in, checking one more time. Two identical tufts of curls poke out from matching quilts. He exhales, shoulders relaxing.
“They’re out cold,” he whispers.
“Christmas miracles are real,” I whisper back.
His lips claim mine as soon as we close the door of our room. Slow at first, then deeper. His hand tangles in my hair, the other sliding under the hem of my sweater. My skin prickles beneath his touch. Our clothes dissapear.
I guide him backward toward the bed. He follows without breaking the kiss. The back of his knees hit the mattress, andhe goes down, pulling me with him. I land straddling him, my thighs pressed to either side of his hips.
I pull back, my breath coming fast. I look down at him. His dark hair messy on the pillows, his pupils blown wide, a flush creeping up his neck. He’s beautiful. He’s mine.
I lean down, my hair falling around us like a curtain. “I’m starving too.”
He makes a sound, half laugh, half surrender, as my teeth graze the line of his jaw. The stubble there is a delicious rasp against my tongue.
I’m moving down in a exploration over the column of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. My hands follow my mouth, mapping the shifting topography of muscle and bone.
His hands, which had been resting on my hips, begin their own journey. One slides up my spine, pressing me closer, while the other traces the curve of my ribcage, thumb brushing the sensitive underside of my breast. The touch is electric, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core.
I press a kiss to the center of his chest, directly over the frantic rhythm of his heart.
“I love this,” I whisper, my lips moving against his skin. “I love feeling you get harder just from my touch.”
His breath hitches. “Willa…”
I smile against him. I take my sweet time, savoring every shiver, every gasp.
I want to learn him all over again. I want to memorize the way his stomach muscles tighten when I trace the line of hair below his navel.
The way he fists the sheets when my tongue dips into the groove of his hip.
By the time I reach the hard length of him, he’s trembling. His hands are in my hair now, not guiding, just holding on.
