I kiss her the way I should have the morning she left. There’s nothing desperate or frantic about it. Just a steady certainty in the way my mouth claims hers, a way that leaves no room for doubt.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers.
“Are you ready to go home, doll?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Six Months Later…
Tessa
I’m halfway through a paragraph when the door opens, letting the cold mountain air in. It’s only the middle of November, but already winter has settled on Iron Peak.
Not that I mind. In fact, I kind of love how extra cozy our cabin feels when the snow is falling outside and Holt and I are curled up on the couch in front of the fire.
Our cabin.
It is ours now.
Very quickly after coming back from Tofino, the cabin felt like home. I guess, in a way, it always did from the moment I set foot through the door. But now that I’ve added a few feminine touches around the place, there’s no denying that I belong here.
With him.
“Tell me you’ve eaten,” he says as he knocks the snow off his boots, leaving them by the door before crossing the room to me.
I look up from my notebook and bat my eyelashes at him. “Good afternoon to you, too.”
He shakes his head and bends to kiss me. Not a sweet, little peck, but a deep, claiming kiss that immediately leaves me wanting more before he pulls away. The scent of sawdust hangs in the air after he steps back.
He’s been busy in his woodshop, just as he has been ever since we returned from the coast. It fills me with joy that he’s able to work again now that I’m back. Just as his presence brings out my creativity, I seem to have the same effect on him. I love that we can be each other’s muses.
“I’m serious,” he says as he moves into the kitchen. “You’ve been sitting there writing since before I went out. That was hours ago.”
“You know how I get when I’m writing.”
He shoots me a look. “Which is why I’m asking.”
“I had toast.”
He huffs a breath and shakes his head before pulling the fridge open. “Toastdoesn’t count,” he mutters almost to himself as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge.
Six months ago, I might have bristled at the implication that I needed to be looked after.
Now, I lean into it.
I love the way Holt takes care of me. It’s not that Ican’tcare for myself. I’m very capable. But letting him care for me fulfills something within him, too.
Besides, he has a point. I do tend to forget about everything else when I fall into my writing.
I watch while he builds me a sandwich and carries it to me with a glass of water. I close my notebook and sit up to take the plate from him. “Thank you.”
“You know I’ll always take care of you.” He holds my gaze for a moment.
“I know.” I blow him a kiss. “I like the way you take care of me.” I wiggle my brows, and he shakes his head with a laugh.
“Later, doll,” he says with a low growl. “First, you eat.”
The promise of the orgasms he’ll give me burns low in my belly, and I’m tempted to abandon the idea of lunch altogether for him. But I know he means what he says;Holt won’t let me come unless I’m taking care of myself.
