Chapter 4
She’s folding my shirts like she belongs here, and I’m three seconds from making that delusion a reality.
Two nights. That's all it's been since she stumbled onto my porch, half-frozen and desperate.
I kissed her by the dying fire last night while the generator sat dead and useless.
This morning I managed to get it running again, barely, giving us back lights and heat, though who knows for how long.
Now she moves through my space with dangerous familiarity, as if those two nights have given her claim to it.
Paper snowflakes cut from my old files hang from the ceiling, catching firelight like frozen stars. A wreath made from pine branches she gathered this morning sits on the mantle like she's trying to make this feel normal. Like Christmas Eve in a killer's cabin could ever be normal.
I watch from my chair by the fire, whiskey burning in my throat, tracking every unconscious gesture she makes. The way she smooths each shirt before folding it. The domestic intimacy of it all makes something feral prowl beneath my skin.
She's wearing my sweater again, the black cashmere one, paired with leggings that outline legs I've been dreaming about wrapping around my waist. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
A neck I imagined marking with my teeth all of last night after her hand found mine in the darkness, that ridiculous pillow wall she built crumbling between us like it could stop what's building here.
"I never learned to fold shirts properly," she mentions casually, shaking out another of my button-downs. "Used to drive my colleagues crazy at the DA's office. Everything always ended up wrinkled."
She glances over with a self-deprecating smile. "There was this one ADA who tried to teach me his perfect folding method. Very particular about everything. His desk was like a museum exhibit."
ADA. Colleague. The words echo in my skull while something hot and possessive floods my veins.
She's talking about her old life, mentioning some asshole from her office while wearing my clothes, standing in my cabin, folding my fucking shirts like this is normal.
Like bringing up her past doesn't make me want to erase every memory she has that doesn't include me.
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. Three strides and I'm behind her, close enough to feel her warmth, smell the vanilla of her shampoo mixed with my soap from her shower this morning.
"Your colleague," I repeat, the words burning on my tongue.
She stills, the shirt forgotten in her hands. "It's not… he was just someone from work."
"I don't care if he was the Pope." My hand closes around her wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to feel her pulse rocket under my fingers. "You don't talk about other men. Not here. Not wearing my clothes. Not ever."
She turns slowly in my grip, and instead of the fear I expect, her eyes are bright with something else. Challenge. Heat. Recognition.
"Jealous, Tomas?" The question is soft, but there's steel underneath. Two nights ago, she was terrified. Now she's deliberately provoking me, and fuck if that doesn't make me harder than I already was.
"You're folding my laundry." I pull her closer, until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Decorating my space. Tell me, prosecutor. What exactly do you think is happening here?"
Her free hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my racing heart. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"
The whiskey, her proximity, the memory of her lips on mine last night all crash together into something inevitable. "You're mine. That's what's happening."
"Prove it."
Two words. That's all it takes to snap the last thread of my control.
I lift her onto the kitchen counter in one motion, stepping between her legs before she can close them. Her gasp echoes through the cabin, but she doesn't push me away. Instead, her thighs part wider, making room for me like her body knows what her mind is still fighting.
"Dangerous game." My hands grip her thighs, thumbs stroking over the thin fabric of her leggings. "Provoking a man like me."
"Maybe I'm tired of games." Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer. "Maybe I want something real."
"Real." I laugh, but there's no humor in it.
"You want real? I've killed men for less than looking at what's mine.
Last night when you found my hand in your sleep, when you whispered my name in the darkness, I nearly tore down that pillow wall and showed you exactly how much you already belong to me. "
Her breathing quickens, chest rising and falling rapidly. "I knew you were awake. I felt you fighting not to touch me."
"I was protecting you," I growl, fingers tightening on her thighs. "From me. From this."
"I don't want protection." She rises up, bringing our faces inches apart. "Last night by the candlelight, when you kissed me like you were drowning and I was air, I knew I wanted you."
That confession obliterates the last of my restraint.
I crash my mouth to hers, and it's nothing like our careful kiss by the fireplace.
This is possession, pure and simple. My tongue strokes against hers while my hands slide up her thighs, gripping her hips to pull her against me.
She moans into my mouth, legs wrapping around my waist, ankles locking like she's afraid I'll pull away.
Not a fucking chance.
I kiss her like I'm trying to consume her, like I can somehow imprint myself so deeply she'll never mention another man's name again.
She meets me stroke for stroke, her nails scraping against my scalp as she grips my hair.
The slight pain makes me growl, makes me want to bend her over this counter and fuck her until she forgets every name but mine.
"This is a mistake," she gasps when I move to her throat, teeth grazing the spot where her pulse hammers.
"I don't care." I bite down gently, just enough to make her arch against me. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me to stop."
Her answer is to pull my mouth back to hers, kissing me with a desperation that matches my own. "I want this. I want you. Stop asking permission."
I lift her off the counter, her legs still wrapped around me, and carry her toward the bedroom. She's kissing my neck, my jaw, anywhere she can reach, and each press of her lips burns like a brand.
"Tomas," she breathes against my ear, and my name in her mouth makes me almost stumble. "Please."
I kick the bedroom door shut behind us, setting her on her feet only to immediately press her back against the wall. My hands are everywhere: tangling in her hair, gripping her waist, sliding under that cashmere sweater to find warm, soft skin.
"Tell me you want me," I demand against her mouth, fingers finding the hem of her leggings.
"Yes," she gasps as I pull them down her legs, dropping to my knees to remove them completely. "I need you."
Looking up at her from my knees, I've never seen anything more beautiful. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with want. She's wearing simple black underwear, already damp with desire, and the sight makes my cock throb painfully against my jeans.
I press my mouth to her inner thigh, feeling her whole body shudder. "Say it again."
"I need you, Tomas. All of you."
I pull her underwear aside and taste her, and the sound she makes, half scream, half prayer, is better than any Christmas carol.
Her fingers tangle in my hair as I work her with my tongue, learning exactly what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her legs shake.
She's already close, I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble, the desperate little sounds escaping her throat.
"Not yet," I growl against her, standing and lifting her again. "When you come, it's going to be with me inside you."
She yanks at my shirt, buttons scattering across the floor in her desperation. Her mouth finds my chest, kissing scars she doesn't know the stories behind, marking me as surely as I'm marking her. I carry her to the bed, laying her down with more gentleness than I knew I possessed.
"You're everything," I tell her, pulling off her sweater, revealing perfect breasts in a black bra that matches her underwear. "Everything I never knew I needed."
She reaches for me, pulling me down for another searing kiss while her hands work at my belt. When she wraps her fingers around my cock, I nearly lose control entirely.
"I need you," she whispers, stroking me with perfect pressure. "Now, Tomas. Please."
I remove the last barriers between us, taking a moment to just look at her spread out on my bed, flushed and wanting. Then I'm positioning myself at her entrance, watching her face as I push inside slowly, letting her adjust to my size.
"Fuck," I groan when I'm fully seated inside her. She's so tight, so wet, so perfect around me. "You feel incredible."
She arches beneath me, nails digging into my shoulders. "Move. Please, God, move."
I start slow, pulling almost completely out before pushing back in, watching her face contort with pleasure.
But slow doesn't last long. Soon I'm fucking her with the desperation of two nights of pent-up desire, and she's meeting me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"Harder," she demands, and I flip us so she's on top, watching her ride me with abandon. Her breasts bounce with each movement, and I lean up to capture a nipple in my mouth, making her cry out.
"That's it," I growl, gripping her hips to guide her movements. "Take what you need."
She's close again, I can feel her pussy starting to flutter around my cock. I slide a hand between us, finding her clit, circling it with my thumb.
"Come for me, Natalie. Let me feel you."
She shatters around me with a scream, her whole body convulsing as her orgasm tears through her. The sight, the feel of her coming on my cock, sends me over the edge. I thrust up hard, burying myself deep as I come, her name a prayer on my lips.
We collapse together, breathing hard, bodies still joined. She traces lazy patterns on my chest while I stroke her hair, neither of us willing to break the connection yet.
"I should regret this," she murmurs against my skin. "But I don't."
"Good." I tilt her chin up to look at me. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
She smiles, slow and wicked. "Prove it."
This time when I roll her beneath me, it's slower, deeper, letting her feel every inch of me claiming her again.
We move together like we've been doing this for years, finding a rhythm that has us both gasping.
I kiss her through her second orgasm, swallowing her cries, then follow her over with her name on my lips.
Later, much later, she's draped across my chest, fingers tracing the scars that map my violent history. Only the sound of wind against windows and our gradually slowing breaths.
"Who did this?" she asks, fingers ghosting over a particularly nasty scar near my ribs.
"Someone who thought I was weak." I catch her hand, bring it to my lips. "They learned otherwise."
She shivers but doesn't pull away. This is who I am: violence and tenderness wrapped in designer suits and family loyalty. The fact that she's still here, still touching me with something approaching reverence, feels like a Christmas miracle I don't deserve.
"Will the roads really be clear tomorrow?" she asks quietly.
"Maybe. Depends on the plows." I tighten my arm around her. "Does it matter?"
She's quiet for so long I think she's fallen asleep. Then: "I don't want to leave."
The confession hangs between us, loaded and perfect. I should tell her she has to. That this was just storm-induced insanity. That a lawyer and a Rosetti can never be more than a spectacular mistake.
Instead, I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Then don't."