Spencer drew back just enough to look at her, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Come,” he whispered.
Hand in hand, they walked back into Pine Cottage. Meryl was acutely aware of crossing the threshold, of the solidity of the floorboards beneath her feet, of the familiar creaks and settling sounds of the house around them. It felt different now — not a project to be completed, but a place that had become part of her.
In the sitting room, Spencer lit the lamp, casting a warm glow over the space they had rebuilt together. The brass fixtures gleamed on the windows. The hearth, cleared and cleaned, waited for a fire. The old sofa they had uncovered and cleaned faced it all, inviting and comfortable.
“This place,” Meryl said, her voice soft with wonder. “I can’t believe how much it feels like home already.”
Spencer’s fingers tightened around hers. “It was always meant to be yours.”
“Ours,” she corrected, and was rewarded with a smile that made her heart skip.
She turned to face him fully, her hands on his chest. Under her palm, his heart beat strong and steady. “I’m not afraid anymore,” she told him. “I want this. I want you. I want to stay.”
Spencer’s hands came up to frame her face, his touch infinitely gentle. “I’ve been waiting to hear that since the day I met you.”
“Take me to bed.”
He did not need to be asked twice and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her upstairs.
The bedroom seemed different now, bathed in moonlight streaming through the windows. This wasn’t just another night in Pine Cottage. This was the first night of staying. Of belonging.
Meryl’s heart thudded against her ribs as Spencer set her down beside the bed. The enormity of her decision washed over her—not just to stay, but to claim this place, this man, this life as her own. A delicious certainty settled in her bones.
She placed her hands on his broad chest and pushed him gently backward until his legs hit the edge of the mattress. “Sit,” she whispered, her voice husky with intent.
Spencer’s eyes darkened as he obeyed, lowering himself to the bed. His gaze never left her face, watching with such intensity that heat pooled low in her belly.
“Your turn to watch me,” she said.
Standing before him in the silvery light, Meryl crossed her arms and grasped the hem of her sweater. She pulled it upward with deliberate slowness, revealing inch by inch of her skin. The cool air pebbled her flesh as she lifted the garment over her head and let it fall to the floor.
Spencer’s sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through her. The power she felt in this moment was intoxicating—to be wanted so completely, to be the sole focus of his attention.
Her fingers moved to the button of her jeans, popping it open with a flick of her wrist. The zipper made a soft, sensual sound as she lowered it. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband andpushed the denim down her hips, shimmying slightly to work them over her curves. The jeans joined her sweater on the floor.
Standing now in only her bra and underwear, Meryl savored the raw hunger in Spencer’s expression. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white with restraint.
“You’re killing me,” he murmured.
“I’m just getting started,” she replied, reaching behind to unclasp her bra.
The straps slid down her shoulders as she freed herself from the garment. Her breasts felt heavy, sensitive to the air and Spencer’s gaze. His eyes devoured her, and she felt beautiful, powerful, desired.
With her thumbs hooked in the elastic of her underwear, she paused, enjoying the anticipation crackling between them. Then she slid the fabric down, stepping out of it with a grace she didn’t know she possessed.
Completely bare before him, Meryl felt no shyness, only a burning need to be closer. To feel his skin against hers. To claim him as thoroughly as she was claiming this moment.
She moved toward the bed, placing one knee on the mattress beside his thigh. Then the other. Her hands found his shoulders as she settled into his lap, straddling him.
“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she whispered against his ear.
Spencer’s hands came up to her waist, his touch reverent. “I can remedy that.”
“No,” she said, pushing him back until he lay flat on the bed. “Let me.”
She made quick work of his shirt buttons, pushing the fabric aside to reveal the broad expanse of his chest. Her fingers traced the contours of muscle, the light dusting of hair that narroweddown his abdomen. She bent to press her lips to his sternum, feeling his heart hammer beneath her mouth.
His belt and jeans followed, and then they were skin to skin, her thighs around his hips, her hands splayed across his chest.
