He tugs down the neck of my base layer, pressing his lips to the back of my neck, kissing along the edge of my balaclava, the scrape of his teeth setting off sparks that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
The cold disappears. The world narrows to the rhythm of his breath and the slide of his hands and the way his voice roughens when he says my name again, like it’s something he’s still tasting.
He pushes my jacket up, gloved fingers tracing the line of my spine, then sliding down to grip my hip again, tighter this time.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, voice low, “how good you look when you run from me?”
My reply is lost somewhere between a sound and a shiver.
He laughs softly, lips brushing over my fabric-covered ear. “So fucking good, baby. Makes me want to reward you. But we both know you just want me to fuck you senseless.”
“Miguel…” I shiver, the cold finally hitting me.
“And it is the season of giving, isn’t it, baby?”
SIX
MIGUEL
The words hang between us,fogging in the air.
The season of giving.
Caleb’s chest is heaving, breath spilling out in white clouds, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He’s beautiful like this, flushed and trembling, adrenaline and endorphins chasing each other through his veins. The world’s silent around us, except for the crackle of distant branches and our breathing.
“C’mere,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t hesitate. He stumbles in the space between us and presses his face into my chest, all that fight bleeding out at once. I wrap my arms around him, tucking his head under my chin, my gloved hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck.
I drag my lips over the fabric of his balaclava, the scrape of my stubble catching, the heat of my breath seeping through. “You did so well, baby.” My voice is low and hoarse from the cold and the chase. “But we should get you warm before you turn into a popsicle.”
His fingers bunch in the front of my jacket, clutching hard. I feel him shaking, not from the cold this time, not entirely, and I hold him tighter. His breath catches, then steadies againstme. “Negative, I’m already a meat popsicle.” He lets out a shaky laugh that breaks on the last syllable. “It’s all your fault too, making me run through a snowstorm, psycho!”
“Mm.” I smile against his temple. “You liked it.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He huffs, soft and breathless, the sound carried away by the wind. His body sags against me, all adrenaline and exhaustion and heat. I slip my gloved hand around his wrist and tug him upright.
“Come on. The hunting cabin isn’t far.”
He stumbles a little when I pull him forward. The snow’s almost to his knees now, and he’s limping slightly. I steady him with an arm around his waist. “You hurt?”
“My knee,” he mutters, “I fell.”
Shit.
“Bad?”
“I don’t think so.” He’s panting, trying to play it off, but I can feel the tension in him, the way he’s protecting that leg. I hope it’s not something that will interfere with basketball for him.
I didn’t think about that.
Now the guilt will eat me up if he is really hurt.
“I can carry you if it hurts too bad.” I offer, but knowing how stubborn he is, the answer I get is expected.
He flips me off and keeps walking, or should I say limping.
We move together through the trees, our boots crunching, the world a muted blur of white and grey. The cabin appears like something pulled out of a snow globe, small, square, and half-buried in drifts. Just enough space for a bed and a stove, with a door that creaks when I push it open. Inside smells like old pine and dust and the faint ghost of smoke.
