I nod, breathless.
He spreads me with gentle thumbs, then lowers his mouth.
This time it’s different from last night—less frantic, more deliberate. Long, languid licks. Soft sucks. Two thick fingers sliding inside me, curling just right while his tongue circles my clit in slow, patient spirals.
I come quietly this time—shuddering, gasping his name into the crook of my elbow so I don’t wake the whole mountain. He doesn’t stop until the aftershocks fade, kissing the inside of each thigh before crawling back up to cover me again.
He’s fully hard now, thick and hot against my entrance.
“Condom?” I whisper.
“Already on.” He must have done it while I was still floating. Thoughtful. Careful. Always.
He pushes in slow—inch by inch—watching my face the whole time. When he’s seated deep, he stills, letting me adjust, letting us both feel it.
“You feel…” He swallows. “Fuck, Sabrina.”
I wrap my legs around him. “Move.”
He does. Slow rolls at first—deep, grinding thrusts that make my toes curl. Then faster. Harder. The bed creaks under us. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing every moan, every gasp.
I score my nails down his back—hard enough to leave red lines he’ll feel later. He growls against my lips, hips snapping sharper.
“Again,” he rasps. “Come again. Want to feel you.”
I’m already close, coiled tight from his mouth and the way he’s hitting that spot inside me over and over.
“Beck—”
He hooks my knee higher on his hip, and changes the angle just enough.
I shatter. Louder this time. Back bowing. Nails digging crescents into his shoulders. He fucks me through it until his rhythm stutters and he buries himself deep with a low, broken groan, pulsing inside me.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed, hearts hammering in tandem.
After a long minute he kisses me—soft now, almost reverent. “Coffee,” he mutters against my lips.
I laugh, breathless. “Priorities.”
“Damn right.” He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, then tugs me up with him. He wraps me in the quilt like a cocoon and carries me into the living room. He sets me on the couch in front of the fire, tucks the quilt tighter, then pads to the kitchenin nothing but low-slung sweatpants that make my mouth water all over again.
When he comes back with two mugs, he sits close—thigh pressed to mine—and hands me one.
I sip.Ah.It’s perfect. Strong. Just sweet enough.
He watches me over the rim of his own mug. Something serious flickering in his eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods once. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“About how long this storm’s gonna last.” He sets his mug down. “And how long I can keep you here before you start missing the city.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not missing anything.”
He studies me. “You will. Eventually.”
