Chapter 7 #2
"Tell me how you want it," she says.
"Trimmed. Not gone. Just intentional instead of neglected."
Her fingers touch my jaw, tilting my head to catch the light from the window. The contact sends electricity through me. Her hands are steady, professional, but there's nothing professional about the way my body responds.
She starts with my hair, combing through it, testing the length. "This might take a while."
"I'm not going anywhere."
The first snip of scissors is loud in the quiet. She works slowly, carefully, one hand holding my head in position while the other cuts. My hands rest on my thighs because I don't trust myself not to reach for her.
"Tilt left," she says softly.
I do. She steps closer, her leg pressing against the inside of my knee.
The intimate positioning makes it hard to breathe normally.
Hair falls past my shoulders, landing on the floor.
She's focused, concentrating, but I can feel her awareness.
The way her breath catches when my hands finally settle on her hips.
Just to steady her. That's what I tell myself.
She finishes with my hair, then moves to my beard. The scissors rasp through it. She's meticulous, checking angles, making sure it's even. Her fingers brush my jaw, my neck, my throat where the pulse beats hard and fast.
"Almost done," she murmurs.
She runs the comb through one final time, fingers following to check her work. They linger on my jaw. Trace the line where beard meets skin. Her thumb brushes my lower lip.
"I want to see more of you," she says. Her voice is rough. The double meaning clear.
I meet her eyes. See my own need reflected there. "Harlow."
"Tell me to stop."
"I can't."
She leans down and kisses me. No hesitation this time. No pulling back. Her mouth is soft and demanding. I stand, hands sliding into her hair, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound against my lips and it breaks something loose inside me.
The kiss deepens. Her hands fist in my shirt, tugging, pulling me toward the wood stove where heat radiates. We stumble together, not breaking apart, unwilling to lose this connection.
"Rhys." My name is a question and a plea.
"Yeah." I don't know what I'm agreeing to, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except her mouth and her hands and the way she responds when I kiss down her neck.
We sink to the floor in front of the stove.
The rug beneath us is worn and soft. Firelight paints everything in gold and shadow.
She pulls at my shirt and I help her, yanking it over my head.
Her hands on my bare chest make me groan.
Three years since anyone touched me like this. Three years of being dead inside.
"Are you sure?" I manage to ask.
"Stop thinking." She kisses me hard. "Just feel."
So I do.
I feel the silk of her skin when her shirt comes off. The curve of her waist under my hands. The gasp she makes when I kiss the hollow of her throat. She arches into me and I forget every reason this might be too fast, too much, too complicated.
Right now she's warm and willing and responding to every touch like she's been starving for it.
Clothes disappear. Practical layers shed until there's nothing between us but heat and need.
She's beautiful in the firelight. Lean muscle and soft curves.
Scars on her shoulder, her ribs, evidence of a life lived dangerously.
I trace them with my fingers, my mouth, learning her body the way she learned my face with those scissors.
"Gorgeous," I murmur against her skin.
Her laugh is breathless. "You're just saying that because I'm naked."
"I'm saying it because it's true." I kiss the scar on her shoulder. "Every part of you."
She pulls me back up, kisses me hard. Her hands explore my chest, my shoulders, the muscles in my arms. When her fingers trail down my stomach I suck in a breath. Lower still and I catch her wrist.
"Wait." The word costs me. "We need to talk about protection."
"I'm clean. Tested six months ago. Haven't been with anyone since." Her eyes hold mine. "You?"
"Three years. Nothing since Emma." I swallow. "I'm clean. And I can't get you pregnant. Had a vasectomy after Emma and I decided we didn't want kids."
Relief flashes across her face. "Then we're good."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She guides my hand to her breast, arches into the touch. "Stop talking, Rhys. I need you."
I settle between her thighs and she's already wet, ready. When I push inside her we both go still. The sensation is overwhelming. Heat and pressure and the tight clasp of her body accepting mine. Her head falls back. A sound escapes her throat that's half gasp, half moan.
"Look at me," I say.
Her eyes open. Dark with desire. "Move."
I do. Slow at first, letting her adjust, letting us both adjust to this. But she wraps her legs around my waist and rolls her hips, and slow becomes impossible. I thrust deeper and she meets me, matches me, takes everything I give and demands more.
The firelight flickers across her skin. Sweat beads between her breasts. I lean down and taste it, taste her. Salt and heat. Her nails rake down my back hard enough to leave marks. The bite of pain sharpens everything.
"Harder," she breathes. "Don't hold back."
I don't. Can't. Three years of grief and rage and loneliness pour into this. Into her. She takes it all. Gives it back. Her inner muscles clench around me and I groan, fighting for control.
My hand slides between us, finds where we're joined. I circle her with my thumb and she gasps, hips jerking against mine.
"Rhys."
"I've got you." I keep the pressure steady, the angle deep. "Let go. I want to feel you come."
Her breath quickens. Her body tightens around me. She's close. So close. I shift my hips, hitting deeper while my thumb works her, and she shatters.
She cries out, back arching, body clamping down on mine so tight I can barely move. Her hands clutch my shoulders. Her thighs tremble against my hips. I watch her face as she comes undone, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The sensation drags me over with her. Release crashes through me, intense and overwhelming. Everything narrows to her warmth, her scent, the sound of my name on her lips. I bury my face in her neck and let go completely.
For long moments we don't move. Just breathe together, hearts pounding against each other. The fire crackles. Snow taps against the windows. Nothing else exists except this.
After, we lie tangled together on the rug. Our breathing slows. The fire warms us. Neither speaks because words would break this fragile peace.
Harlow's head rests on my chest. My hand traces patterns on her bare shoulder. Emma's ring is somewhere in the pile of our discarded clothes, but for once I'm not thinking about it.
"No regrets?" she asks quietly.
"No regrets."
"Good." She tilts her head to look at me. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
Despite everything, I smile. "Is that right?"
"That's right, Sheriff." She kisses my chest, right over my heart. "We have until tomorrow morning. Might as well make the most of it."
I pull the blanket from the couch down over us. Outside, the storm continues to bury us in snow. But in here, with Harlow warm in my arms and firelight dancing across the walls, I feel something I haven't felt in three years: peace, and the possibility of a future that doesn't hurt.