Chapter 18 Sabrina
EIGHTEEN
SAbrINA
The ring feels different now that it sits on my finger all day.
Not heavier. Lighter, somehow. Like it has taken up residence in the exact spot it was always meant to live.
I catch myself turning it in the light more times than I can count: while I brush my teeth, while I fold laundry, while I stand at the kitchen window watching Beck split wood in the yard below.
He moves like he belongs to the mountain.
The axe rises and falls in clean, powerful arcs, his breath fogging in the crisp air, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the chill.
Every swing sends chips flying, every crack of wood echoing up to where I stand.
I could watch him forever and never get tired of the sight.
He glances up once, catches me staring, and gives me that small, crooked smile that still makes my stomach flip. Then he drives the axe into the chopping block, wipes his brow with the back of his forearm, and starts toward the cabin.
By the time he reaches the porch I am already at the door.
He steps inside, bringing the smell of pine sap and cold air with him. Snow dusts his shoulders; his cheeks flush from exertion. He looks at me, really looks, and the air between us thickens instantly.
“You’ve been watching me,” he says. Low. Teasing. But his eyes are dark and hungry.
I step closer. I place my palms on his chest and feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the damp flannel. “I like watching you,” I admit. “You look like you were made for this place. Strong. Sure. Mine.”
His hands settle on my hips. He pulls me flush against him. “You’re wearing my ring,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the band on my finger. “You’re mine too.”
The words land soft and possessive, sending heat curling low in my belly.
I rise on my toes. I kiss him.
He tastes like winter, cold lips warming fast against mine, beard scratching just enough to make me shiver.
His hands slide under my sweater, rough palms skimming bare skin, climbing higher until he cups my breasts through my bra.
His thumbs brush my nipples, already tight, and I gasp into his mouth.
He walks me backward until my back hits the wall beside the door. He lifts me easily; my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The hard length of him presses against me through our clothes, thick and insistent.
“Bed?” I breathe against his lips.
“Later,” he growls. He carries me to the couch instead. He drops us both onto the cushions, me straddling his lap, never breaking the kiss. My sweater comes off over my head. His flannel follows, buttons popping in his impatience. My bra. His belt. Jeans shoved down just enough.
I reach between us. I free him. I stroke him once, slow and firm, until he groans low in his throat and his hips jerk.
“Fuck, Sabrina.”
I guide him to my entrance. I sink down slowly.
We both moan at the stretch, the fullness, the perfect slide of him inside me.
For one long second we stay still, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
Then I start to move.
Slow rolls of my hips at first. I grind down until he hits deep. I rise until only the tip remains, then sink again, deliberate and teasing.
His hands grip my ass. He helps me ride him harder. Faster. His head falls back against the couch, throat working, low curses spilling from his lips. “You feel so good,” he rasps. “So fucking perfect. Mine, every inch of you.”
I lean forward. I brace my hands on his shoulders. I ride him with purpose now, sharp rolling thrusts that make us both gasp.
He surges up suddenly and flips us so I am beneath him on the couch. He hooks my legs over his arms. He opens me wide. He drives deep, hard, relentless.
The cushions creak beneath us. My nails rake down his back. His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking, marking.
“Beck, God, right there.”
He angles just right, hitting that spot over and over, until pleasure coils tight and snaps.
I come hard, crying out his name, pulsing around him, thighs shaking.
He follows seconds later, thrusting deep, burying himself, coming with a guttural groan that vibrates through both of us. Heat floods inside me; his arms tremble as he holds himself above me.
We stay like that, panting, tangled, hearts hammering against each other.
After a long minute he lowers himself carefully. He kisses me slow, lazy, tender, while we both come down.
When he finally pulls out he doesn’t go far. He just gathers me against his chest, pulls the throw blanket over us, and holds me close.
I trace the fresh red lines I left on his shoulders. “Sorry,” I murmur, half-smiling.
“Don’t be.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I like wearing your marks.”
I lift my hand. I look at the ring again, gold warm against my skin. “We’re really doing this,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. Certain. “We’re really doing this.”
I nestle closer and listen to his heartbeat slow.
The wedding will be small, just us, the sheriff, a fire on the porch, vows spoken under the stars. But right now, curled against him on the couch, ring glinting in the low light, body still humming from him, this moment feels like the real ceremony.
The promise already made.
The future already begun.
Forever already here.