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With her securely held in his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, Cole began to move—rocking upward with deep, rolling thrusts. Her body moved with his, her breasts brushing against his chest with every stroke. He kept her pressed gently against the wall, supporting her fully as he loved her with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Fuck, Emily…” He breathed against her neck. “You feel like heaven. So warm. So perfect.”
Emily’s fingers dug into his shoulders. She kissed him desperately between soft, broken words. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for so long. Not just your body. You, Cole.”
The confession hit him square in the chest.
He held her tighter, thrusting deeper but keeping the rhythm slow. Pulling out to tip, then driving forward completely. His muscles flexed and burned as he supported her entire weight, but he wouldn’t have traded the feeling for anything. Every stroke was deliberate. Every kiss reverent. He wanted her to feel exactly how much she meant to him.
After a while, he carried her back to the counter and laid her down gently on her back. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and slid back inside her, grinding deep. This angle let him watch her face—every flutter of her lashes, every gasp, every time her lips parted on his name.
“I’m falling for you,” he admitted hoarsely as he moved inside her. “I tried so damn hard not to, but I am.”
Emily reached up, cupping his face with both hands, eyes shining. “Then fall,” she whispered. “I’ll catch you. I’m already there too.”
Those words undid him.
He dropped down over her, bracing himself on his forearms so their bodies were pressed together. They moved slower now, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. The pleasure built gradually, beautifully, until Emily came again—clenching around him with a soft, trembling cry, her arms wrapped tightly around his back.
Cole followed right behind her, burying himself as deep as he could go and groaning her name as he spilled inside her in long, pulsing waves.
For a long time afterward, they stayed exactly like that—him still inside her, her legs wrapped around him—holding one another under the warm kitchen lights.
Cole pressed soft kisses to her temple, her cheek, her lips.
“No more fighting,” he whispered.
Emily smiled against his mouth. “No more fighting. Just this.”
He kissed her again—slow, deep, and full of promise—and for a long moment, the world felt perfectly quiet.
Then he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, a slow, wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“But just so we’re clear…” His voice dropped, low and rough. “The next time I get you alone? It’s not going to be this gentle.”
Emily’s breath hitched, her eyes darkening with fresh heat.
Cole leaned in, lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “I’ve been dying to bend you over the hood of my truck in the station bay… wearing nothing but my turnout jacket.”
He felt her shiver against him.
“So when you’re ready for that,” he murmured, pressing one last lingering kiss to her lips, “you let me know.”
Emily bit her lip, a playful, aroused little smile spreading across her face.
“Careful,” she whispered back. “I might hold you to that sooner than you think.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
EMILY
Sunday, December 20th
Emily was in the best mood of her life. She was thinking that while she rolled out the cinnamon roll dough, pressing it flat with the heel of her hand, the familiar rhythm of it settling something in her that had been unsettled for days. The kitchen smelled extraordinary that morning—warm vanilla and sweet cinnamon and the dark roast coffee she’d started the moment she arrived, because some things were non-negotiable.
Today was the first day her bakery was back open, and Emily was determined to fill every inch of the display cases. She baked chocolate chip cookies with crisp golden edges and soft centers. Buttery scones studded with dried cranberries and finished with sparkling sugar. Peppermint bark brownies topped with white chocolate and crushed candy canes. Sugar cookies shaped like mittens, snowflakes, and Christmas trees, each one piped with buttercream frosting.
She had already accomplished more before eight o’clock than she usually did, and she still had energy to spare.
