Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Is that it?” Bea breathed as the car slowed and the forest finally thinned.
The cabin before them was made of hand-hewn timber, a wall of glass facing a white-laced forest, and a stone chimney so tall it could have its own staff. Even the snowdrifts looked expensive—piled high and undisturbed, like they’d been combed into place.
Gage pulled the car into the garage. Beneath the collar, he was still wearing the tie she’d given him as a gift that morning.
Deep blue silk, the exact shade of his eyes right before he kissed her.
She’d chosen it for that reason. Looped it around his neck, and tied it carefully, smoothing the knot flat with her fingers.
He looked like some gorgeous corporate villain halfway into his rural redemption arc.
“Let’s head in,” he said.
There was already a fire going when they entered, absurdly festive for late June. So this was Christmas in July. Weirdly cozy. Weirdly…accurate. She wondered how long before she stopped noticing the seasons were backwards, or if part of her would always keep track.
The living room looked like a billionaire had tried to rough it, then changed his mind halfway through and brought in a designer from Milan. Cavernous ceilings of warm wood, the fireplace stacked with real river stones, and the view out the window all snow-dusted firs and dusky sky.
Bea removed her coat and slid off her shoes before wandering inside, her feet soundless against the plush rug. She wandered past the kitchen island and paused. A bottle of wine sat on the counter, already uncorked.
She lifted it slightly. “You bought the one I like.”
Gage shrugged off his coat behind her. “You only like it because you can pronounce it.”
She turned just enough to shoot him a look. “That’s an important part of liking things.”
His mouth ticked up on one side, but he said nothing.
She moved toward the window wall. The dusk was deepening now, casting everything in lavender-grey.
“There’s no service up here,” he said.
“So it’s just you and me.”
“Yes.”
“Two whole days without work emails.”
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist. “Exactly.”
“That almost makes up for us being in the coldest place in the UR.” She sighed.
“I know you don’t love the cold.” He turned her in his arms. “But I wasn’t planning for us to leave the cabin anyway.”
A whole year, and she still couldn’t believe she got to have this. Him. Here.
“Come. You haven’t seen the bedroom.”
She let him lead her.
The suite was inviting, with window seats and a killer view. The bed was against one wall, with white linens and pillows like clouds. A large fur throw was casually draped across the end of the bed like someone had thought, they’ll want that later.
A hearth was already crackling, and on a small round table between two leather armchairs, a miniature chessboard sat waiting.
Gage moved toward that spot.
After a few moments, she realized his intention. He meant for them to play.
“…Really?”
“Really,” Gage said. “Sit.” He was already removing his coat. His tie. Rolling his sleeves up.
She picked up a couple of pieces. They were small and hand-carved. Cool to the touch, and heavier than they appeared.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said wryly, sliding into the opposite chair, “this wasn’t what I thought we were going to do in the bedroom on our anniversary.”
“There’ll be plenty of that, too.”
She pushed her sleeves up. “Don’t be disappointed if I’m not a good match.”
“I’ll teach you.”
They played.
Gage explained without performing. No hovering; minimal correction. Just calm, methodical guidance as she learned the board.
She might have improved faster if she weren’t losing focus because of his hands. The way he nudged a piece forward with a fingertip. His voice saying low, “your move,” or, “try that again.”
They played again. And again. The board reset. Her pulse didn’t.
It wasn’t a game she’d expected to enjoy. But with him, she did. Thinking ahead, trying to predict his choices. Trying to match him.
Time blurred. The room warmed. The outside world dimmed into night.
The game narrowed. Her white queen stood exposed. She saw it too late.
Check. Not mate. He was holding back.
“You’re letting me win,” she accused.
“I’m not finished.”
He moved his knight. It was over.
Gage reached for his glass of water, taking a sip.
Bea leaned back slightly, eyes drifting over the board again. She picked up the rook. Inspected it closely, marveling at the craftsmanship.
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “Did you have it made?”
He pointed to one side. She tilted her head to read the inscription.
1 year G & B.
Her throat tightened. She met his eyes. And in hers, something soft and wordless bloomed—gratitude, affection, understanding.
It was the kind of set you don’t get made unless you planned to keep it forever.
Or take it with you, if forever meant moving cities.
As she helped put the pieces back into place, she picked up the white queen. Her thumb and forefinger felt something at the top. A tiny channel.
“Why does this one have a hole in it?”
Gage reached over to the side table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a flat velvet box. Handed it to her.
She opened it.
Inside was a fine chain. Rose gold, exquisite.
He took the piece from her fingers and threaded the chain through the hole.
Then, without a word, he rose and came behind her.
Bea went still, spine tingling, as he moved her hair gently to one side.
The chain circled her front. She felt every inch as he drew it into place.
Then his fingers returned, fingertips skimming her nape and fastening the clasp.
The pendant lay against her sternum.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
She looked down at the queen. Intricate. Symbolic. The exact balance between not too much and everything.
“So…” she said softly, turning her head just enough to catch his expression, “does that make you the white king, or the black one?”
“Black. The white queen doesn’t follow just anyone.” His hand brushed over the ivory piece at her chest. “Only the black king.”
Bea stood. Looked up. Waited. Her breath lodged somewhere between her collarbone and rib cage.
“Want a kiss, sweetheart?”
She nodded slowly.
Gage turned, walked to the wall, and pressed something discreet near the paneling. She barely heard any noise, only the hush of blackout blinds descending over the floor-to-ceiling windows, sealing them in with the firelight and silence.
When he faced her again, everything had changed. His stare, his stance, his focus.
She felt it before he touched her. One hand slid to the back of her neck. The other to her waist.
And then he kissed her.
Not a tease. Heat and certainty poured into her mouth like it belonged there.
Bea melted into it. Her mouth parted, body already responding in ways that had nothing to do with thought. She barely registered stepping back until her thighs bumped the edge of the bed.
She expected him to guide her onto the mattress.
He reached instead to the end of the bed and pulled the fur throw onto the floor by the fire.
She looked down. Looked back at him.
He started undressing her.
Her pulse was thundering in her ears. His hands slid under her sweater first, palms warm against her skin. Then it was off—her bra too, unfastened with one clean motion. No pause. Just gone. Unbuttoned her jeans. The denim rasped as it came down. Then her underwear. Then nothing.
“On the floor,” he said.
She obeyed.
The fur caught her knees, her palms, her breath.
It was soft, dense, warmed by the nearby flames.
It was its own kind of seduction. It whispered against her back as she lay down, hair fanning out beneath her.
She looked up at the high timber ceiling.
The shadows. The soft glow flickering across the stone.
And then at him.
He watched her as if memorizing the sight.
“You don’t know what it does to me,” he said, stripping out of his shirt, his belt, his trousers. “Seeing you like this.”
She stared back, hungry and breathless, her heart hammering at her ribs. When he came to her, it was on his knees. One hand braced beside her head. The other ran up the inside of her thigh, maddening.
“You’re not quite ready,” he murmured.
She could have sworn she was. But she didn’t complain when his mouth started tracing the edge of her collarbone, and made its way lower.
Her hands slid into his hair. Into the ropes of muscle across his back. Her breath stuttered whenever his teeth grazed.
His hands followed with the confidence of a man who’d spent a year mapping every part of her and remembered all the hidden places. He tantalized her breasts, the curve of her waist. Then one hand slid down further. To the heart of her.
His fingers found the seam of her. Touched her in slow, lazy passes. Over and over. Each one a spark. Each one a denial. He didn’t rush.
Her thighs fell open like an offering.
“Now you’re ready,” he said at last.
He nudged her knees apart with his thigh. Positioned himself above her.
Pushed inside in one long stroke.
Her breath left her in a gasp. Her back arched, firelight catching in her lashes.
“One year,” he murmured over her mouth. “How does it feel?”
He moved once. A long, slow movement that made her delirious.
“Tell me,” he said.
Tell him? He was inside her. He was around her. His queen was at her throat. What more was there to say?
He pulled back, just enough to make her body cry out in protest, and then drove in again. She made a small sound she didn’t recognize.
“With words.”
Bea forced herself to meet his eyes.
“You don’t need words,” she whispered. “You already know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
His blue eyes darkened with satisfaction.
Finally, he moved. Thrusts that seemed to pin her deeper into the fur. His hand slid beneath her knee, lifting it higher, opening her further. The queen tapped against her chest with every stroke. A silent witness.
She was close. Her thighs trembled. Her body tightened. Her hands scrambled over his back, helpless.
His hand moved. One slow sweep between her legs, exactly where she needed him. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d known the moment her body would tip.
She broke. Her cry was quiet but desperate, hips jerking beneath him. Every nerve in her body cinched tight, then gave way all at once.
He followed. Silent. Deep. A man who didn’t need to shout to prove it mattered. His hand gripped her thigh so hard it would probably bruise.
He held her through every aftershock. When their bodies stilled and only the fire moved, she kissed him. Gently. With everything that didn’t need to be said.
“Happy anniversary, Gage.”