Chapter 6
Nikki
My head rests on Ryder's chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing the last tremble in my limbs.
The fire still crackles softly in the hearth, casting a warm, golden glow across the cabin walls. Snow whispers against the windows, soft and rhythmic, like the world is holding its breath.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel safe.
Wanted.
Held like I matter.
His arm is wrapped around me, strong and warm. His other hand trails slowly down my back, lazy and possessive.
He hasn’t said a word in a while, and neither have I. We just breathe together.
Not a bad Christmas Eve after all.
I smile, small and secret. Then I lift my chin a little, just enough to glance up at him.
"You really hate Christmas, don’t you?"
He looks down at me. His expression doesn’t change much, but something behind his eyes flickers. His fingers still at my back for a second, then start moving again.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"Not anymore," he says.
But the weight in his voice tells a different story.
"You used to like it," I say, more of a guess than a question.
He nods once. "Yeah. A long time ago."
I wait. He doesn’t talk for a few seconds, but then his chest rises on a sigh.
"My ex, Sandra, and I had the cabin decorated a week before Christmas. Tree, lights, wreaths, the whole deal. I thought it meant something."
My stomach twists at the name.
Sandra.
Of course he had someone. Probably perfect hair, perfect laugh, perfect little Christmas tree.
Someone who mattered. Maybe still does.
"She left me a few days before Christmas," he adds, voice flat now. "Said she found someone else. Bigger house. More money. Fancier life."
I blink. The ache in my chest is sharp. I want to hit this Sandra person and hug him at the same time.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He shrugs. "Long time ago. Doesn’t matter now."
"Do you... still care about her?"
He goes still. I can feel it in every line of his body.
"No," he says after a pause. "She betrayed me. That kind of thing leaves a mark, but it doesn't mean I want her back. I don’t forgive betrayal, Nikki. If you care about someone, you don’t walk away."
Something twists in my stomach. Not because I think he still loves her. I believe him.
But he did once.
Enough that it still lingers in him, like a bruise that never fully healed.
I’m quiet for a second, and then he asks, "What about you? Someone like that in your past?"
I shake my head. "No."
His hand tightens on my back. "Good."
My lips twitch. "That quick to be possessive, huh?"
He doesn’t deny it.
I rest my cheek against his chest again, letting the moment settle between us. Then, softly, I ask, "What do you do? I mean... besides hiding away in snowy cabins and rescuing frozen girls."
His chest rumbles under me in a low laugh.
"I own a custom woodworking and furniture business. Mostly high-end stuff. Commissions. Installations."
I lift my head a little, impressed. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. It keeps me fed. But I’ve got a crew that handles most of it now. I’m more of a recluse these days. My brother, Evan, checks in sometimes."
"Evan?"
"He’s the fire chief in Lovestone Ridge. Thinks it’s a crime I live out here alone."
"He sounds like a good brother."
"He is. Loud. Stubborn. But loyal."
I smile again. "So you’re not completely alone."
"No. Not completely."
He pauses. "What about you? What do you do, besides getting stranded in snowstorms and decorating strange cabins like a holiday elf?"
I bite my lip. "I’m an illustrator. Children’s books, mostly."
His brow lifts. "Of course you are."
"Hey!"
"You baked those tasty cookies, wore fuzzy socks, and lit up my cabin like something out of a snow globe."
I huff a laugh. "Okay, fair. I actually just finished illustrating a Christmas book. But the cabin isn’t that decorated. I only strung up some fairy lights. It still needs more color."
He groans. "Christmas book? Figures." He conveniently ignores the rest.
"It was really cute. Penguins with tiny scarves. You would’ve hated it."
"No. I would’ve hated loving it. Which I probably would."
My heart melts a little at that.
I shift slightly to look at him better, my leg sliding over his. His eyes darken just a bit at the contact.
"You know," I murmur, brushing a hand over his chest, "for someone who hates Christmas, you made this one feel... pretty unforgettable."
His gaze drops to my mouth. "You made it unforgettable."
I lean in. Slow, testing.
He meets me halfway.
Our mouths brush, soft and warm.
Then he deepens it.
The kiss turns hotter, hungrier. The air shifts.
I straddle his hips without thinking. He groans low in his throat, hands gripping my thighs, sliding under the sheets.
"You’re going to ruin me," he mutters, voice thick.
"Already did," I whisper back.
He flips us easily, pressing me into the mattress, settling his weight over me like he belongs there.
“Nikki,” Ryder breathes against my neck. “You were meant to be here.”
My pulse hammers.
His hands move over my sides, learning my curves like he has all the time in the world.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
He pulls back to look at me, his dark eyes so honest it hurts.
“You were meant to be here, sweetheart.”
He lowers his head and kisses me. Deep and slow. A kiss that feels like a future.
His hands slide down my body, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing circles that make me gasp.
“Ryder…”
“I know,” he murmurs against my lips. “I feel it too.”
He doesn’t rush. Just keeps stroking me with that devastating calm, like he knows exactly how to unravel me.
My hips start to move on their own, chasing every pass of his fingers, every flick of pleasure that shoots straight through my core.
Then he slides one thick finger inside me.
Deep, slow, maddening.
I arch with a sharp cry.
His thumb never leaves my clit.
He adds a second finger, stretching me open, filling me. The pressure builds fast, deep and tight, like heat coiling low in my belly with no release in sight.
“Come for me, Nikki,” he whispers, voice rough and full of need.
And I do.
I shatter around him, a cry tearing from my throat as pleasure washes over me in wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss.
He kisses me through it, swallowing my cries, his hands holding me steady as I ride out the storm.
When I finally come back down, he’s still there, his body caging mine, his eyes dark with want.
I reach for him, my hand wrapping around his cock, hot and hard and ready for me.
His breath hitches.
I stroke him, my thumb rubbing over the sensitive head, my movements slow, teasing.
"You're not sore?" he asks.
"A bit, but I still want you." I whisper, "Just... you're really big."
He chuckles.
I guide him to my entrance, and he pushes in, filling me, stretching me.
He pauses when he’s fully inside me, giving me a moment to adjust, to breathe.
“And you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead resting against mine. "So damn perfect."
I wrap my legs around his waist, my hands gripping his shoulders.
"Then move," I breathe. "Don't hold back. Make me yours again."
And he does.
He starts to move. A slow, steady rhythm that quickly builds to something harder, faster, more demanding.
Our bodies slap together, the sounds of our pleasure filling the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind outside.
He makes love to me like he’s trying to brand me, to leave a piece of himself inside me that will never fade.
And I let him.
I take everything he gives me and beg for more.
Our bodies are slick with sweat, our breaths mingling, the scent of sex filling the small cabin.
I can feel another orgasm building, a hot, tight coil in my belly that threatens to unravel me completely.
"Ryder," I gasp, my nails digging into his back. "I'm... I'm going to..."
"Come for me, sweetheart," he growls. "Come all over my cock."
His words are my undoing.
I shatter around him, a scream tearing from my throat as pleasure so intense it borders on pain washes over me.
He follows me over the edge with a roar, his cock pulsing, his release filling me, marking me as his.
We collapse onto the bed, our bodies tangled together, our hearts beating in a frantic, chaotic rhythm.
I can feel our combined fluids leaking out of me, but I don't care.
All I care about is the man beside me, the man who’s managed to somehow piece me back together.