"Your turn." Her fingers find the zipper of my jacket. Pull.
I help her strip it off, then the long-sleeve underneath. The cold air hits my bare chest, and I don't feel it. Can't feel anything except her hands, tentative at first, then bolder, exploring the planes and angles of my body.
"You're warm," she murmurs against my neck.
"You're beautiful."
"I'm covered in dirt and sweat and probably blood?—"
"Beautiful." I catch her mouth again and kiss her until she stops arguing. "You're beautiful, and you're fierce, and you have the most incredible hands I've ever seen."
"My hands?" She laughs, surprised.
"Climber's hands." I take one, press a kiss to her palm, to the calluses I noticed during the chase. Strong. Capable. The hands of someone who knows how to hold on. I’m not just claiming a woman; I’m claimingher—the wild, fierce, magnificent heart of her.
“Riot.” My name comes out strangled.
"I love the way you say my name." I nip at her earlobe, feel her shiver. “But my real name is Jon. Say it."
"Jon."
"Again."
"Jon—please?—"
"Please, what?"
She makes a sound of frustration that's half laugh, half moan. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Making me—" She breaks off, squirming against me in a way that does very interesting things to my self-control. "Making me want things."
"What kind of things?"
"Jon."
"I need you to tell me." I still my hands, rest them on her hips, force myself to wait. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you want."
The silence stretches. Her pulse races under my fingers—the flutter of it at her hip, the pound of it in her throat where my lips are currently exploring the graceful expanse of her skin.
"I don't—" Her voice cracks. "I'm not good at asking for things."
“Doesn’t matter.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. Gentle. Patient. "I need to hear it anyway. I need to know that you want this. Not because you're cold, not because we might die, not because you think you should. But because you want it."
"I want it." The words come out in a rush. "I want you. I want—" She takes a breath, and I feel the effort it costs her. The years of being told her desires were too much, her needs too demanding. "I want your hands on me. I want to feel you. I want to stop thinking for five minutes and just—feel."
"There she is." I reward her with a kiss—deep, thorough, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for doubt. "There's my girl."
"I'm not your?—"
"You are tonight." My hands slide under her thermal, find warm skin. She gasps. "Tonight, you're mine, and when I fuck, I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before. Is that okay?"
"Yes." The word is barely audible. "Yes. Please."
I take my time.
The thermal comes off slowly—not because of the logistics, but because I want to savor every inch of skin as it's revealed. I want to learn her body. Map her. Memorize the geography of her body so I can find my way back even in the dark.
