I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away, to tell me to stop. She doesn't. My fingers brush her cheek, warm and soft beneath my thumb. Her skin is impossibly smooth, and the jolt that runs through me is unmistakable.
Her lips part, a soft intake of breath.
I lean in and kiss her.
It's not rushed. Not rough. Just a slow, careful press of my mouth to hers, like I'm confirming something I already knowbut need to prove. She melts into it with a quiet sound that goes straight through me, her hand curling into the front of my flannel, holding on like she doesn't want me to pull away.
I don't.
The kiss deepens, and I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. She tastes like peppermint and something sweeter, and when her tongue touches mine, tentative and seeking, I groan low in my throat.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are dark and searching, pupils blown wide.
The storm howls outside, sealing us in.
And I know, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that this is only the beginning.
Chapter 5
Merry
Rowanisanamazingkisser…
Not desperate. Not hurried. Just steady and certain, his mouth warm and firm against mine, like he's finally allowing himself something he's wanted longer than he'll admit. I lean into him without hesitation, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his flannel, anchoring myself there because my knees have gone weak.
The whole world disappears. There’s no storm outside. There's only the heat of the fire, the solid press of his body, and the way my heart is pounding like it's found its answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against mine. His breath comes rough, matching mine. "We can stop," he says quietly. "Say the word."
I don't hesitate. "Don't."
That's all it takes.
His hand slides to my waist, firm and possessive, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. I can feel how much he wants me, the hard evidence of it pressing against my hip, and the knowledge sends a shiver of anticipation through me.
"Are you sure?" he asks again, his voice rough with restraint.
Instead of answering with words, I kiss him again, harder this time, my hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. I work them open one by one, my fingers trembling slightly, and he helps me by shrugging out of it.
Underneath, he's wearing a thermal shirt that clings to his chest and arms, showing the definition of muscle earned through actual labor. I run my hands over him, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, and he makes a low sound of approval.
"Your turn," he murmurs, and his hands find the hem of my sweater.
He pulls it off slowly, deliberately. The cool air hits my skin for just a moment before his hands are there, warm and rough and perfect. He traces the line of my collarbone, down to the swell of my breasts, and I arch into his touch.
"Rowan," I breathe.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, slow and thorough, and when his tongue brushes mine again, I make a soft sound I don't recognize as my own.
He groans, low and rough, and lifts me easily, like I weigh nothing at all.
I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking, instinct taking over as he carries me down the short hall to the bedroom.The room is small and simple—a bed with a thick quilt, a window with frost creeping at the corners, a single bedside table with a lamp casting warm light.
He sets me on the bed gently, like I'm something precious, then pauses, eyes dark as they roam over me. The way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful, desired in a way I haven't felt in my whole life.
"You're sure?" he asks again, and I love him a little for asking, for giving me the choice.
I reach for him, fingers curling into his thermal shirt. "Rowan, yes. I want this. I want you."
