Chapter 27
twenty-seven
The snow was coming down harder, flakes catching in the weave of Johanna’s scarf as she stood beside Walker in the firelight. He still had her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on the inside of her wrist. She couldn’t feel her nose, but every other part of her was alive and shivering.
“Come inside with me,” he said. The words were quiet. Unmistakable. Not an order, not a plea—just the truth, finally spoken out loud.
Her first instinct was to look around, make sure no one had heard, but the yard was empty except for Cowboy, who was already trotting up the porch steps toward the main house. The windows glowed gold against the dark. Every light left burning for them.
She nodded once. “Okay.” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked, boots sinking in the powder that had drifted up over the flagstones.
At the porch, he paused, waiting for her to take the first step.
When she did, he followed close behind, so close she could feel his heat on her back.
The wood was slick with new snow. She caught herself on the railing, but he steadied her with a hand to her hip.
Didn’t linger, just held her upright until she had both feet under her.
The front door opened easier than she expected, the old hinges oiled just last week by River, who’d left a note on the handle reading “Maintenance: you’re welcome.” She wanted to laugh, but her chest was too tight for it.
Inside, the house felt overheated after the cold.
Her glasses fogged instantly. She wiped them clean on her sleeve, blinking at the jumble of boots and jackets lined up in the entryway.
Walker shrugged off his own coat and hung it on a hook.
He looked at her, eyebrows raised, and she realized she was still wearing every layer she’d left the house with.
She took off her coat, her scarf, her hat, feeling exposed with each removal.
Beneath it all, her heart thudded, anxious as a rabbit.
The living room was empty. The fire had burned low, just embers flickering through the mesh screen. The couch and chairs were still arranged in their rough half-circle from earlier, pillows askew, a mug abandoned on the end table. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy.
Walker motioned for her to follow. His boots made almost no sound on the old pine floors, and she had to watch his feet to know he was actually moving. At the base of the stairs, he stopped, turning so they were eye to eye.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The look on his face was as raw and open as she’d ever seen him. She wanted to say something clever, break the tension, but nothing came. He started up the stairs. She went after him, her hand trailing the smoothed edge of the banister.
On the landing, a hallway stretched out—three doors to the left, two to the right. She’d been in each one at one time or another: the guest bath, the office, the spare room that doubled as a supply closet. His room was at the very end, the only one with the door closed.
Walker reached for the knob, then hesitated. The pause was long enough for her to catch up, to stand just behind him and watch his hand flex on the wood. He turned, not all the way, but enough so she could see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble shadowing his jaw.
“Johanna.” Just her name, but it carried a hundred questions.
She reached up, covered his hand with hers. His skin was rough, but warm, and he didn’t move away.
“I’m sure,” she said.
He looked at her a moment longer, searching for doubt, maybe, or regret. Then he nodded, just once, and held open the door for her. She stepped inside, heart fluttering against her ribs like something wild caught in a cage.
His bedroom was exactly as she’d imagined it—spare, masculine, functional.
A king-sized bed with a navy quilt dominated the space, flanked by simple wooden nightstands.
Cowboy had already settled at the foot of the bed, watching them with quiet interest. Moonlight spilled through half-drawn curtains, painting silver stripes across the hardwood floor.
Walker closed the door behind them with a soft click that seemed to echo in the quiet room. They stood there, barely an arm’s length apart, the weight of three years of waiting pressing down on them both.
“I’ve never been in here before,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in the stillness.
“I know.” He moved closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “I’ve thought about it, though. You being here.”
Her cheeks warmed at the admission. “Have you?”
“More than I should admit.” His smile was crooked, self-deprecating. “Especially to a therapist.”
“I’m not here as your therapist, Walker.” She took a step toward him, eliminating the last bit of distance between them. “I’m just here as me.”
His hands came up to frame her face, calloused palms gentle against her skin.
“Jo,” he breathed, and then he was kissing her again, deeper this time, with none of the hesitation from before.
His fingers threaded through her hair, cradling the back of her head as his mouth moved against hers, hungry and sure.
She pressed closer, her hands finding his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. Walker’s eyes were dark, intense in the moonlight.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he said. The words came out gruff and raw, like they cost him something.
“Me too,” she whispered. Her whole body trembled with it. She started on the buttons of his shirt, but her fingers fumbled. She laughed, breathless. “Apparently my hands don’t work anymore.”
He stilled her hands with his own, covering them. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to.” She heard the urgency in her own voice. She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let fear make her decisions anymore.
He helped her with the buttons, one at a time, exposing the faded T-shirt underneath.
She slid her hands beneath it, finding warm skin and the solid muscle of his chest. He tensed, but didn’t move away.
When she pressed her palm flat against his breastbone, she could feel his heart pounding. It matched her own, beat for beat.
Walker shrugged out of the shirt and undershirt. His arms and shoulders were scarred and sun-browned, the skin stretched tight over muscle. She traced one of the longer scars with her finger, slow. His breath caught.
“Come here,” he murmured, taking her hand and leading her toward the bed.
She followed, pulse racing, suddenly aware of how long it had been since she’d been with anyone. Not since Nick. Years of carefully maintained boundaries, of telling herself she wasn’t ready, when the truth was she’d been waiting for this—for Walker—all along.
He sat on the edge of the bed, drawing her to stand between his knees. His hands settled on her hips, warm and steady.
“We don’t have to rush,” he said, looking up at her. “We’ve waited this long.”
Johanna touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips. “I’m done being scared, Walker.”
Something flared in his eyes at her words.
He pulled her down to straddle his lap, his mouth finding hers again.
She felt the change in him immediately—restraint giving way to hunger, caution to need.
His hands slid beneath her sweater, callused palms against the sensitive skin of her back, and she shivered at the contact.
“Cold?” he asked against her lips.
“Hot.” She broke away from him long enough to stand and unbutton her jeans, sliding them down her legs. He watched, gaze hot and hungry as she kicked the denim away.
She stood there in her underwear, suddenly aware of every flaw, every scar, every place she’d wished for less or more. But Walker’s eyes never left hers. He reached out, running his hands down her arms, her ribs, her hips. He was slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.
She pressed close, skin to skin, and felt his shudder.
He kissed her again, harder now, hands moving over her back.
She let herself sink into it, let herself feel everything.
The heat of his mouth, the rasp of his stubble on her cheek, the way his hands mapped her body like he was learning her by touch alone.
He picked her up, just enough to drop her on the bed. She laughed, then cut herself off when her back hit the cool sheets. He braced himself above her, looking down with something close to awe.
“Johanna,” he said, like a prayer.
She pulled him down, kissing him again, and again. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, his back. His hands stroked her thighs, her belly, every inch of her. He moved slowly, letting her set the pace, letting her tell him what she wanted by the way she touched and pressed and moaned.
He slid off her bra with one hand, tossed it somewhere. She laughed, then gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation went straight to her core. She arched into him, breath coming short and ragged.
“God,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. “Please—”
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Anything you want.”
He kissed her down her ribs, her stomach, her hipbones. He hooked his fingers in her underwear and slid them off. She felt exposed, but not self-conscious. His gaze was worshipful, his touch reverent. He kissed her inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was exactly where she needed it.
She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
He just grinned against her skin, and continued, his tongue finding a rhythm that made her back arch off the mattress.
She felt his hands on her thighs, holding her steady as the pressure built inside her.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips, her fingers gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles went white.
He crawled back up her body, kissing her breathless again. She tasted herself on his lips, felt his arousal pressing against her hip.
“Your turn,” she whispered, reaching between them to unfasten his belt. He helped, shucking his jeans and boxers in one smooth motion.
She wrapped her hand around him, watching his face as she stroked. His eyes closed, jaw clenching, throat working as he swallowed. She loved seeing him like this—unguarded, vulnerable. The man who carried everyone else’s burdens, finally letting someone carry him.
“Wait,” he gasped, catching her wrist. “Not yet.”
He leaned across her to the nightstand drawer, fumbling inside for a moment before pulling out a condom. She took it from him, tore the package open with her teeth.
“Let me,” she said, rolling it on slowly, deliberately.
Walker groaned, then flipped them so she was on top, straddling him.
His hands settled on her hips, guiding but not controlling.
She sank down onto him inch by inch, adjusting to the fullness, the stretch.
When he was fully inside her, she paused, biting her lip.
He was thick and long, stretching her in a way no one ever had, and the expression on his face—eyelids fluttering, lips parted—sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he said, voice vibrating with restraint. His hands gripped her hips, holding her still as he shuddered. “Been thinking about this for years. Can’t believe you’re finally here.” He guided her, slow at first, grinding her against the base of him in tight circles.
She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back, savoring the feeling.
“I want all of you,” she said, and he responded with a curse, low and reverent.
He started to move her up and down, and she let him, loving the way he filled her, the way her body opened for him.
She rode him, slow and deep, her hands braced on his chest for leverage.
He was all muscle and scars, every inch of him mapped by what he’d survived.
“Look at you,” he growled, his voice gone ragged. “So fucking gorgeous.” He sat up, mouth finding her neck, his breath hot in her ear. “I want you come again. Squeeze my cock till I can’t take it.”
She laughed, a wild, open sound she didn’t know she was capable of. “Should’ve known you’d be bossy in bed,” she teased, rocking harder on him, loving the way he lost control beneath her.
“You love it,” he shot back. And yes, she did, she really did.
Their rhythm built, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. She felt him swell inside her, his grip on her hips turning bruising, desperate. With every thrust she got closer, the pressure spiraling inside her, his filthy words tumbling out as she fucked him.
“God, Jo, you’re so fucking tight,” he said, voice hoarse. “You want to come for me again? Want to soak my cock, sweetheart?”
She moaned, the words pushing her higher. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, Walker, please.” She pressed her clit hard against him, grinding with every stroke, the friction perfect.
He slid a hand between them and rubbed her exactly right, rough and perfect.
“Come for me,” he ordered, and she did, shattering around him, her whole body pulsing as the orgasm ripped through her.
She screamed into his shoulder, biting down to muffle it, and he followed, groaning her name as he thrust deep and held, pulsing hot inside her.
They clung together, shaking, the aftershocks making her tremble in his arms. She buried her face in his neck, breathing him in, her body slick with sweat and need.
He held her there, hands gentle now, stroking her back and hair. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, a laugh in his voice. “You okay?”
She nodded, smiling against his skin. “I’m perfect.”
“Liar,” he said softly. “You’re better than perfect.”
She levered herself up, propping on his chest, thighs still trembling. “I think we can do better if we work on it,” she said and kissed him.
He grinned up at her, open and goofy in a way she’d never seen before. “You want more?”
She laughed and rolled off him, then turned to face him on the pillow. “You offering?
He answered by pulling her close, kissing her fiercely. “We’ve got years to make up for, Jo. Gonna keep you up all night.”