And then he’s gone.
Duke surges forward, powerful and eager. Lincoln curses and kicks Ranger into a gallop. I wait a beat and watch Abigail take off on Griffin. Leaning forward, Dez explodes beneath me as we tear after them. A deep laugh tumbles from my chest, and just before I pass Abigail, I hear her laugh too.
God, I want this.
I want itforever.
Chapter forty-seven
Abigail
ChristmasEvesettlesintothe house slowly.
The fire burns low, embers pulsing soft orange, popping and cracking in a delicate rhythm. Pine from the tree clings to the air, tangled with the deeper scent of smoke and Lawson’s chocolate cake baking in the oven. When I gave him a surprised look—because let’s face it, a man baking in the kitchen is far superior to one cooking in the kitchen—he shrugged and told me it was his mom’s recipe.
The man himself is in his chair, sleeves pushed up, and a whiskey glass cradled loosely in his hand. Lincoln’s on the couch beside me, shoulder solid and warm at my temple. Beau is sprawled out on the floor at my feet, occasionally touching my leg, while he and Jasper—whose back is resting against the coffee table—play a game of cards.
Lincoln shifts, barely an inch, but the movement brings his arm tighter around my shoulders. The warmth of him seeps through the thin cotton of my shirt. I let myself sink into it, my cheek resting more fully against him, and I find myself matching his breathing without thinking.
Beau’s fingers trace absent patterns along my calf. A quiet reminder that he’s there. And every so often, his thumb presses in slightly. It’s such a simple movement, but it’s enough to send a wave of goosebumps up my leg.
Jasper laughs under his breath at something Beau mutters, the sound low and rough. And when I glance down, his eyes flick up to me. His gaze is warm… hungry. It sends a shiver through me and a small smile pulls at his lips. Like he sees the way my skin is already buzzing, the way the air between all of us feels thinner than it should.
Lawson continues to watch from his chair.
Not the cards.
Not the fire.
Me.
His gaze moves slowly along the curve of my shoulder under Lincoln’s arm, down to my foot, which is now cradled in Beau’s hands, and to the way Jasper scoots a little closer so his knee is now brushing mine. And when Lawson’s eyes meet mine, something unreadable passes between us. His jaw tightens, and his grip on the glass flexes.
I swallow at the gradual tightening of something invisible pulling us all closer together.
The Christmas movie on the TV plays on, almost now entirely forgotten, and the cards are eventually set aside. Jasper leans back farther, his head brushing my knee, and without thinking, I let my fingers slip into his hair. He goes still, instantly.
He doesn’t look at me, though.
Just exhales a shaky breath.
My body suddenly feels wide awake as a heat curls low in my belly, slow and insistent. I shift, just slightly, and Lincoln’s hand tightens its hold on me.
A second later, the timer on the oven goes off and Lincoln stands. He sets his glass down, the soft clink loud in the quiet room. The others look up at him automatically.
“Cake’s done,” he says softly.
We all look at him.
Then, he rounds the back of the couch and presses a kiss into my hair—it’s barely there, but enough to sink into my bones—and murmurs, “Come on.”
Beau rises smoothly, offering me his hand. Jasper stands next and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Lincoln stands last, close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back as I step forward. The air between us is thick now, charged and humming with something unspoken and undeniable.
My heart pounds. Not with fear, but with something headier.
Anticipation.
Need.
