“That was something, huh?” Maggie said later as they walked back to her cabin. “Jax and Nessie.”
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “But I’m not surprised. It’s been coming since the day they met.”
She stopped walking and turned to face him. Her breath formed small clouds in the cold air. “Anson, I need to tell you something.”
His stomach knotted. Here it was. The goodbye he’d been dreading. The moment she told him she was going back to Florida, back to her real life, that this—whatever this was—had been nice but temporary.
“You’re leaving.” He barely got the words out.
“No. At least, not yet.” She reached for his hands, tugging them from his pockets. Her fingers were small and warm against his scarred skin, wrapping around his without hesitation. Her green eyes held his. “But if I do decide to leave in a week, I don’t want to spend the rest of our time together with this wall between us.”
He swallowed hard to ease the tightness in his throat. “What do you want, then?”
“You, Anson. Just you. All of you.”
“Maggie...”
She tugged his hand. “Come with me.”
He hesitated for half a heartbeat. Going into that cabin tonight meant stripping away more than clothes. He could either retreat again or choose her.
But if he walked away now, that was it. There wouldn’t be another chance.
He chose her.
Inside, Maggie moved through her cabin, turning on lamps, adjusting the damper on the woodstove, pulling off her coat and boots. He stood back and watched, his pulse kicking up as the warm glow caught in her hair with every movement, bringing out hints of chestnut in the dark strands.
“You’re quiet,” she said, stepping closer.
“Just thinking.” About how the lamplight framed her face. About how much he wanted to touch her. About how terrified he was to try.
“About what?”
“You.” The word escaped before he could filter it.
She smiled, and some of the nerves jittering around in his stomach melted away. She closed the distance between them until her body pressed against his.
“Good,” she whispered, and rose on her toes to brush her lips against his.
The kiss was soft at first, as if she were asking permission. He gave it, cupping the back of her head and threading his fingers through her hair to deepen the kiss. She made a small sound of approval against his mouth, and her tongue slid against his in a way that sent heat spiraling through him.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips, and moved to unbutton his flannel shirt.
Everything in him tensed up. “Maggie?—”
“Shh.” She kissed him again, quieting his protest. “Trust me.”
She opened the buttons of his shirt, one by one. He wanted to stop her. Wanted make an excuse about being tired or needing to feed the kittens. Wanted to retreat to the safety of the forge like he’d done every other time.
But he didn’t.
The shirt fell open, and her hands slid beneath the fabric, pushing it off his shoulders. It caught at his wrists, and she stepped back just enough to free him from the garment. He stood before her in just his undershirt, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, heart hammering against his ribs.
She reached for the hem of his undershirt next, and his hand snapped up to catch her wrist. “Don’t.”
“Let me,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “Please.”
He searched her face for any hint of pity or disgust, and found none. Slowly, he released her wrist, his hand falling back to his side.
