I hook her knees higher. I drive deeper. Faster.
She shatters first, crying out, pulsing around me, thighs shaking against my hips.
I follow seconds later, thrusting deep, coming hard inside her with a low, broken groan that echoes off the walls.
We stay like that, panting and trembling, locked together on the kitchen counter like teenagers who can’t wait another second.
After a minute she laughs, soft and breathless, forehead pressed to mine. “We’re going to have to reheat the soup,” she murmurs.
I kiss her again, slow this time. Tender. “Worth it.”
She smiles against my mouth. She lifts her hand. She looks at the ring again. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“You’re beautiful,” I say. Honest. Rough. “And you’re mine.”
She cups my face. Her thumb brushes the scar above my brow. “And you’re mine.”
We stay there a while longer, wrapped around each other, breathing the same air, the ring glinting softly in the low light.
Forever starts right now.
EIGHTEEN
SABRINA
The ring feels different now that it sits on my finger all day.
Not heavier. Lighter, somehow. Like it has taken up residence in the exact spot it was always meant to live. I catch myself turning it in the light more times than I can count: while I brush my teeth, while I fold laundry, while I stand at the kitchen window watching Beck split wood in the yard below.
He moves like he belongs to the mountain. The axe rises and falls in clean, powerful arcs, his breath fogging in the crisp air, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the chill. Every swing sends chips flying, every crack of wood echoing up to where I stand. I could watch him forever and never get tired of the sight.
He glances up once, catches me staring, and gives me that small, crooked smile that still makes my stomach flip. Then he drives the axe into the chopping block, wipes his brow with the back of his forearm, and starts toward the cabin.
By the time he reaches the porch I am already at the door.
He steps inside, bringing the smell of pine sap and cold air with him. Snow dusts his shoulders; his cheeks flush from exertion. He looks at me, really looks, and the air between us thickens instantly.
“You’ve been watching me,” he says. Low. Teasing. But his eyes are dark and hungry.
I step closer. I place my palms on his chest and feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the damp flannel. “I like watching you,” I admit. “You look like you were made for this place. Strong. Sure. Mine.”
His hands settle on my hips. He pulls me flush against him. “You’re wearing my ring,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the band on my finger. “You’re mine too.”
The words land soft and possessive, sending heat curling low in my belly.
I rise on my toes. I kiss him.
He tastes like winter, cold lips warming fast against mine, beard scratching just enough to make me shiver. His hands slide under my sweater, rough palms skimming bare skin, climbing higher until he cups my breasts through my bra. His thumbs brush my nipples, already tight, and I gasp into his mouth.
He walks me backward until my back hits the wall beside the door. He lifts me easily; my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The hard length of him presses against me through our clothes, thick and insistent.
“Bed?” I breathe against his lips.
“Later,” he growls. He carries me to the couch instead. He drops us both onto the cushions, me straddling his lap, never breakingthe kiss. My sweater comes off over my head. His flannel follows, buttons popping in his impatience. My bra. His belt. Jeans shoved down just enough.
I reach between us. I free him. I stroke him once, slow and firm, until he groans low in his throat and his hips jerk.
“Fuck, Sabrina.”
