His breath catches.
He takes my hand.
The cabin glows warm as he leads me through the doorway. Away from the snow. Away from the uncertainty.
Calder closes the door behind us with a soft, decisive thud, shutting out the cold and the world beyond this cabin. The fire crackles low in the stove. Candlelight warms every surface. The tree glows faintly in the corner. And suddenly the tiny living room feels like it’s holding its breath with us.
He doesn’t let go of my hand.
If anything, he holds it tighter—like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s anchoringus.
When he turns to face me, the look in his eyes knocks the air out of my chest.
Not hesitant.
Not conflicted.
Just wanting, deep and certain and warm enough to melt every inch of winter outside.
“Natalie,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “tell me to stop if you want me to. Because I won’t. Unless you want me to.”
I step closer until my chest brushes his, until his breath warms my cheek.
“No stopping,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”
Something inside him breaks open—quiet and devastating. His hand slides to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone as if he’s memorizing the shape of me. The other slips around my waist, drawing me against him slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t.
He kisses me again. Deeper this time, richer, nothing careful about it now. His mouth moves over mine with a tenderness that feels devastating, like he’s been holding this in for years.
I curl my fingers into the hem of his shirt, feeling heat and strength beneath soft fabric. He groans softly against my lips, and the sound sends a warm ache spiraling low in my belly.
The kiss grows, deepens, turns slow and hungry. His hands explore my waist, my back, pulling me closer until there’s nospace left to negotiate. My breath comes faster, his lips tracing down my throat, his stubble scraping gently across my skin in a way that makes my knees weaken.
“Calder…” I whisper, fingers sliding up into his hair, tugging lightly.
He inhales sharply, and his hands tighten at my hips, guiding me backward with gentle insistence until the backs of my legs brush the couch.
He pauses—just for a heartbeat—searching my face, checking, grounding.
I nod, breathless. “Yes.”
His forehead rests against mine in a soft exhale of relief. Then he cups my face in both hands and kisses me again—slow, reverent, tasting like snowmelt and firelight and something that feels terribly close to falling.
He pulls me down onto the couch with him, my body settling against the solid warmth of his. His hands slide beneath layers of fabric in slow, deliberate exploration, touch warm and sure and devastatingly tender. My breath hitches. His lips trail along my jaw, my throat, lower.
His hands slide up to cup my breasts, molding his work-hardened palms against the smooth skin. My eyes cross as his thumb swipes against a puckered nipple, drawing it to a peak.
Against my thigh, I can fell his cock growing harder, thicker. I want to see it. I want to feel it.
I want to taste it.
I give into my instinct. Opening his jeans, I slide my hand under the waist and pull him free. His cock springs to attention. Tearing my mouth from his, I lick my lips and wrap my hand around his impressive length.
He hisses my name.
I grin. “Do you like that?”
