Chapter 18
Coast POV
Her whisper hung between our mouths, fragile and lethal in the amber glow of the cast-iron stove.
I don't want to be saved, Coast.
The words hit my sternum like a blindside check, knocking the air clean out of my lungs.
My thighs were locked beneath hers on the leather sofa, her small knees framing my hips, her hands still tangled in the hair at the base of my skull.
For four years, my body had been an instrument of blunt force—an anvil built to absorb cross-checks, skate cuts, and the crushing guilt of a brother whose legs didn't move. I had treated myself like scrap metal.
Now, feeling the delicate, fevered weight of Tallulah Barry pressed against my chest, the iron cage in my chest cracked down the center.
I looked up into her face. The firelight carved the high, sharp lines of her cheekbones in deep gold, catching the dark amber ring in her irises. Her lower lip was slightly swollen, parted on a shallow, uneven breath that dusted hot against my stubble.
"You have no idea what you're asking for, Tallulah," I rasped, my voice sounding like gravel dragged across frozen lake ice.
"I know exactly what I'm asking for," she breathed. Her fingers tightened their grip in my hair, her nails biting into my scalp with a fierce, unmistakable claim that made the blood roar behind my ears. "Stop talking, Coast."
A low, ruined sound rumbled in my throat.
My hands left her waist, my calloused fingers sliding under the ribbed hem of the gray Garrison hoodie she was drowning in. My palms found the bare skin of her lower ribs, scorching hot, the delicate ridges of bone expanding and contracting in rapid, wild hitches beneath my touch.
"Look at me," I commanded softly.
Her dark eyes locked onto mine, pupils blown wide, swallowing the amber until only a thin rim remained.
"Lift your arms for me, sweetheart."
She didn't hesitate. She released my hair, raising her hands above her head, her gaze never wavering from mine.
I gathered the heavy fleece in both fists, peeling the fabric slowly, methodically over her shoulders, pulling it off her arms and tossing it onto the floorboards.
She was left in a thin white ribbed camisole, the cotton clinging to the soft curve of her breasts, her collarbones sharp and flushed in the heat radiating from the hearth.
Her breath hitched sharply as the room's air hit her bare skin, her shoulders rising in a sudden, involuntary shudder.
"Good girl," I murmured, my thumbs tracing the line of her hipbones through the drawstring flannel of her pants. "Such a good girl for me."
* * *
I didn't want her on the leather couch. I didn't want drafts from the drafty front windows touching her skin.
I hooked my forearms under her thighs, stood up from the sofa in a single fluid motion, and lifted her into my chest. She was feather-light against my 228-pound frame; her legs wrapped around my waist naturally, her arms locking around my neck, her face burying itself in the hollow of my throat as I carried her down the dark pine hallway.
Outside the high bedroom windows, the blizzard was an unchained beast, snow banking four feet deep against the cedar siding, pine branches groaning under the weight of the frost.
Inside the bedroom, the air was cold around the perimeter, smelling of clean wool, cedar oil, and the dry winter chill of Lake Placid.
I walked to the heavy timber bed frame, laying her down in the center of the dark gray flannel duvet with an agonizing, measured slowness.
I followed her down, planting my knees on either side of her hips, bracing my forearms on the mattress on either side of her head so my full weight hovered millimeters above her frame.
She looked up at me, her dark hair fanning across the dark pillowcase like spilled ink, her small hands flat against my chest, feeling the heavy, frantic hammer of my heart.
I reached down with one hand, grabbed the hem of my black thermal shirt, and dragged it over my head with a single violent yank, tossing it into the dark corner of the room.
Tallulah’s breath stopped.
Her eyes swept over the heavy, dense muscle of my shoulders, the thick corded ridges of my torso, and the three-inch jagged scar bisecting my left collarbone. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, before slowly, hesitantly rising.
Her bare palm flattened over the scar tissue above my heart.
The heat of her hand was a brand on my flesh. Her touch was gentle, reverent, tracing the raised line where a skate blade had split my skin at nineteen.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered, her voice trembling in the dark.
"Nothing hurts when you're touching me, Tallulah," I rasped, leaning down until my chest pressed against hers, the friction of skin meeting thin cotton sending a shudder straight down my spine.
I began to worship her.
I didn't rush. I had spent four weeks starving for this woman, and I was going to take every single second the blizzard gave us.
I pressed my mouth to the soft skin of her temple, feeling the fine tremor running through her skull. My lips moved to the delicate hollow behind her ear, then down the long, elegant curve of her neck, my stubble grazing her heated flesh.
Every time my mouth touched her skin, a soft, broken sound escaped her lips—a ragged hitch of air that made my own breath turn ragged and thin.
Her hands moved from my collarbone to the dense slabs of my back, her fingernails biting deep into my lats, anchoring herself to my weight as I worked my way down to the hollow of her throat.
Right over her carotid artery.
Her pulse was thumping frantically against the skin, a wild, irregular cadence that betrayed the sensory overload crashing through her nervous system.
"Coast," she gasped, her hips shifting beneath mine, her thighs pressing tight against my outer legs.
"I've got you, sweetheart," I murmured against her pulse point, my lips tasting the clean, sweet salt of her skin. "Breathe for me. Just breathe."
* * *
Her hands were shaking. A fine, continuous tremor ran through the slender muscles of her arms, her knuckles white where she clutched the heavy flannel of the sheets.
I lifted my head, framing her jaw in my large, calloused hands, using my thumbs to tilt her chin upward until her dazed, feverish eyes met mine.
"You're overwhelmed," I whispered, the gravel in my voice thick with an unyielding, protective weight.
"I'm not," she breathed, her lips parting on a broken exhale. "I just... I've never felt like this, Coast. My skin feels like it’s on fire."
A dark, possessive satisfaction flared behind my ribs, heavy and sweet as blood.
"That's because you're mine now," I murmured, my thumb dragging across her bruised bottom lip, feeling the rapid flutter of her breath. "Every inch of this skin belongs to me tonight. Understand?"
"Yes," she whispered, her voice cracking on the syllable.
"Good girl."
I moved with deliberate, unhurried care.
My hands found the drawstring of the oversized flannel sweatpants, loosening the triple knot with a slow tug.
I peeled the heavy fabric down her legs, taking the thick socks with it, tossing them off the end of the bed until she was stripped down to the thin white camisole and small lace briefs.
She shivered as the cool air of the bedroom touched her bare thighs, but before the chill could settle into her bones, I hauled the thick down comforter over both of us.
The darkness beneath the duvet was an intimate, private universe.
The heat pooled instantly, thick with the scent of cedar, clean cotton, and our mingled breaths.
I reached down, gathering the hem of her white camisole, pulling the cotton slowly over her ribs, over her breasts, and off her head.
She was bare beneath me now.
Her skin was flawless, pale as fresh snow in the dim light filtering beneath the covers, her high chest heaving in rapid, desperate expansions as my bare chest met hers.
The contact was a physical shock that made my jaw lock.
The softness of her breasts against the hard, scarred plates of my pectorals, her smooth, warm thighs tangling with the rough, muscular hair of my legs, her small waist fitting perfectly between the brackets of my hips.
Tallulah let out a ragged, breathless sob, her arms wrapping around my neck with a ferocity that pulled my mouth down to hers.
The kiss was deep, slow, and consuming. I took my time, learning the shape of her mouth, my tongue sweeping slowly against hers, tasting her surrender while my large, calloused hand slid down the curve of her hip to her thigh, parting her legs with quiet, undeniable authority.
She opened for me without hesitation, her hips rising off the mattress to meet my weight, her heels hooking around the backs of my calves under the heavy duvet.
I broke the kiss by a fraction of an inch, my forehead resting against hers, my chest burning from lack of oxygen as I hovered over the threshold of her body.
"Look at me, Tallulah," I rasped, my voice ruined, trembling with the absolute, terrifying gravity of what was about to happen.
Her dark eyes opened, clear, bright, and filled with a devotion so pure it brought an ache to my throat.
"I'm looking, Coast," she whispered, her hands cupping the sides of my neck, her fingernails biting into the dense muscle.
"No more running," I murmured against her parted lips, my hips settling heavy and firm between her thighs, poised on the edge of the fire. "No more excuses. You're holding onto me, and you're never letting go."
"Never," she promised, her breath hitching as my weight bore down, her fingers digging hard into the dark flannel sheets as the last boundary burned to ash.