Chapter 9
BECCA
He was still asleep, or close to it—his breathing steady, his arm heavy around my waist. The room was dark and quiet, save for the wind outside and the soft whisper of skin against sheets.
I shifted, just a little, pressing closer. My bare legs tangled with his, and the warmth of his body wrapped around me like a storm I didn’t want to outrun.
I let my hand drift lower, beneath the blanket, sliding over the hard line of his stomach. He didn’t move, but I felt the tension ripple under his skin. My fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxers, seeking him. Heat met heat.
He was hot and solid beneath my touch—strength coiled in stillness. That quiet moment cracked open something deep inside me, something hungry and aching and long denied. I wanted more. Not just the shape of him, but the feel of this—of him, here, with me.
He exhaled, voice low and rough with sleep. “Becca…”
“I know,” I whispered, resting my forehead against his. “I know.”
His hand found mine, not to stop me, not quite. Just to feel. To share the moment.
No rush. No need for anything but this: heat, breath, want. The way his lips brushed my jaw, the way his thumb traced the edge of my wrist like he was memorizing the shape of wanting.
Our mouths found each other again, slow and open, and every kiss said what we weren’t ready to speak out loud.
Whatever this was, whatever it meant—we were already in it…