Chapter 11 Sadie
Sadie
It’s the twelfth night when everything shifts.
The wind buffets the windows, snowflakes slamming the glass. The storm screams like something alive. But inside, the fire glows. The room hums with quiet warmth. Wyatt is in the armchair, barefoot, reading.
I don’t think.
I just… move.
I cross the room and lower myself into his lap like it’s the most natural place to be.
He stiffens for a second. Then exhales, one hand sliding around my waist, the other rising instinctively to cradle the back of my neck.
We sit like that for a long time. My face tucked into his throat. His breath warm against my ear.
I don’t ask for anything more. I just let him hold me.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.
“Do what?”
“Be with someone. Trust someone. Want this much.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Neither do I.”
I lift my head, startled. But his eyes are steady. Honest.
“I’ve been alone a long time, Sadie. Long enough I forgot what it feels like to care.” He cups my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip. “But now you’re here, and I don’t think I remember how not to.”
My throat closes. My heart trembles.
I kiss him.
Soft. Slow. Lingering.
Wyatt deepens it carefully, drawing me closer, his mouth coaxing mine open. His hand spreads across my back, warm and wide and steady.
A soft sound escapes me—need and relief tangled together.
He doesn’t push it further.
But every part of me wants to.
Craves to.
I pull back, breathless, and rest my forehead against his. “I want this. Want you.” The words leave my mouth in a rush, making me a little dizzy, like standing too fast. “But I should tell you”—I swallow hard—“I haven’t. Before.”
Wyatt’s eyes flare, and his breath whooshes out. “Jesus, Sadie.”
Heat climbs my throat, but I don’t look away. “I choose this with you, Wyatt.”
“Are you sure? Because I plan to make you fall apart with my hands and mouth before I put you back together.”
Heat pools between my thighs.
“Words?” he prompts with a ghost of a smile because he knows what that does to me.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
Wyatt exhales as if he’s been holding that breath for years.
Reaching for my hand, he presses his mouth to the inside of my wrist, a kiss so gentle my eyes sting. He ghosts both palms up my forearms to my shoulders, over the flannel, to cup my face. My body leans into him like it’s been waiting for this. For him.
His mouth claims mine, and his thumb traces the edge of my mouth. “Open.”
I do. I part my lips to the slow coax of his tongue. His stubble scratches my chin. The first whimper escapes me when he changes the angle, and his tongue rubs slickly against mine.
“Good girl,” he murmurs into my mouth.
My brain short-circuits so sweetly I could weep.
I pull back a fraction. “Clothes,” I whisper, my body on fire from one kiss. “Too many.”
He laughs quietly, touching his forehead to mine, before he stands with me in his arms and carries me to the bedroom.
I barely notice the large bed and heavy oak furniture as he sets me on my feet because he’s peeling off his shirt. How could I possibly look anywhere else but at this man? Light and shadow make a map of him: broad chest, scars like old stories, strength in firm muscle.
My gaze moves down his stomach, hard and ridged, to his thighs.
His joggers do a terrible job of hiding how hard he is.
Dear God. He’s big. Everywhere.
My body flames. My breasts swell, nipples tingling into tight peaks. My hands twitch greedily.
He notices. Taking my hands, he sets my palms where I’m already looking.
“Touch,” he says. “Anywhere.”
I do. Careful at first, then relishing the give and heat of him, the way his breath hitches when I drag my nails lightly down his ribs.
He’s solid, but he shivers when I trace the scar at his side.
I press a kiss there without thinking. His soft, surprised curse sends heat rushing between my thighs.
I circle him, pressing another kiss to the scar on his shoulder blade, wondering if this is where the bullet exited his body. I still don’t know the full story, but the thought of him injured, almost dying, shatters something inside me.
He turns his head slightly as if he senses the shift in me, as if he hears the way my breath catches even before I say a word.
“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at me like I’m broken.”
I press my lips between his shoulder blades. “Not broken,” I whisper. “Beautiful.”
His inhale is shaky. His hands reach behind to find my hips, anchoring me to him as I lay my cheek against his back, breathing him in—soap, skin, heat. My arms wrap around his waist, and he covers them with his.
For a long moment, we stand there, my front pressed to his back, his hands over mine.
“Your turn,” he says, turning slowly, gentling his hands over the buttons of my flannel like he’s undoing a gift. “Look at me.”
I lift my eyes to his. Each button he releases unravels me a little more. He slides the shirt off my shoulders and down my arms. I’m not wearing a bra, and the air on my heated skin is a shock and a relief.
He swallows, gaze moving from my heavy breasts to my belly and back to my face.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says simply. “More than.”
Warmth rolls through me in a wave. I want him to touch, but I want the words too. “Tell me,” I whisper, surprising myself. “Tell me what you see.”
His eyes heat, but his voice stays even. “I see a woman who makes every part of me shake because I want her so fucking much. Curves I’m going to learn inch by inch. Breasts the perfect size for these palms, and nipples begging for my mouth and tongue.”
“Yes,” I say helplessly, already arching.
He lowers his head. His mouth is greedy—open heat over the top of my breast, then the soft drag of his tongue around my nipple that tightens every muscle in my body from throat to thighs.
He doesn’t rush. He sucks slowly, savoring me, one hand bracing my back to hold me where he wants me, the other splayed low on my waist.
My head falls back, and I make a noise I’ve never made before as pleasure surges from my nipple to my sex.
“That’s it,” he says against my skin, the words vibrating through me. “Let me hear you.”
I gasp as he switches sides, worshiping the other nipple. My knees loosen. He chuckles low in his throat and steers us down onto the bed. The world is reduced to heat and breath and the scrape of his stubble on my sensitive skin.
He kisses a path down the valley between my breasts and rests his cheek against my stomach. His hands slide to the button of my jeans, and he pauses.
“Say it,” he prompts, looking up, eyes so intent my stomach flips.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please take them off.”