“You’re cheating somehow,” he mutters.
I grin, sipping the last of my wine. “You can’t cheat in Candyland,genius. It’s pure luck.”
“Or witchcraft,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me in mock suspicion.
I laugh, but the sound hitches as a shiver runs through me. Damn. That happens every time I drink because my body loves to overreact, even when I’m not cold.
Sterling notices instantly, and his head tilts, brows furrowing. “You’re cold.”
“I’m not, I swear?—”
But before I can explain, he’s already reaching behind him, snagging the thick knit blanket off of the couch. He unfolds it and then, without a second’s hesitation, tugs me straight into his side.
My heart kicks up. “Sterling?—”
“Shut up and let me help for once,” he murmurs, pulling the blanket around both of us until I’m cocooned against him. His chest is firm beneath my cheek, radiating warmth, his arm heavy and protective across my shoulder.
I should move and laugh it off, push him away, something.Anything. But instead, I breathe him in—soap and amber and something distinctlyhim—and melt into the solid line of his body. This is exactly where I want to be.
“Better?” he asks, voice low near my temple.
I nod, though the shivering hasn’t stopped. It’s not the cold. It’s the wine, the fire, the way every nerve ending in my body issuddenly on high alert because he’s holding me like this. It’s the adrenaline of being near Sterling.
The game sits abandoned on the rug, our pieces stranded mid-board. His thumb strokes idly against my arm through the blanket, sending tiny sparks shooting under my skin.
I miss this. It feels so right to be in his arms like this, like a piece of me that’s been missing for the last three years is finally back, completing me. I tip my head back without meaning to, and when I do, I find his eyes already on me.
The world narrows to the steady beat of my heart in my ears, the firelight reflected in his gaze, and the way his lips part just slightly as if he’s contemplating something.
He doesn’t move for a long, breathless second. Then, slowly, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away, he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is soft at first, but the second my lips part, he deepens it. His hand slides up, cupping my jaw, angling me toward him, and I sigh into him like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks.
The blanket slips off my shoulder as I twist closer, clutching his shirt in my fist. His lips are warm, insistent, stealing every thought from my head until there’s nothing but heat and want and the rush of finally,finallyletting go.
The hand that’s not cradling my jaw slides down, gripping my hip through the blanket, tugging me closer until I’m straddling him.
A soft sound escapes from me, half gasp, half moan, and his lips press harder, hungrier. His tongue teases mine, and I can taste the wine—sweet and dizzying. My fingers tug at his shirt, desperate to be closer.
“Fuck, Maisy,” Sterling groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me, and it makes me burn everywhere at once.
His hand skims down my thigh, squeezing, before sliding back up under the blanket. My skin tingles in its wake, heat pooling low in my stomach. I tilt my head, opening for him, and the kiss turns needy—messy, devouring, like we can’t get enough of each other. My body hums with it, alive in a way I haven’t felt in forever.
But just as quickly, the lamp on the side table blazes to life, the hum of the fridge roars from the kitchen, and the overhead lights flood the room in sudden brightness.
Sterling freezes and so do I when we realize the power’s back. Our lips hover just barely apart, breaths colliding, both of us wide-eyed in the shock of being caught by reality itself.
Sterling blinks first, swallowing hard as he leans back slightly. “The power’s back.”
I bite my lip, heart racing, still clutching his shirt like I’m not ready to let go. Slowly, I loosen my grip and climb off him, trying to catch my breath, pretending like my whole world didn’t just tilt on its axis.
“I think I should go to bed,” I whisper, breathless.
He doesn’t argue. He just nods, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.” Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand. “That’s probably a good idea.”
I slip my fingers into his, letting him pull me up—but instead of releasing me, his thumb brushes once across my knuckles before he exhales. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have?—”
I cut him off before he finishes. “Don’t,” I say firmly, meeting his eyes. “Not a single thing that happened tonight needs an apology.”
