I kiss her until the rest of the world falls away—until the only thing that exists is warmth and want and the way she fits against me like she was made to.
And when her fingers slide to my jaw and she whispers, shaky and sure, “I want you,”
I press my forehead to hers and murmur the only honest thing left in me.
“Then you have me.”
The fire crackles.
The snow falls.
And I finally stop running.
SEVEN
MILA
Beau’s mouth is on mine before I can think—warm, firm, unhurried in a way that makes my knees go soft. His hands cradle my waist like he’s anchoring me, like he’s saying without words,you’re here, and I’ve got you.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve been holding in—every nervous flutter, every hopeful ache, every reckless little “what if” that’s been building since the first night he showed up in the snow.
His breath catches against my lips, and he makes this low sound in his throat that turns my spine into a live wire.
“Mila,” he murmurs like my name is both a warning and a promise.
I don’t answer with words. I answer by sliding my fingers under the edge of his shirt and feeling the heat of him—solid muscle, steady strength. He shudders, and the satisfaction of that tiny reaction makes me bolder than I have any right to be.
Beau deepens the kiss. Not rough—just… hungry. Like he’s been trying to behave and finally decided it’s pointless.
My back bumps the wall, and he follows, bracketing me in with his body without trapping me. He pauses just long enough to look at me, eyes dark and intent.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice low.
My throat tightens. I nod. “Yes.”
“Say it,” he growls softly, like he needs it to be real.
“Yes,” I repeat, breathless. “I want you.”
That does something to him—something I canfeel. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicks to my mouth, and then he’s kissing me again like he can’t help it, like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing that tastes like relief.
I haven’t wanted a man like this since… well, forever.
My hands find his shoulders, then his neck, then the back of his hair, and I tug him closer—testing, teasing. Beau groans against my mouth like I’ve just undone him with the smallest touch.
He slows down then, almost painfully gentle, as if he’s reminding himself I’m not fragile but I am precious.
His fingers slide to the hem of my top.
The movement is deliberate, controlled—like he’s asking with every inch instead of taking.
My breath hitches anyway.
I’m nervous. Not because I don’t want it. Because I do. Because I want it so badly it scares me.
Beau’s eyes hold mine as he lifts the fabric, exposing a strip of skin. His knuckles brush my stomach—warm, reverent—and my whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for that exact touch all my life.
“Hey,” he murmurs when I suck in a shaky breath. His palm spreads over my waist, grounding. “Look at me.”
