"Yeah. Decided if I'm going to have a beard, it should be intentional." I catch her hand. Press a kiss to her palm. "Not just neglect."
"I like it. I can see more of your face this way."
"Good. Because you're going to be seeing a lot of it."
She laughs. The sound fills the cabin with warmth that has nothing to do with the fire.
We spend the afternoon talking through details. Her consulting business. My work as sheriff. How we balance two careers and a relationship. Where we see ourselves in a year,five years, ten years. Ordinary planning that feels extraordinary because we're doing it together.
Evening falls. The cabin grows dark except for firelight. Harlow moves from the couch to stand at the window, looking out at snow falling thick through the trees.
"It's really coming down," she says.
I join her. Snow blankets everything. The truck is already half-buried. The tracks we made driving in are disappearing under fresh powder.
"Storm's supposed to last through tomorrow. We might be stuck here for a day or two."
"Terrible tragedy," she says, not sounding bothered at all.
I turn her away from the window. Her eyes are dark in the firelight. Soft. Open. She looks at me like I'm someone worth choosing, and that's exactly what she did. Chose me. Chose us. Chose a future that includes risk and vulnerability and the possibility of loss.
"Come here," I say.
She does. We kiss. Her mouth is soft and demanding at the same time. The heat builds fast. My hands slide into her hair, fingers threading through the strands as I tilt her head back to deepen the kiss. She makes a sound low in her throat and presses closer. Her hands grip my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
I walk her backward toward the bedroom. She tugs at my shirt and I pull it over my head, toss it somewhere behind us. Her fingers trace the muscles of my chest, explore the scars from old injuries and recent firefights.
We stumble through the doorway. The only light comes from the fire in the main room, flickering shadows across the bed. She reaches for the hem of her shirt and I help her pull it free. Her skin glows warm in the low light.
I trace the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine. She's lean muscle and soft curves. Beautiful. Mine. When I unhook her bra and it falls away, I take my time looking at her. Learning every inch.
"Rhys." My name is half plea, half demand.
"I've got you."
I lower her to the bed. Follow her down. My mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, lower. She arches into me when I take her breast in my mouth. Her fingers tangle in my hair, holding me there. The sounds she makes drive me crazy. Soft gasps and broken moans that tell me exactly what she likes.
I work my way down her body. Kiss the scar on her ribs from the bullet graze. The old marks from her FBI days. Evidence of a life lived dangerously. She trembles when I undo her jeans and slide them down her legs. Kicks them off impatiently.
"Your turn," she says, breathless.
I stand long enough to strip out of my jeans. Her eyes track over me in the firelight, dark with want. When I settle between her thighs, she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me close.
The first touch of skin on skin makes us both groan. I kiss her again, slower this time. Savoring. Her hands map my shoulders, my back, lower. When she grips my hips and rocks against me, I nearly lose control.
"Harlow." Her name comes out rough. "I need you."
"Then take me."
I slide inside her and we both go still. The sensation is overwhelming. She's tight and wet and perfect. Her head falls back against the pillow. Eyes closing. Breath catching.
"Look at me," I say.
She does. Those fierce, intelligent eyes lock on mine.
I start to move. Slow at first. Deep. She matches my rhythm, meets every thrust. Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her breathcomes faster. The firelight plays across her skin, catches in her hair spread across my pillow.
This isn't desperate or rushed. This is choosing each other. Building something that lasts.
