Chapter 8
8
TRAVIS
S he raises her eyes to meet mine, dark and smoldering with hunger, and a slow, knowing grin spreads across my face—a grin sharpened by desire. No words pass my lips as I gently but firmly press her onto the soft expanse of the mattress, positioning myself deliberately between her thighs as if drawn by a gravitational pull to a familiar destination.
I explore her torso with tender, deliberate kisses, each caress imbued with the slow, sensual precision of a practiced symphony. It feels as if our shared history has rehearsed this moment a thousand times—every curve and every sigh echoing a memory. Her chest rises and falls under my touch; her nipples, taut and pleading, glow under the intensity of my attention. I claim one with a hard, insistent suck, and as she moans out my name, I feel the reverberation of her response echoing deep within me.
Gripping her hips tightly, I draw her even closer. My fingertips trace slow, teasing patterns along the contours of her sides, eliciting that delicate, shaky breath that speaks volumes. Her back arches in surrender, a silent invitation proving that no woman has ever made me feel so uncontrollably alive—so willingly exposed in her exquisite desire, yearning almost as fervently as I do. My deep, possessive kiss tells her, unmistakably, that she is irrevocably mine, as if that truth had been etched into her soul from the start.
I let my mouth wander lower, trailing warm, enlivening kisses across her belly, my tongue playfully dipping into the soft hollow of her navel. In response, her hips instinctively roll upwards, meeting my advances with an unspoken demand for more. Her whispered utterance of my name, quiet yet desperate, shatters any remaining restraint within me; resonating like a spell that leaves me weak at the knees.
Sliding two eager fingers inside her, I am struck by how impossibly wet she is—a tangible testament to her longing. She lets out a cry of surrender; her back curving in rhythmic invitation, and I continue without hesitation. My mouth finds her most delicate spot; I alternate between slow, tantalizing licks and quicker, exciting strokes that send waves of pleasure through her, each motion an intricate dance of arousal.
Beyond the sanctuary of this room, a relentless snowstorm rages, but here it transforms into another world entirely—a world defined by the symphony of our intimacy. It’s just us: my fingers, my mouth, and the beautiful collapse of her resolve upon my tongue. She seizes my hair in a grip both desperate and passionate, riding me with a fervor that blurs the line between control and surrender, her body grinding against my face as if to erase all inhibitions.
Even when she pushes at my head—too close, too tender, too fiercely sensitive—I hold fast, my arms tightening around her inner thighs as if to claim every fleeting second. I remain unswerving, driven by her silent plea for more, her unspoken demand for the complete fullness of me.
Abby’s whispered pleas echo around us, her voice breaking with raw emotion as she begs for the continuation of our dance. In that instant, a thunderous clap—an awe-inspiring thundersnow—seems to bless our passion. I remain unfazed, entirely consumed by the delicious taste of her, the intoxicating yearning that has haunted me during even this brief absence.
Her thighs tremble against my shoulders as I feel the rising tide of her climax, her moans growing louder, raw and unfiltered. Her fingers find their way to her own skin, pinching at her nipples with a fervor that borders on self-punishment—a scene so vivid it ignites a fire within me I can scarcely admit.
I long to bring her to that peak again, yet I crave nothing more than to bury my desire deep within her, to reclaim her completely.
As she leans forward, resting her delicate weight on her elbows, her soft yet commanding voice reaches out: “Travis, please, fuck me.” Lost in that moment, in the overwhelming lust of our connection, I surrender completely, knowing that I may never let her go.
“Whatever you want, baby.”
I ascend her body, a landscape of soft curves and warm valleys, and position myself between her thighs, a sanctuary of silken skin. I line myself up, my cock pulsating against her slick, wet entrance. I push in, slow and steady, feeling her stretch and yield around me, like a flower blossoming under the first rays of dawn. She gasps, a sweet, sharp intake of breath, and wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me close. Her legs lock around my waist, a living, breathing belt of flesh and blood, and I start to move.
Each thrust is a testament to my desire, deep and deliberate. She meets me every time, her hips grinding up like a dance of desperation, needing me to reach even deeper, to touch her very core. I kiss her—our tongues tangling in a rough, hungry dance, a primal rhythm that echoes the dance of our bodies. Her body clenches around me, tight and perfect, a velvet glove made just for me.
I grip her hips, my fingers sinking into her soft flesh, keeping her steady while I drive into her, hard. She cries out with every thrust, a symphony of pleasure and pain, and I feel her building again, like a storm on the horizon. I want to watch her come. Want to feel her lose herself underneath me, like a wave crashing against the shore.
She tightens around my cock, her muscles fluttering like butterfly wings, her mouth falling open in a silent cry. I know she’s close. So am I.
I don’t hold back. I can’t. The need inside me is raw, savage, a beast clawing at my insides. I drive into her hard, over and over, and Abby meets every thrust with breathy moans that tell me she wants this just as badly. She's a wild thing beneath me, all heat and desire.
That familiar shiver builds low in my spine—warning me I’m close. I let go of one of her legs, bring my thumb to her clit, and rub tight, fast circles. She comes almost instantly, a supernova of pleasure exploding behind her eyes. I watch her fall apart, eyes wide, mouth open on a soft cry, her pussy clenching around my cock like a vise.
It’s fucking beautiful. A masterpiece of ecstasy painted in her pleasure.
I keep thrusting right through it, and when I finally come, it hits like a wave—hot, intense, a tsunami of sensation. I grind into her, letting her body pull every last drop from me. My body’s shaking, but I don’t stop until I’m empty—a vessel poured out completely.
Then I collapse on top of her, chest heaving like a beast at the end of a long hunt. Her skin is soft and smooth against mine, a silk sheet on a summer’s day. It feels like peace. Like coming home after a long journey. Her arms wrap around me, fingers threading into my hair, and I let my head rest between her breasts, a sanctuary of softness and warmth.
She falls asleep wrapped in my arms, her head tucked against my chest like it belongs there. Like we didn’t just tear each other open and make promises we haven’t spoken yet. I hold her tighter than I should, memorizing the curve of her back, the hitch in her breath when she starts to dream. She makes a soft sound, a protest or a plea, and I stroke her spine until she settles.
I should move. I should put distance between us before I forget everything I’ve told myself about staying detached. About not dragging her deeper into the mess I’ve spent the last five years trying to contain.
Moonlight is bleeding through the window; I ease out from under her and tuck the blanket higher around her shoulders. I dress quickly, pulling on jeans, boots, and the Henley I tossed aside last night like it didn’t matter. I take one last look at her before I head to the kitchen.
There’s a tray waiting just outside the door. Clara’s doing, no doubt. She must have crept in sometime after the world ended and started again. She’s thoughtful like that—dangerously intuitive, and way too interested in my business.
I carry the tray in, the scent of roasted chicken, rosemary, and fresh bread curling through the air. Abby stirs, eyes blinking open, and that sleepy look she gives me nearly takes me down right there.
“Clara outdid herself,” I say as I set the tray down.
Abby yawns, tucking the comforter around her as she sits up. “She’s been threatening to feed me into submission. This checks out.”
I hand her a fork. “She also left a note reminding you she wants details. And that I looked grumpy enough to need a drink.”
Abby laughs, her smile still soft around the edges of sleep. “She’s not wrong.”
She digs in without hesitation, and for a while we just sit, eating in quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t press—that feels earned.
When she finally sets her fork down, she fixes those sharp eyes on me and says, “Did you find anything?”
I lean back in the chair, jaw tight. “The sniper wasn’t there. The body was gone. Someone dragged him off and covered the tracks in a rush.”
Her expression hardens. “So it wasn’t just some isolated threat.”
“No.”
“Which means this is bigger.”
I nod once. “They’re not finished.”
She swallows hard. “And we still don’t know why they’re coming after me.”
“Not yet.”
Her gaze doesn’t flinch. “When are you going to tell me the rest of it? About Nick. About why you left. About what really happened.”
I stare at her. She’s not asking like someone fishing for gossip or reassurance. She’s asking like someone who needs it to breathe.
“In the morning,” I say.
She opens her mouth to argue. I raise a hand.
“Not because I’m stalling. Because once I tell you, there’s no going back. You deserve the truth. But you deserve it without half the town listening through walls, and not after… after…”
She watches me for a long moment, then she grins. “We had sex? I’ll grant you it was amazing, spectacular sex. Even so, I’d think a writer of your skill could find words.”
“You are enjoying this way too much,” I say, trying to sound grumpy but failing miserably. I don’t think I could do grumpy if my life depended on it.
The next morning as Abby lies asleep in the bed, I sit by the window, watching the town. The street is quiet. The snow blanket deepened overnight, muffling the sounds of life. That should be reassuring. It’s not.
I sip the coffee Clara left, then set it down and reach for the gear I stashed by the door earlier. Gloves. Rifle. Surveillance scope. I don’t plan on being gone long.
I slip out without waking her and head back to the ridgeline above my place. The wind cuts sharp, but I move fast. I check the trail leading down to my cabin, looping wide to avoid leaving a straight path.
Tracks. Not just animal.
Heavy boots. Deep. Someone was dragging something. No blood trail I can see, but the snow’s disturbed—too much movement for just cleanup. Someone had retrieved that body fast. That tells me two things: they were close when it happened, and they had a team.
I check my perimeter again. Then I do the thing no trained soldier would admit to doing—superstition or not—I scatter the rest of the dog food around the perimeter line. Wolves and other predators come through the woods all the time. But with that bait, they’ll come faster. Hungrier.
Anyone trying to sneak up on this place again is going to learn the hard way that nature doesn’t play fair.
When I return to the inn, Hank is waiting at the back door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s caught me doing something illegal.
“Don’t say it,” I mutter.
He hands me a towel for my boots. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But if I was, it would sound a lot like ‘you’re a moron for letting yourself get attached when we both know how this ends.’”
I glance at him. “She’s not just a mission.”
“I know.” Hank’s voice is soft now. “That’s why I’m worried. You’ve always been good at protecting people. Not so great at letting them in.”
“Maybe I’m changing.”
He snorts. “Or maybe she’s the exception.”
“Either way, I’m not letting her out of my sight until this is over.”
Hank tilts his head. “And after?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know.
Back in the room, Abby’s curled into the blankets, face relaxed in sleep. But I can tell it’s shallow. Her body shifts restlessly every few minutes, like even in dreams she can’t get comfortable.
I sit in the chair beside the bed, watching her.
The past is catching up faster than I planned. Nick’s death. The mission gone sideways. The betrayal that started this whole damn mess. And now Abby’s in the middle of it—unarmed, untrained, and entirely too willing to face danger with nothing but her gut and a sharp tongue.
She should terrify me. She does. Not because she’s reckless, but because she’s real. And because the second she walked into my cabin, I started wanting things I have no business wanting.
I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She shifts slightly, murmuring something under her breath, and presses closer to the warmth.
My throat tightens.
I’ve seen what happens when you care too much. When you love something in the field. It becomes leverage. It becomes a weakness. But damn me, if this woman isn’t worth the risk.
I’ll tell her everything. I’ll give her the whole truth, even if it burns what’s left of my life down around my ears.
Because she’s not just a promise to a fallen brother anymore. She’s mine, and I’ll walk through fire before I let anything take her from me.