He slid a hand between them. His thumb found her clit, pressing with the same deliberate precision he brought to everything. She gasped. Her rhythm faltered.
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Let go.”
Her climax crashed over her—fierce, overwhelming, her whole body trembling with the force of it as she cried out, undone. She gripped his shoulders, nails digging in, holding on while pleasure rewrote every nerve ending.
Wyatt followed seconds later, the thick heat of him pulsing inside her, her name torn from his throat.
She collapsed forward, her head against the curve of his neck. His arms came around her immediately, holding her close.
She stayed like that. Connected. Breath still shaky.
Chosen.
Just for being her.
“Okay?” he asked after a moment.
“Very.”
His chest moved with his laugh, deep and resonant. “Yeah. Same.”
They stayed like that, her body still draped over his, the sheet twisted around their legs. His hand trailed languid lines across her back.
Eventually, she shifted and rolled to the side. Wyatt followed her movement, tucking her against his chest, his arm heavy across her waist.
His phone sat face-down on the nightstand. The world was finally quiet.
Sleep drifted closer. The exhaustion of events catching up. The solid presence of him. Safety. The steady thump of his heart close to hers.
“Sleep,” he murmured against her hair.
“Mm.”
She let her eyes close. Let herself sink into the feeling of being held.
Of being his.
His breathing evened out first. Deep and slow.
She followed him down into the dark, his heartbeat steady against her back. For the first time she could remember, the fear was quiet.
And the quiet felt like enough.
36
Wyatt’s parents’house sat at the end of a gravel track, every window glowing gold against the snow.
Jen didn’t know which version of herself to bring inside—the engineer, the survivor, or the woman who’d slept in Wyatt’s bed and woken up wanting more.
They’d spent the afternoon in bed after she’d given her statement, only rising in early evening for dinner at his mom’s and the opportunity to see Caro before she headed home.
The house was a modest two-story with powder-blue shutters and white trim, like something out of a winter card. Three trucks were already parked out front. One of them was Ryder’s.
Wyatt killed the engine, and the click of cooling metal filled the car.
“Hey.”
She looked at him.
