Chapter 7 #2
Own me, Red, please.
“Yeah.” It comes out a whisper.
He cups my jaw with his other hand, his thumb at the corner of my mouth, and I sway toward him instinctively.
He’s going to do it—
The first kiss is not soft. It’s demanding. He presses his mouth to mine and then deepens it the second I sigh.
That’s all it take for me to melt against him.
His lips are firm and warm. He tastes like coffee and something that’s just him. When I kiss him back, he groans, the sound sending heat through me and coiling in my belly.
I slide my hand up his chest, my fingers skimming over the solid muscle, his collarbone, and his neck. He shudders when my nails graze his skin.
He’s literally perfection.
He kisses like a man who’s missed kissing for too long. He’s hungry yet savoring it.
His hand leaves my face, and slides down, finding my waist. He tugs, pulling me across the couch until I’m half in his lap.
Bear thumps his tail, and for one second, I think about laughing.
But then Red’s hand settles over my hip—and it’s possessive in a way that shouldn’t make me feel safe but does—and laughter is not on the menu.
“God,” I breathe into his mouth. “Hi.”
He huffs against my lips. “Hi.”
He kisses me again, deeper, and my core tightens. I’m warm and fuzzy and greedy. My hands are everywhere—his shoulders, the back of his neck, the edge of his beard. He groans when I tug it.
God.
His fingers slide under the sweater at my waist, hot and rough and everything I’ve wanted him to do for so long. Finally, we’re skin-to-skin. I gasp, and he freezes.
“Is this okay?” His eyes search mine, like he’s panicked.
“Okay?! More than okay.” I sound like a porn star with my husky voice, but, damn, look at this man.
He doesn’t make me wait, either. His hand is on my lower back now, skimming my ribs. I arch into his touch, moaning my delight as his hands map out my body. He swallows every sound I make with his mouth, kissing me like he never wants to stop.
When I shift a knee over his thigh for balance, the movement pulls the sweater higher. Feeling emboldened, I rock against him once, and we both still. His breath catches, and his fingers flex at my hip, a quiet answer that says, don’t stop.
This is nothing like anything I’ve experienced before. Those were dull, polite men, wary of women like me.
Red wants me. He keeps himself in check—barely—but it’s there in every controlled movement, in the way he holds me like he’s trying not to devour me and failing.
“Red.” I whisper, my forehead pressed to his. “I—”
“Tell me.”
“I like this. A lot.”
His mouth curves against mine. “Good.”
He kisses me again, his tongue exploring my mouth deeper, and I rock my hips against him. The hand at my ribs strokes one inch higher, his thumb brushing the curve of my breast.
“Red…” My voice takes on a pleading tone, desperate for him to do more, to take it further.
He closes his eyes. I watch his restraint fight with his desire, and I love both. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, and his thumb begins to move again, slowly, more deliberate this time.
The kiss gets messy. Our hands are tangled, the blanket slides onto the floor, and the feeling of his beard against my skin makes me shiver.
I suck his lower lip into my mouth, and he curses, before pressing me closer.
His other hand finds the back of my thigh and urges me forward, and I go, straddling his lap without overthinking it.
Oh!
We both freeze for half a heartbeat. The way we fit is perfect. My sweater is just in the way now. His hands grip my hips like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.
“Cookie.”
“I know,” I whisper. I don’t move at first, but then I do. Slowly, grinding against him so slightly that when desire flashes through me, my vision blurs.
He drops his head back for one second, a curse word scraping out of his throat, then he finds my mouth like he has to. I kiss him with everything I’ve been holding back.
We’re on the edge here—it's humming under my skin.
His hand slides under the sweater again, his palm flat against my stomach, fingers curling like he wants more but is begging himself to stop. I rock again, helpless, and he groans into my mouth.
Then there’s a cracking sound like a gunshot.
I jerk, gasping. He jolts and the kiss breaks, both of us whipping our heads toward the window. A branch has snapped under the weight of ice and slammed against the porch rail.
Holy hell!
Red moves like he’s been yanked by a wire. His hands steady me as I scramble off his lap, then he stands, crossing to the door, and checks the latch, the frame, the world beyond.
My body complains. I’m hot and breathy and all shaky hands, the sweater rucked up, mouth swollen, and left hanging by a tree.
He locks the deadbolt, then looks back at me.
The scene that greets him must be a lot to take in. My hair is wild, the blanket is on the floor and I’m standing there, trying to pretend I’m absolutely fine.
“Are you okay?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.
“Yes,” I lie. “A branch just wanted your attention.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, inhales slowly, then exhales slower before walking back to the couch. Then he stands there for a second, like he doesn’t know what to say or do.
I help.
“We should...” I gesture at the window, at the fire, at the entire situation. “Pause?”
He looks relieved and wrecked at the same time. “Yeah.”
The air in the room turns cold, thick with the taste of what we almost did. What I’m still dying to do.
I tug the sweater down and sit on my hands, so they won’t do anything stupid like reach for him again. He sinks beside me, not touching me, breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
Bear lifts his head, yawns, and plops it right on Red’s knee.
“Sorry,” Red blurts out.
“For what?!” I turn to him, shaking my head.
You can’t be sorry for that. Not ever.
“Pushing it too far.” He shakes his head once. “I said it wasn’t a good idea.”
“You also said people are idiots. We can revise earlier statements.”
He almost smiles. “Are you sure about that?”
I think about it. About my body, my fear, my years of being told I’m too much. Then I think about the noise in his head. About the way he asked three times if I was okay.
“Yeah. I’m sure.” I swallow. “But I like that you keep asking.”
His mouth makes that quick curve again. “I’ll keep asking.”
“Good. And we’ll keep pausing when a literal tree tries to interrupt us.”
He huffs, the sound low and warm. “Deal.”
We sit there, catching our breath, pretending to watch the fire. My lips tingle. My core aches in a way that’s going to haunt me all afternoon. His hands flex once, twice, like they’re remembering where they’ve been.
“Tell me something else. Something small.”
He leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “I hate licorice.”
I gasp. “We can’t be friends.”
“Is it a deal breaker?”
“I’ll forgive it. The worst haircut?”
He exhales, almost a laugh, almost a groan. “I buzzed it myself once. Looked like I lost a fight with a lawn mower.”
“Please tell me there are pictures.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
He glances sideways. “You’re something.”
“What something?”
“Loud,” he says, but it sounds like a compliment now.
“Good. I don’t want to be quiet.”
We drift like that—talk and exchange the occasional glance that feels like a steamy touch.
At some point, my head tips and finds his shoulder. I don’t mean to—it just happens. He goes still, then relaxes into it so slowly I feel every inch. His cheek brushes my hair. His hand finds my knee under the blanket again.
We don’t undo the pause, but we don’t undo the kiss either. It’s there between us, hot and waiting.
I drift, not to sleep, yet not quite awake, tucked against a man who doesn’t like noise and is making my head go quiet.
When the wind lifts and rattles the cabin, he squeezes my knee once. I squeeze back.
We’re breaking the ice, I think, drowsily. Not shattering it.
Later, maybe we’ll dive.
For now, I breathe him in and watch the fire.