One look at her, and every rule I built for myself starts splintering.
She's sitting there with firelight painting gold on her skin, lips parted, eyes wide and dark with something that mirrors the want clawing through me. I can hear the storm battering the cabin walls, wind howling like it's trying to remind me what happens when you let warmth in.
Too late.
I reach for her.
She meets me halfway.
The first brush of her lips is soft, testing. The second is a promise. I taste cocoa and sugar and something I haven't had in a long time—hope.
Her hands slide up my chest, over the flannel, fingers curling in the fabric like she needs to feel that I'm real. My pulse trips. The world narrows to her breath against my neck, the creak of the old floorboards, the way she fits perfectly in my arms when I pull her closer.
She makes a small sound—surprise or pleasure, I can't tell—and it breaks something loose inside me.
I kiss her deeper, my hand sliding into her hair, soft as silk between my fingers. She opens for me, and I'm lost. Her tongue touches mine, tentative then bold, and heat floods through me like I've been standing in snow for years and just found fire.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper against her mouth, giving her one last chance.
She shakes her head, eyes shining. Her hands fist tighter in my shirt. "Don't you dare."
The fire pops, throwing sparks. Snow slams against the window. Somewhere in all that wild noise, I stop pretending I don't need this. Need her.
I stand, pulling her with me, and she comes willingly. Her body presses against mine—soft curves to hard planes, a perfect fit. I walk her backward toward my bedroom, our mouths never breaking contact, hands exploring with increasing urgency.
The door swings open. My room is simple—a large bed covered in a dark quilt, windows showing nothing but white, a lamp casting golden light.
"Beau," she breathes as I back her toward the bed.
"Say my name again."
"Beau." This time it's a plea.
I pull back just enough to look at her—really look. Her hair's mussed from my hands, lips swollen from kissing, cheeks flushed. Beautiful.
More than beautiful.
"You sure about this?" I ask, because I need to know. Need her to want this as much as I do.
"I've never been more sure of anything." Her hands find the buttons of my flannel, fingers trembling slightly. "I want you."
Those three words shred my control.
I help her with my shirt, shrugging it off, and watch her eyes darken as she takes in my bare chest. Her hands spread across my skin, exploratory, leaving trails of fire. I hiss in a breath when her fingers trace the scar across my ribs—old injury, stupid mistake with a saw.
"You're so warm," she whispers.
"You're so soft." I reach for the hem of her sweater. "Can I?"
She nods, raising her arms, and I peel it off slowly. Beneath is a simple white bra that makes my mouth go dry. She's all curves—generous breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Real and perfect and here.
I lower my head, pressing kisses along her collarbone, tasting her skin. She tastes like she smells—vanilla and sugar, with something uniquely her underneath. Her head tips back, exposing the line of her throat, and I work my way down, kissing, tasting, learning her.
When I reach the swell of her breast, I pause, looking up. She's watching me with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing hard.
"More," she says simply.
I reach behind her, unhook her bra, and slide it off. Her breasts are beautiful—full and soft, nipples already tight. I cup one gently, reverently, then lower my mouth to taste.
