Chapter 15 #2
Inside, the fire has burned down to embers. Chris adds wood, coaxes it back to life while I collapse on the couch we assembled earlier.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Exhausted." I pat the space beside me. "Come sit."
He does, pulling me against his side. We sit in comfortable silence, watching the fire, listening to wood pop and settle.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For reminding me I had a life worth fighting for."
I shift to look at him. "You did that yourself."
He kisses me then, and it's different from every kiss before. Not desperate like the cave, not grateful like the ranger station. This is promise. This is choice.
When we break apart, his eyes are dark with want. "Come to bed with me."
I stand, take his hand, lead him to the bedroom. The space is small, just enough room for the bed and a dresser, but the sheets smell like fabric softener and the pillows are new and soft.
We undress each other without urgency. My fingers work the buttons of his flannel shirt, revealing the taped ribs, the healing scars, the lean muscle beneath. His hands peel away my layers—sweater, thermal shirt, the sports bra underneath—until I'm bare to his gaze.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his palm sliding up my side.
"Damaged," I correct, touching the bandage on my shoulder.
"Survived." He kisses the wound through the gauze. "Just like me."
We finish undressing and fall onto the bed together. The sheets are cool against my heated skin. Chris's weight presses me into the mattress, solid and real and mine.
His mouth finds mine, kissing me thoroughly while his hands explore. Every touch is deliberate—fingers tracing the curve of my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens. When he lowers his head to taste what his hands mapped, I arch into him with a gasp.
"Chris." His name escapes on a moan.
He takes his time, his tongue working my flesh until I'm trembling beneath him. The scratch of his beard against my sensitive skin sends shivers through me. His teeth graze lightly, drawing a whimper from my throat.
His hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs. When his fingers find me slick and ready, he groans against my breast. "God, Sierra."
He strokes me with maddening slowness—circling, teasing, building pressure that coils tight in my belly. I rock against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more everything.
"Please."
"Tell me what you need."
"Your mouth. I need your mouth."
He kisses down my body—over my ribs, across my stomach, along my hip bone. When he settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my center, I nearly come undone from anticipation alone.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out. He works me with focused intensity, alternating between broad strokes and targeted pressure. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as I writhe beneath him. The pleasure builds in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.
When he slides two fingers inside me, curling to hit that perfect spot while his tongue continues its assault, I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, every nerve ending firing at once.
I'm distantly aware of crying his name, of my fingers tangling in his hair, of the tremors that shake my entire body.
He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thigh. When I can breathe again, I pull him up for a kiss that tastes like salt and sex and us.
"My turn," I say, pushing him onto his back.
I explore his body the way he explored mine—hands and mouth learning every scar, every line of muscle, every place that makes him gasp.
The shrapnel damage across his ribs, rough under my fingertips.
The old bullet wound near his collarbone, smooth and puckered.
The burns on his forearm, textured and pale.
When I wrap my hand around his length, hot and hard and thick, he groans. I stroke him slowly, watching his face as pleasure tightens his features. Pre-come beads at the tip and I lean down to taste it, my tongue circling the head before taking him deeper.
"Fuck, Sierra." His hands fist in the sheets.
I take my time, using my hand and mouth together, learning what makes him curse and what makes him beg. The taste of him fills my mouth—salt and musk and something uniquely Chris. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts he can't control.
"Stop. I'm going to—"
I don't stop. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my throat. When he comes with a shout, I swallow everything he gives me, working him through the aftershocks until he's gasping.
I crawl up his body, kiss him so he can taste himself on my lips. His arms come around me, holding me close.
"Give me a minute," he says. "Then I want inside you."
While we wait, we kiss. Long, languid kisses that build heat slowly. His hands roam my body, relearning curves and valleys. My fingers trace patterns on his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my palm.
When he's hard again, I straddle his hips. He grips my waist as I position myself above him, then sink down slowly. The stretch is delicious, the fullness perfect. We both groan at the sensation.
I set a rolling pace, rising and falling with increasing speed. His hands guide my movements, his hips rising to meet me. The friction is exquisite, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. Sweat slicks our skin, the scent of sex heavy in the small room.
Chris sits up, wrapping his arms around me, changing the angle. Now I'm grinding against him with each movement, the pressure against my center making stars burst behind my eyelids.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding between us to circle where we're joined. "Let go."
The combination of his cock filling me and his fingers working my center pushes me over the edge again. My inner muscles clamp down on him, rhythmic pulses that drag him with me. He buries his face in my neck, his release pouring into me as we shake together.
We stay connected, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air. His hands stroke my back while my fingers thread through his hair.
"I love you," he says.
The words should scare me. Two weeks isn't long enough to know someone, to trust them with everything. But my body already knows his, my heart already chose.
"I love you too."
We clean up in the tiny bathroom, then crawl back into bed, our limbs tangling naturally. Chris pulls the covers over us, wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"Sleep," he murmurs against my hair.
I drift off to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my ear.
Morning comes with weak sunlight through the window and the smell of coffee. I wake to find Chris standing beside the bed, two mugs in hand, wearing jeans and nothing else.
"Morning," he says, handing me a mug.
"You made coffee."
"I'm domesticated now. You're welcome." He sits on the edge of the bed. "Barrett called. The FBI interview got moved to next week. We have a few days off."
"What should we do with a few days off?"
He grins. "I have some ideas."
We spend the morning in bed, taking our time, learning each other without the pressure of danger or deadline. Around noon, Bryn shows up with groceries and a homemade pie, teasing Chris about being domestic and making us promise to come to dinner again next week.
She stays for lunch, filling the cabin with laughter and stories about Chris as a kid. The way she looks at him—relieved, happy, still a little disbelieving—tells me she's still processing that he's really home.
When she leaves, Chris and I clean up together. Washing dishes side by side, bumping hips, stealing kisses. It's mundane and perfect.
Two days later, Chris and I stand on the ridge overlooking Talon Mountain. The same place where he hid for eleven months, watching the world from the shadows.
"I spent a year thinking this mountain was my grave," he says, his arm around my waist. "Turns out, I just needed a reason to stop hiding."
I lean into him, looking out at the wilderness stretched before us. "What's next?"
"Next, I start living again."
His radio crackles. Barrett's voice comes through: "Calder, you there? Got something that needs your expertise. Possible trafficking route opening up in the eastern sector. Could use Sierra's analysis too."
Chris looks at me, eyebrow raised.
I grin. "Think we can handle it?"
"With you? Yeah." He keys the radio. "We're on our way, Barrett."
We head back toward the cabin, his hand finding mine. There's work to do, cases to solve, a network that's still out there.
But for the first time in a year, he's not doing it alone.
And neither am I.
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