"I know. I feel it." His grip on my hip tightens almost to the point of pain. "Come for me."
I do, the orgasm crashing over me like a wave, and this time he follows, finally letting go of that iron control. He buries himself deep, jaw clenched, a rough sound tearing from his throat as he pulses inside me.
We stay frozen like that, locked together, both of us shaking with the aftershocks. Then slowly, he pulls out and gathers me against his chest. My limbs feel like water, boneless and heavy, and I sag into him gratefully.
He shifts us again until we're lying on our sides, legs tangled, facing each other. His hand caressing my hip, my waist, my ribs, like he can't stop touching me even now.
"You okay?" His voice is hoarse, spent.
"More than okay." I press my forehead to his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow beneath my cheek. "That was—"
"Yeah." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "It was."
We're warm and sated and tangled together in a way that feels both temporary and permanent all at once. The firelight flickers, casting moving shadows across the walls, and I watch them dance while my breathing slowly evens out.
Jason's hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, tilting my face up so he can look at me. His eyes are softer now, the sharp edges of hunger and possession mellowed into something deeper.
"Stay," he murmurs. Not quite a command, not quite a plea. Something in between.
I reach up and trace the line of his jaw, feeling the scratch of his beard against my palm. "I'm not going anywhere."
His arms tighten around me, pulling me impossibly closer. We lie there in the warm bed, skin cooling slowly, hearts still beating in sync. The world beyond the cabin doesn't exist—not the storm, not my past, not the uncertainty of tomorrow.
There's only this moment, this man, this feeling of being wanted and safe andhome.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, that feels like enough.
More than enough.
It feels like everything.
Chapter 6 – Jason
She's humming in my kitchen.
The sound is soft, almost unconscious, some melody I don't recognize drifting through the cabin as she moves between the counter and the stove.
Afternoon light filters through the snow-crusted windows, pale gold and diffused, painting everything in soft edges. Inside, there's warmth. Steam rising from the pot on the stove. The smell of venison and root vegetables simmering together. Bread cooling on the cutting board, the crust crackling as it settles.
And her. Moving through my space like she belongs here. Like she's always belonged here.
I watch from the doorway, arms crossed, just taking her in. She's still wearing my clothes—thermal shirt rolled at the sleeves, sweatpants cinched tight at her waist. Her hair's pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
There's an ease in her movements now that wasn't there yesterday, a looseness in her shoulders that tells me she's stopped bracing for the other shoe to drop.
She reaches for the wooden spoon, stirring the stew, and I push off the doorframe and cross to her. My hand settles on her lower back and she leans into the touch without hesitation.
"Smells good," I murmur.
"Your recipe." She glances up at me, eyes bright. "I'm just following instructions."
"Doing a damn good job of it."
She ducks her head, pleased, and goes back to stirring. I stay close, my chest against her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her hair mixed with woodsmoke and cooking spices. It's domestic in a way I never thought I'd want. Never thought I'dget.
"Needs more time," she says, replacing the lid. "Maybe another twenty minutes?"
"Sounds about right." I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, let my fingers linger against her jaw. "You cold?"
