“Mine,” he snarls, slamming into me so hard the counter groans beneath us.
I claw at his shoulders, hips rolling to meet every thrust, desperate to feel it all, to keep him deep, to keephim. “Yes,” I moan, so loud it echoes off the cabin walls, dizzy and full and practically feral. “Only yours.”
His hand slides between us, fingers swiping through the mess of sugar and slick at my clit. He rubs in tight circles, the pleasure inside me building, tightening, cresting, until it breaks. My body seizes and my vision sparks as my pussy clenches around him like a vice.
“Sweet little fox,” he growls, pressing his forehead to mine, hips still driving through the aftershocks. “So fucking glad I found you out in the cold and claimed you for myself.”
His hips stutter, rhythm breaking, and he pulls out just in time. He grits his teeth, and his cock jerks against my inner thigh. His release hits my skin in hot, thick ropes as he wraps his arm around me. West’s breath is a storm against my neck as he leans in, lips dragging across my shoulder, whispering something I can’t make out over the thunder of my pulse in my ears.
He tucks my head under his chin and holds me there, cradled tight against his chest like he’s trying to slow the wild thrum of his heart by anchoring it to mine. And something about the fact that I did that, that I’m the reason he’s trembling and breathless and undone makes my whole chest ache.
West presses a kiss to the top of my head and slides his hands down my sides in warm, soothing strokes that linger like he doesn’t want to let go.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice hoarse, a little dazed. “Let me take care of you.”
He tugs his jeans back on and reaches for the towel hanging from the oven handle, turns on the faucet, and tests the water with his wrist until it runs warm. When he comes back, he’s gentler than I thought possible. Each focused pass of the cloth is soft as he wipes between my thighs, across my belly, across my chest. As he works, he brushes tiny kisses over my cheeks, my nose, my lips.
“I can’t feel my legs,” I mumble, heart still galloping.
He laughs. “Means I did something right.”
I swat playfully at his chest but leave my hand there, drawing lazy circles through the flour that’s still dusting his dark hair. He leans into it, and maybe he needs the contact just as much as I do.
He kisses the top of my head, nose buried in my hair. “You hungry?” he whispers.
“Mmhhmm.” It’s all I can manage as my eyelids drift closed.
“Let me feed you,” he says quietly. “Something savory this time.”
I laugh as he scoops me up and carries me to the couch, his heartbeat steady against my ear. He lowers me onto the cushions and pulls the nearest blanket around me, tucking the edges in with careful hands, as if keeping me warm has suddenly become the most important thing in the world. As if keepingmehas suddenly become important.
He lingers, smoothing a stray curl away from my face, then leans down and kisses me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing slow circles along my jaw that make the rest of the room fall away.
It happens before I can stop it. Something opens in me, soft and wild, blooming through the cracks I’ve spent the past year sealing shut. It roots itself deep into the quiet part of me that no longer trusts anyone to stay. And I know, with a sudden, breathless certainty, that this is how it starts. This is how I find my mate.
CHAPTER 8
WEST
Emme’s curledup on the couch with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and tucked under her chin just like she was this morning. The fire’s low now, mostly coals, throwing slow-moving light across her face. Her hair spills in loose golden waves over her shoulders, catching the glow every time she moves. Every now and then she glances toward the kitchen and smiles at the sight of me cooking.
“You always this domestic?” she calls over the crackle of the pan as I set the steaks into the hot butter and herbs to sear.
“Only when there’s company worth impressing.”
Her cheeks pinken. “So just me, then?”
“Don’t get cocky,” I tease, flipping the steaks.
“Too late.” She grins into her blanket.
Herblanket.
That’s mine—onmycouch, inmycabin—but somehow it feels like it belongs to her now. The whole place does. The couch has her shape in it, her scent, her laughter sunk into the fabric like it’s been there for years instead of a day. I glance over at her again and it hits me hard and sudden how easily she’s made this place feel like a home.
The scents of thyme and garlic fill the room, mixing with the faint sweetness of sugar still lingering from earlier. I open a cabinet, searching for something to drink that isn’t the Glenlivet she thinks tastes like an old boot. In the back corner, behind an old tin of cocoa and a jar of something that might’ve once been jam, I find a dusty bottle of red wine. The label’s faded, cork dry and cracked, but it’ll do.
She eyes the bottle as I carry it over along with the only other clean coffee mug. “I didn’t take you for a wine guy.”
