Chapter 20 Sorrel
Sorrel
We’re still standing by the fireplace, wood scattered haphazardly around us because apparently proper stacking protocols go out the window when you nearly become cougar breakfast and your hands feel like they’re about to fall off.
Speaking of which, my hands are finally warm again. Gregory’s palms are still wrapped around mine, his thumbs making absent circles across my knuckles even though the circulation is clearly back.
Meanwhile my heart is still hammering from the firewood mission. From seeing those massive paw prints circling the food storage. From hearing that sound.
And Gregory... he was positioned protectively behind me the entire time, like he was ready to jump between me and that two-hundred-pound cat if it decided we looked like lunch.
Gregory, who gave me his expensive jacket so I’d stay warm. Well, it didn’t quite help with my hands, but it’s the thought that counts.
Gregory, who’s staring at me now with a look I can’t quite decipher.
Gregory...
“Sorrel,” he starts, his voice rough.
But I’m already moving.
I don’t even think about it.
One second I’m just standing there stupidly in front of him, the next I’m closing the distance between us and kissing him like my life depends on it.
Which maybe it does.
Because here’s the thing about almost dying that nobody tells you in your safety training.
It makes you really fucking aware of being alive.
Every nerve ending in my body is screaming and I need to feel something other than terror, need to taste something other than fear.
He makes this sound against my mouth. Surprise mixed with hunger and something darker that makes everything inside me clench.
His arms come around me, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my hip through all the layers of thermal wear and his jacket and my coat.
We stumble backward. My butt hits the arm of the sectional couch hard enough to hurt but I don’t care because his hands are everywhere, pulling me closer, and--
Oh god this is happening.
“I was so worried about you,” he breathes against my mouth. “The cougar. Your hands--”
I kiss him harder to shut him up because I can’t think about that right now.
Can’t think about what would have happened if the cougar had decided to attack instead of just watching.
Can’t think about the fact that we have to go back outside eventually to clear that stupid satellite dish on the stupid roof while that thing is still prowling around.
Can’t think about anything except the way he tastes like coffee and something uniquely him and the way his stubble scrapes against my jaw and the way he’s holding me like I’m precious and breakable and his all at once.
When we finally break apart, we’re both gasping for air like we just ran a marathon. Which, given the thigh-deep snow we just waded through, isn’t so far from the truth.
His forehead drops to mine. His hands are still gripping my hips, thumbs tracing circles through the fabric and making me absolutely insane.
“I thought--” He stops. Starts again. Opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then closes it.
I recognize that look. It’s the same one I’ve been wearing for days now. Well, since last night, specifically. Since that bathroom when I realized I was head over heels in love with him and decided not to say it out loud because words make things terrifying and real.
It’s the look of someone carrying around a truth that’s too big to speak. Like he’s standing on a cliff edge deciding whether to jump.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he says finally, voice cracking slightly. “Maybe when you steadied my hands fixing the generator. Maybe when you refused to let me go alone today. Maybe the first time you hummed while reading.”
Oh god.
Oh god, he’s going to say it.
Those three words...
He takes a breath. “Look, what I’m trying to say is... this matters. You matter. More than anything has in years.”
The words hang between us, heavy with everything he’s not saying.
I can feel it in how he’s holding me like I’m precious.
Can see it in his devastated expression.
The actual words are right friggin’ there, hovering just beneath the surface.
I love you.
I’m in love with you.
But he doesn’t say them.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I don’t say them either, of course.
Because for me, they feel too big, too impossible, when our future is basically a giant question mark.
So instead I frame his face with both hands, feeling the scrape of his stubble against my palms.
“And you matter to me,” I tell him quietly, hating myself for not saying the real three words.
Still, when he kisses me again, it’s different. Not desperate like before but slower, more deliberate.
I make an embarrassing sound against his mouth. Something between a sob and a moan that would be mortifying under any other circumstances.
But right now?
I don’t care.
Because Gregory Falk just told me I matter more than anything and I told him he matters, too, and we both know exactly what we’re really saying without having to make it official. Well I know exactly what I’m saying, anyway, even if he doesn’t, and...
Ah, that’s probably the most emotionally constipated thing I’ve ever thought, but whatever.
I’ll work on it.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard again.
“We should--” I start. “The dish...”
“Yeah,” he agrees, but neither of us moves.
His thumb traces my bottom lip and I feel it everywhere. I’m super aware of every point of contact. The armrest beneath me. His thigh between my legs. His hand still tangled in my hair. The way he’s looking at me like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.
“The roof can wait another hour,” he murmurs.
“Can it, though?” But even as I say it, I’m already wrapping my legs around his hips, pulling him closer.
“It has to.” His voice drops to that tone that makes my panties insta-wet. “Because I need you. Right now.”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Yes please.
He lifts me off the sectional like I weigh nothing. Which, given the size difference between us, I probably do. To him, anyway.
He carries me the few steps to our makeshift sleeping area by the fireplace.
The blankets we’ve been sharing there are still rumpled from this morning. There are coffee mugs sitting nearby. The fire crackling away in front of it like it has been since that first night.
This space.
This room.
It’s been our entire world.
And somehow, it’s become home.
He sets me down gently on the blankets, then just stands there looking at me, his hair limned by the morning light from the windows.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Just looking at you.” His voice is thick with want. “Trying to figure out how the hell I got this lucky.”
I have to giggle at that. “Gregory, I’m literally wearing your jacket over another jacket over thermals that desperately need washing and my hair is in a braid that’s more rats’ nest than anything else and I probably smell like firewood and sweat and--”
He drops to his knees in front of me, cutting off my spiral. “You’re beautiful. And you’re mine. And I’m going to spend the next hour proving it to you.”
Holy shit.
I might actually die.
Death by sexy billionaire seems like a pretty good way to go, honestly.
He peels off the Patagonia jacket, then my actual coat, then his... my... Columbia hoodie, until I’m just in thermals.
Then those come off, too.
Shirt first.
Then pants.
Until I’m sitting there in just my bra and underwear, the practical cotton variety that have seen way too many wash cycles.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
He strips off his own layers. The expensive cashmere sweater he’s been wearing for days.
The thermal base layer underneath. His jeans.
His thermal leggings. Until he’s wearing only his underwear and his chest is bare and I’m treated to the full view of those ridiculous muscles and that dusting of dark hair and the sharp V-cut of his obliques that I want to trace with my tongue all the way to his. ..
God, he’s so gorgeous.
My hands reach out automatically, tracing the hard lines of his abs. He sucks in a breath, his muscles jumping under my touch.
“Sorrel.” My name is a warning.
I glance up at him through my lashes, trying to look all innocent. “Yeah?”
“Lie back,” he orders.
Oh.
Okay then.
I do as instructed, sinking back into the blankets that smell like woodsmoke and us.
He moves over me, bracketing my body with his arms. He’s huge. His broad shoulders block out the light from outside. His biceps are bigger than my thighs.
Let’s just say I’ve never felt quite this small or quite this safe at the same time.
“I love watching you like this,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up to pin both my wrists gently above my head. The restraint is light but firm. “Knowing you chose me.”
The words hit me.
Because I did choose him.
Despite everything.
Despite every rational reason why I shouldn’t.
His free hand explores, trailing down my ribs, my waist, the curve of my hip. Every touch feels... claiming.
When his fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear, I instinctively lift my hips to help him slide them off. Then my bra follows.
And suddenly I’m completely naked beneath him while he’s still wearing briefs.
In theory, I should be uncomfortable with how vulnerable this makes me.
But instead I feel powerful.
Because the way he’s looking at me right now?
Like I’m a miracle?
Like he can’t believe I’m real?
That’s intoxicating.
He releases my wrists and sits back on his heels. “Come here.”
I sit up, confused. “Where--”
But he’s already moving, positioning himself against the couch we sat on opposite ends of during our first days. His back is against it, his legs spread.
“Straddle my right leg,” he commands.
I get up, and obey. When I’m almost in position, his hands grip my love handles, guiding me the rest of the way, until I have one knee on either side of his right thigh.