She starts to pull away. My hand comes up, gentle, cupping the back of her head and urging her toward me again. Then, stopping short. Only if she wants it.
Allie crosses the distance, mouth covering mine again, and flames spark like dry brush where my heart should be. Gentlefingers curl into my flannel, tugging me closer, letting me know she needs this, too.
When she pulls away, puts an inch between us, I regret it. “Hope that was okay,” she whispers. “But you had your eyes closed, like you wanted it.”
“Yeah, I wanted it. Still do.” Then, I nudge her against me again. This time, taking the lead. She sighs against my mouth, lips parting, and I sweep into her. Tasting, exploring, claiming.
Veins hot with yearning, blood churning. Don’t ever want this moment to end. But still, I inch back, and she rests her head on my forehead, breath fluttering like butterfly wings against my cheek.
“Can I tell you what I want?” she asks.
“Of course.” My heart thuds in my temples. There’s nothing I won’t give her.
“I want you to follow me down the hallway, Austin Fitz.”
I swallow loud, not trusting my ears. “For breakfast?”
She shakes her head, forehead still resting against mine. “No, the other way.”
I freeze, mind clamoring, body locked between want and restraint.
Chapter
Thirteen
AUSTIN
The floorboards creak beneath her feet, soft fingers tangling with mine. Slow. Easy. Nothing frantic or rushed.
Just the quiet sound of the house settling around us, fire ticking in the hearth, the low hum of heat pushing back the winter outside.
Behind the bedroom door, my throat tightens, heat seeping into my chest. I rake a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of everything—the rumpled bed, the lamplight pooling gold across the floor, the way she’s standing so close I can feel the warmth of her through layers of flannel and cotton.
“Should take a shower. Shave.”
The words come out rougher than I mean them to. Habit. Stalling. Giving her an out.
She leans forward instead, resting her forehead on my chest, breathing me in. The contact steals the air from my lungs.
“You smell good,” she murmurs. “Like the forest. Like the earth. Like a creek buried under snow somewhere.”
My eyes close. I don’t deserve poetry aimed at me.
I won’t take anything she doesn’t offer. This—standing here, breathing each other in—already feels like more than I deserve. More than I ever planned on having.
My hand comes up slowly, fingers sliding through her dark curls. Longed to do this for so long I can’t remember when the need began. Maybe the first time she wore my flannel. Maybe the morning she stood barefoot in the kitchen, sunlight catching in her hair like she belonged here.
“Your hair’s soft,” I murmur, because I don’t trust myself to say anything bigger.
Her pupils are blown, lavender eyes nearly black. I trace the line of her jaw, feel the hitch in her breath when my thumb brushes her skin. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her lips, and my pulse jumps hard enough to make me dizzy.
I don’t kiss her.
I wait.
Let her decide.
Her hands slide beneath my Carhartt, pushing it from my shoulders. The friction of fabric moving feels louder than it should in the quiet room. I let the coat fall, heart pounding, muscles tight with restraint.
