I silence him with a kiss that answers every question he could ask. There's no going back. Not from this.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His hands shake slightly as he traces the line of my shoulder, andI realize he's nervous too. This careful, controlled man who never lets his guard down in public is trembling because of me.
"I've wanted this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've wanted you. Even when I was telling myself all the reasons it was impossible."
Something shifts in his expression—relief and desire and something deeper. "Good," he says simply. "Because I don't think I could have let you walk away again."
What follows is a slow unraveling of everything we've held back. His hands learn the curve of my waist, the sensitive spot at the base of my throat that makes me gasp his name. I discover the scar on his shoulder from last season's injury, my tongue tracing the raised, roped skin, and I feel his breath hitch in response.
We take our time mapping each other, but the weeks of tension finally snap. The gentle touches become urgent, desperate. His mouth leaves my throat, trailing heat down my collarbone, dipping lower. When his lips close over the peak of my breast through the lace, a sharp, pulling sensation makes me arch off the bed, my fingers tightening in his hair.
"Garrett," I gasp, the word a plea.
He moves to my other breast, giving it the same, devastating attention before his hands slide down from my waist to my hips. My own hands are shaking as I find the button of his pants. He helps me, his movements quick, kicking them away.
His fingers hook the lace edge of my underwear. He pauses, his eyes finding mine in the dim light, asking a final question. I answer by lifting my hips, letting him slide the last barrier down and off.
He moves between my legs, and my body opens for him, ready. But he pauses again. "I've wanted to taste you since that first meeting," he rasps, his voice thick.
Before I can answer, his mouth is on me.
It’s not a hurried act. He's slow. Deliberate. His tongue is clever, insistent, learning every part of me, and my world dissolves into a single, blinding point of sensation. I cry out his name, my body still pulsing as he moves back up, his skin hot against mine.
He pulls back just for a second, his breathing ragged as he reaches for the nightstand. I hear the rip of a foil packet, and then he's back, settling between my legs.
"Sloane," he groans, his own control frayed. He positions himself at my entrance, and for a beat, we're just still—his hazel eyes locked on mine, our bodies flush, the world outside gone.
And when he finally presses inside me, it’s not a fall. It’s a click. A lock sliding into place.
It's... home.
A completeness so total it steals the air from my lungs. I meet his first slow, deep thrust, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. He moves with a steady, powerful rhythm that's all Garrett—controlled, strong, deliberate. This isn't a frantic, stolen moment; it's a claiming.
"You feel perfect," he breathes, his forehead resting against mine. "You feel... mine."
"Yours," I whisper, meeting every push, every slide. The tension coils again, lower and deeper this time, a burning, building need. He feels it, his rhythm breaking, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. He calls out my name, the sound of it raw and broken, and I'm clinging to his shoulders, my own body rising to meet his. The pressure builds, unbearableand perfect, until it shatters in a blinding, brilliant release. I feel his own release, a deep, shuddering groan that vibrates through my entire body.
Afterwards, I lie curled against his chest, boneless and complete, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, my mind is perfectly quiet.
"The snow's still falling," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
I lift myself up to look out the window. The world is still buried in white, peaceful and hushed. "We're snowed in."
"Tragic," he says, but he's smiling.
I rest my chin on his chest, studying his face in the dim light. "What happens when it stops?"
The question hangs between us, carrying all the weight of reality. Our jobs. The team. The careful professional distance we've maintained for months.
He's quiet for a long moment, his hand moving through my hair. "I don't know," he admits. "But I know I don't want to go back to pretending there's nothing between us."
Relief floods through me. "Good. Because I don't think I could."
He pulls me up for another kiss, soft and sweet and full of promises we're both afraid to voice yet. Outside, the storm continues, holding the world at bay for just a little longer.
I wake to soft, grey light filtering through his curtains. For a long, precious moment, I don't remember where I am.
There's no dread. No alarm. No to-do list playing on repeat in my head. Just the solid weight of Garrett's arm around my waist, the scent of his skin, and snow falling gently outside the windows.
