I don't. Can't. Three years of grief and rage and loneliness pour into this. Into her. She takes it all. Gives it back. Her inner muscles clench around me and I groan, fighting for control.
My hand slides between us, finds where we're joined. I circle her with my thumb and she gasps, hips jerking against mine.
"Rhys."
"I've got you." I keep the pressure steady, the angle deep. "Let go. I want to feel you come."
Her breath quickens. Her body tightens around me. She's close. So close. I shift my hips, hitting deeper while my thumb works her, and she shatters.
She cries out, back arching, body clamping down on mine so tight I can barely move. Her hands clutch my shoulders. Her thighs tremble against my hips. I watch her face as she comes undone, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The sensation drags me over with her. Release crashes through me, intense and overwhelming. Everything narrows toher warmth, her scent, the sound of my name on her lips. I bury my face in her neck and let go completely.
For long moments we don't move. Just breathe together, hearts pounding against each other. The fire crackles. Snow taps against the windows. Nothing else exists except this.
After, we lie tangled together on the rug. Our breathing slows. The fire warms us. Neither speaks because words would break this fragile peace.
Harlow's head rests on my chest. My hand traces patterns on her bare shoulder. Emma's ring is somewhere in the pile of our discarded clothes, but for once I'm not thinking about it.
"No regrets?" she asks quietly.
"No regrets."
"Good." She tilts her head to look at me. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
Despite everything, I smile. "Is that right?"
"That's right, Sheriff." She kisses my chest, right over my heart. "We have until tomorrow morning. Might as well make the most of it."
I pull the blanket from the couch down over us. Outside, the storm continues to bury us in snow. But in here, with Harlow warm in my arms and firelight dancing across the walls, I feel something I haven't felt in three years: peace, and the possibility of a future that doesn't hurt.
8
HARLOW
We wake as afternoon fades to dusk, still tangled together on the floor in front of the wood stove.
The fire has burned down to embers. Rhys stirs first, his hand tightening on my waist before he eases away to add logs. I watch him move through the cabin, naked and unselfconscious, tending to practical needs. Wood. Water. The satellite phone charging on the counter.
"Hungry?" he asks, glancing back at me.
"Starving."
We eat wrapped in blankets, sitting close enough that our shoulders touch. Simple food—canned soup heated over the propane burner, bread with butter. It tastes better than it should, or maybe I'm just seeing everything through the lens of what we just shared.
After, we don't go back to separate spaces. We stay by the fire, talking quietly about Emma's case, about my time in hostage negotiation, about nothing and everything. His fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. Mine rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my palm.
When exhaustion finally pulls us under again, he spreads the blanket from the couch over us both. We shift closer, seekingwarmth and each other, and sleep comes easier than it has in years.
I wake to weak sunlight filtering through the windows and the weight of Rhys's arm across my waist.
We're still on the floor in front of the wood stove. The blanket has slipped down to our hips. His chest rises and falls against my back, steady and warm. The fire has burned down to embers, but the cabin isn't cold yet.
The storm has passed.
I can tell by the quality of light, the absence of wind battering the walls. We'll be able to leave today. Get back to the real world. Back to the assault planning and the trafficking investigation and all the reasons this thing between us is complicated.
But right now, with his arm holding me close and his breath warm on my neck, complicated doesn't matter.
