Chapter 12
Lila
The first thing I feel is warmth.
Not from the fire—it’s just embers now—but from the body pressed around mine. Holt’s chest against my back, solid and warm, his breath steady on my shoulder. His massive arm is wrapped around my waist, keeping me close.
We didn’t make it to bed last night. When sleep finally claimed us, we stayed snuggled up in blankets in front of the fire.
For a long time, I don’t move. I just lie there and breathe him in—his spicy, masculine scent, the quiet rumble in his chest every time he exhales. My muscles ache in ways that make me blush, but it’s a sweet, spent kind of ache. The kind that says we’ve crossed the point of no return.
Outside the cabin, the world is hushed, a sliver of white showing through the gap between the curtains. Inside, everything feels soft and golden. I don’t care if the power’s still out. Being here with Holt is more than enough.
Careful not to wake him, I ease out of his arms and pad over to the fire. All four dogs raise their heads in unison, then flop back down again.
I lay a couple more logs on the embers and coax them until the flames catch.
Then I cross to the window. The air is cool on my skin, but I don’t rush to cover myself. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel shy about being seen.
The world outside is blindingly white, the snow so bright it hurts my eyes. It feels like a brand-new world.
And it is, I think. Because last night, Holt took my virginity. He finally made me his.
I repeat the words in my head, and they spill through my body in a joyful, fizzy rush.
I’m his.
And nothing is going to change that.
Behind me, I hear Holt stir—a slow stretch, and sigh, then a catch in his breath.
I stop breathing.
Is that because he’s looking at me? Tingles go through me, but I don’t turn around.
“Most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” he growls, his voice still drowsy.
My heart jumps; I can’t stop the small smile.
“Is that so?” I tease. When I press closer to the window, my nipples graze the glass, and I give a little gasp.
He doesn’t miss it. A darker sound breaks from his throat. “Stay right there.”
I do as he tells me, keep looking through the window, while I hear him move behind me.
A moment later, he’s there, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressing into the side of my neck.
“You have no idea how sexy you look, Lila,” he murmurs.
His mouth finds my skin—slow, hot kisses along my shoulder—while his hands slide up, cupping my breasts, fingering my pebbled nipples.
That tender spot between my thighs starts to ache.
He only just mated me, but I want him again.
As if he realizes, he puts his hand there.
I let out a sigh, as he touches me gently, so, so gently. I’m already wet.
He makes a sound low in his throat, like he’s discovered exactly what he wanted to know.
“You want me again, my girl?” he growls.
“Mmhmm,” I manage.
His thick cock slides between my lips, nudging at my entrance. He was huge last night—more than I expected—but my body knows him now. When he pushes inside, there’s no burn, only a deep, stretching fullness that hits every place that’s been aching for him.
He wraps one big arm around my breasts, while the other stays between my legs, gently stroking my clit as he thrusts.
The window is filled with white-out snow and pine trees, the whole mountain silent except for our breaths and the low sounds he makes in my ear.
He moves harder, faster, his body tight against mine. The sensation builds fast—that sharp, rising pull low in my belly. I brace my palms on the window ledge and push back against him, chasing it.
“Lila,” he murmurs against my neck, kissing along the curve.
It hits me in a rush. My muscles grip around him, once, twice, again, and I come hard, my whole body tightening around his cock. He lets out a raw growl, locks both arms around me, and drives deep.
I feel it when he releases—thick pulses inside me, his body shuddering against my back.
He stays buried in me, still moving through the last steady thrusts as the remnants of my orgasm taper off, leaving my legs loose and my weight resting fully in his hold.
He keeps his arms around me while we catch our breath, our bodies joined, the fire crackling behind us and the snow falling outside.
When we’re finally done, he carries me back to the nest of blankets by the fire before lowering us both into the warmth. His arm curls around me, drawing me close until we fit together like we were shaped that way.
For a while neither of us speaks. The only sound is the soft crackle of the fire and our breathing. My body feels weightless, my thoughts even more so—like the entire night has folded into this one blissful moment.
Then something small and absurd bubbles up through the haze. “Holt,” I whisper. “Guess what?”
“Mmm?”
“It’s Christmas.”
He chuckles. “Best one I’ve ever had.”
I laugh too, and look around at all the pretty, sparkly decorations. He tightens his hold, presses a slow kiss to the top of my head, For the first time in years, I feel a little of that old Christmas magic stirring.
We stay curled into each other, that sweet, deep ache blooming every time he shifts against me. The scent of smoke and pine fills the air; beneath it, him—warm, masculine, barely tamed. All mine.
Eventually he draws back, murmuring into my hair, “You hungry?”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Starved.”
He kisses the side of my neck, tenderly. “That I can fix.”
He untangles himself from the blankets, stands, and pulls on the flannel pants he abandoned hours ago. Watching him move through the cabin, huge, yet agile in the low morning light, makes my heart twist in the best way.
He tests the light switches. The power’s still out, but the stove clicks when he tries it. Gas. Salvation.
He rummages through the cupboards and comes up with a dented stovetop espresso pot, holding it up like treasure.
“Coffee,” he announces with mock solemnity. “We’re saved.”
I grin, clutching the blanket around me. “You make it, I’ll judge.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, that half-smile I’m already addicted to. “Tough critic, huh?”
“Fancy-coffee girl.”
Clothes are scattered where we left them—his flannel shirt over the armchair, my jeans in a heap by the fire. I grab the shirt and pull it on. It’s far too big, the sleeves past my hands, but it smells like him. The hem brushes my thighs as I cross to the stove.
He’s standing there, barefoot, watching the moka pot hiss on the flame. When he sees me in his shirt, a smile tugs at his lips.
“Fits you better,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get used to it,” I murmur, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile.
He pours the coffee into two mismatched mugs and hands one to me. The steam rises between us, rich and comforting.
“Merry Christmas, Lila.”
“Merry Christmas!”
I jump, then burst out laughing.
“Who said that?” His head whips around.
“Mr Jingles, the parrot.” I roll my eyes.
He groans. “I forgot this was a crazy menagerie.”
I clink my mug against his. “And Merry Christmas.”
I take a sip. It’s strong enough to wake the dead.
I make a face and he grins, unrepentant. “What? Cabin coffee.”
“It’s liquid asphalt.”
He crooks an eyebrow. “How else should it be?”
I laugh, the sound spilling out easily. “Just wait till the blizzard’s done—I’m going to introduce you to the wonder of a flat white down at that little coffee shop in town.” Saying it out loud sends a rush of happiness through me. I’m already making plans for our future, and it feels wonderful.
He rummages through the grocery bags I hauled in yesterday, muttering commentary under his breath: “Cranberry sauce, mystery tins, approximately forty cookies…”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
Then his hand closes on something at the bottom. “You brought pancakes in a can?”
He holds it up like an artifact.
“Never said I could cook.”
He shrugs, flips the gas back on, digs out a pan, and starts whistling—off-key, cheerful, utterly at ease. The smell of batter and butter begins to mix with the coffee and woodsmoke until the whole cabin smells like comfort.
By now, the dogs are waking up, yawning and stretching elaborately. I open the door and let them out, then fill their bowls when they barrel back in, snow-dusted and ecstatic.
Holt slides the first pancake onto a plate and sets it in front of me with a flourish.
“Gourmet dining, mountain edition.”
I grab the fork from his hand before he can make it worse and take a bite. It’s lopsided… absolutely perfect.
He watches me, waiting for a verdict.
“Ten out of ten,” I say through a mouthful. “Michelin would weep.”
He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You’re just saying that because it’s Christmas.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe it’s because I’m deliriously happy.”
He sits across from me, cross-legged on the floor, plate balanced on his knee.
The dogs sprawl near the hearth, bellies full of breakfast.
We eat until we’re full, too, then just sit there for a while, leaning against each other, mugs cooling in our hands.
Eventually, I remember the little paper bag still sitting by the tree. It’s nothing much, but I reach for it anyway and set it in his lap.
He looks at me, puzzled. “What’s this?”
“A very unplanned Christmas present.”
He pulls the tissue paper aside and finds the wool hat I picked up in town yesterday—dark green, soft, hand-knitted. I’d bought it on impulse, and now it makes perfect sense.
He turns it over in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers catching on the yarn. “First Christmas present I’ve ever had.”
“You serious?”
He shrugs. “My family never celebrated.”
“Try it.”
“Never wore a hat before, either.” He tugs it on. “Kinda cozy.”
“And it suits you.” It does—somehow it focuses attention on those lush lips of his. Impulsively, I lean in and kiss him, long and deep.
A groan breaks from him, then he tears himself away. “Wait—”
He crosses to the mantel, reaches behind the holly wreath, and pulls out a small, paper-wrapped package.
“Happy Christmas, Baby.”
I gasp, then laugh. “How did that get there?”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Might’ve brought it yesterday. I would’ve put it under the tree, but I figured the dogs would eat it.”
“They would,” I say, grinning as I start to peel off the tape.
Inside the wrapping is a small velvet pouch. I tip it into my hand and a gold pendant slides out, a single stone gleaming at its center. Aquamarine. The pale blue color catches the light.
“It’s a perfect match with your eyes,” he says softly.
My breath hitches. “Holt… it’s beautiful.”
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “It belonged to my grandmother. She told me it was meant for my mate one day. Said the stone would tell me when I’d found her.”
I look up at him, heart pounding. “And it did?”
He nods, slow and sure. “Perfectly. I saw it the moment I looked at you. I just couldn’t believe it then. But I knew.” He lays his hand on his massive chest, right where his heart is.
Then he leans closer, brushing his thumb over the pendant before lifting it from my palm. “Let me.”
When he fastens it around my neck, his fingers graze my skin. The pendant settles against my collarbone, light as breath, but it feels like the world has shifted into place.
He draws me closer until my head rests against his chest. The heartbeat under my ear is strong and fast.
“I love you, Lila,” he murmurs into my hair—quiet, certain, like truth finally spoken aloud.
A soft sound escapes me, half-laugh, half-sob. I curl my hands into his shirt. “I love you too, Holt. I always have.”
He exhales — a slow, shaken release — and holds me tighter.
“Merry Christmas, Lila,” he whispers.
I smile against his skin, fingers curling around the pendant.
“Merry Christmas, my bear.”