She opens beneath me like she’s been waiting. Like she knew exactly how I’d feel and wanted it anyway. Her lips part, and my hand slides from her cheek into her hair, fisting lightly at the nape. She shifts to her knees and comes closer, fitting against me like she remembers how we moved together, even though we’ve only kissed once.
I deepen the kiss, but not by much. I still hold back. I have to. If I give in fully, I’ll forget every reason I’ve clung to, and every lie I’ve told myself about what it means to be alone.
Her hands move to my chest, sliding up beneath the open edge of my flannel. Her palms are warm. Her touch is reverent. I feel every nerve stand at attention. My cock pulses, pressing againstmy zipper. I taste cinnamon on her breath and regret in the back of my throat. She deserves two things: she deserves more than a man who’s spent half his life trying to believe the ache of loneliness is something you can choose, and she deserves better than a man who’s spent the other half convincing himself he doesn’t need anyone.
She kisses me again. I answer. And then I stop.
I pull back, just far enough that her lips chase mine for half a second before she realizes I’m not coming back in.
Her brows pull together, not hurt, not yet, but confused. I keep my hand in her hair, but I don’t pull her closer again. I hold her where she is and look into her eyes because I owe her that.
“Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”
Her expression falters. I see it. I hate myself for needing the space more than I want her to close it. I feel the silence that falls between us like a wire pulled tight. I don’t release her. Not yet. I just wait. Not breathing. Not hoping, but needing her to stay.
She stays. That’s what does me in, the way she doesn’t flinch or pull back, doesn’t pretend she didn’t feel how close I was to giving in. Her hands are still on my chest, fingers curling just enough that the fabric pulls under her grip.
Her breath skims my lips, warm and uneven. She’s so close, I know she can feel the thick, heavy press of my cock straining against my jeans. I don’t even try to hide it. I want her to feel it. I want her to know exactly what she does to me just by breathing my name.
“Jax,” she whispers, voice a little rough, like it’s caught on the edge of wanting more.
I could take her right here on this floor, push her down in front of the fire, and slide my hand up that soft curve of her thigh until she says my name the way I’ve been needing to hear it. I want to. God, I want to.
She leans in before I do. Her mouth brushes mine once, twice. She’s soft, tasting, as if she’s testing how far she can push me. When I don’t stop her, she kisses me again, deeper this time. Her tongue flicks at my lips, and I open for her, just enough to feel the heat of her mouth and the promise in the way she moves closer.
Her knee shifts between mine, brushing the bulge that’s been hard and aching since the moment she curled up in my shirt. I swear under my breath, a sound swallowed by her lips when she kisses me again. This time, it’s slow, claiming, hungry enough that my hands want to drag her down and feel her bare and spread beneath me.
When I pull back, it’s not because I want to but because I have to. If I don’t, I’ll take every piece of her she’s offering and more. I rest my forehead against hers, both of us breathing as if we just ran a mile through the snow.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” I rasp, my cock pressing so hard against my zipper it hurts to stay still. My hands flex on her hips.Let me ruin you, too, I think, but don’t say.
Her lips curve against mine, soft and wicked at once. “Good.”
She kisses me one last time, open-mouthed and slow, dragging her teeth across my bottom lip before she pulls away. I feel the loss like a burn. She picks up the sketchpad with fingers that tremble slightly, Santa and the beginnings of a Christmas tree on the page, and backs away, eyes locked on mine, as if she knows exactly how ready I am to break my own rules for her.
She curls up in my armchair again, so curvy and soft in my shirt, but all I can see is the shape of her mouth. I think about the way her knee brushed the hard line of my cock as if she wanted to know exactly how badly I’m holding back.
The fire snaps. The snow presses quietly against the windows, and my cock stays thick and aching while I watch her, knowing damn well there’s no part inside me she hasn’t already touched.
Sleep won’t find me tonight. Not when every part of me wants every part of her.
Chapter five
Claire
The trail is barely marked, just a scattering of boot prints and a worn ribbon of snow leading uphill through the pines. Church bells ring from Granitehart Ridge below. I think about the content I should be capturing, the festival lights, aesthetic holiday shots. Instead, I'm climbing a mountain with a man I've known for three days.
"Town tradition," Jax says quietly. "They ring the bells for an hour on Christmas Eve."
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful. And you’re exactly where you're supposed to be."
Heat flushes my chest at the compliment. The air feels warmer than it should.
I think about the town’s holiday festival I’mnotdocumenting, and what it would be like to skip everything and wake up here on Christmas morning without fanfare or a stocking, just a mountain man. My boots sink in a little with each step. I tighten the borrowed scarf around my neck, catching the scent of the forest, and woodsmoke from Jax’s cabin. He said the ridgewasn’t far, and I believe him. Not because of his words, he barely speaks, but because I trust the way he moves like someone who’s always five steps ahead of the storm.
He walks beside me now, close enough that our arms brush when the path narrows. The silence between us feels deliberate, almost careful. I hear the soft exhale of his breath and the crunch of our steps on the packed snow. The world is all white and blue and quiet, the trees tall and still, as if they’re listening in.
