Chapter 4
Chapter four
Cora
The kiss at my door last night lasted so long that Dottie flashed the porch light, and neither of us noticed.
Dawson’s mouth was slow and hot and perfect, one big hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed across my lower back like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
When we finally pulled apart, foreheads still touching, snowflakes melting on our eyelashes, he asked me to dinner tonight in the roughest, sweetest voice I’ve ever heard.
I said yes before he finished the sentence.
I barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his beard against my jaw, his tongue sliding against mine, the way he groaned my name like it hurt him to stop.
This morning I woke up at five. I already have the oven preheating, the kitchen smelling like cinnamon and sugar.
I’m making snickerdoodles. Last night, between the mistletoe and the kisses, Dawson admitted his low, reluctant growl that they’re his absolute favorite.
I laughed and told him they’re basically love in cookie form. He kissed me again so I’d shut up.
I bake four dozen, and pack two dozen into a festive tin, tie it with a red ribbon and a little bit of mistletoe. I tell myself I’m absolutely not going to drive up the mountain to deliver them before our date tonight and last exactly forty-three minutes before I’m getting in my car.
I throw on my red wool coat, the one that makes me feel like a 1940s movie star, grab the tin, and I’m out the door before Dottie can ask questions.
The drive starts fine despite the snow. I’m halfway up Dawson’s private gravel road, grinning like a lunatic, when the sky rips open.
One second, the snow is coming down in fast, fat flurries, and the next it’s a full-on white-out.
The wind howls, snow slams the windshield, and my little car fishtails hard.
I yelp, yank the wheel, and suddenly I’m sliding sideways into the ditch with a sickening crunch.
Snow piles against the windows so fast I can actually watch it rise. I try my phone, but I don’t have any service. I smack it against the steering wheel like that’ll help. Nothing.
I grab the tin of cookies from my passenger seat, zip my coat to my chin, pull on my hat and mittens, and climb out into the storm.
The cold steals my breath. The snow is deeper than I realized.
I can’t see ten feet ahead of me, but I know the road curves up and left.
Dawson’s cabin is somewhere at the end of it.
I clutch the tin to my chest like a life raft and start walking.
I feel like I’ve been walking forever in the cold when I see lights cut through the white, and then I see Dawson storming down the porch steps in nothing but a flannel shirt and jeans, beard rimed with snow, looking like a furious mountain god.
He sees me, his face going fierce, and then I’m upside down over his shoulder, the world reduced to the flex of his back under my palms and the steady thud of his boots.
“Dawson—”
“Quiet,” he growls, but there’s panic under the word. He kicks the cabin door shut behind us, sets me gently on the rug like I’m made of glass, and starts stripping off my soaked coat before I can even catch my breath.
“You’re insane,” he says, voice raw. “What were you doing out there? Jesus, Cora.”
“I brought cookies,” I offer weakly, holding up the dented tin with the smooshed mistletoe and ribbon.
He stares at me for a beat, then hauls me against his chest so hard my feet leave the floor. He’s shaking. I didn’t know six-five walls of muscle could shake.
“I saw you,” he mutters into my hair. “Tiny red dot in all that white. Thought my heart was gonna stop.”
I cling to him, face pressed to the warm flannel over his heart. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
He carries me to the couch like I weigh nothing, sits me down, and starts peeling off my wet boots and socks with efficient, furious focus. His hands are gentle even when they’re trembling.
“Stay,” he orders, and disappears.
He’s back in thirty seconds with a thick pair of his sweatpants, one of his huge sweatshirts, and wool socks that come up to my thighs. I change in front of the fire without a shred of modesty because I’m freezing.
The clothes swallow me. I smell like him, and I never want to wear anything else again.
He checks the weather on his satellite phone, curses a blue streak, then texts Dottie from his own phone to let her know that I’m with him, safe, and that the roads are closed until the snow stops.
He tosses the phone aside, scoops me up again, and settles us both on the thick rug in front of the fireplace. The cabin is all wood and stone and gorgeous.
Dawson pulls a heavy quilt over us, tucks me between his thighs, and wraps his arms around me from behind. His chest is a furnace against my back. His beard tickles my neck when he buries his face there.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says against my skin.
“I just really wanted you to have the cookies.”
He huffs a laugh that ruffles my hair. “You’re here now and safe. That’s what matters.”
I twist in his arms so I’m facing him, knees straddling his hips, quilt cocooning us. His eyes are storm-gray and fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the universe.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi, sunshine.” His hands slide up my back under the sweatshirt, and I shiver for an entirely different reason.
Outside, the blizzard screams against the windows.
Inside, the fire crackles, the cookies sit forgotten on the coffee table, and Dawson kisses me slow and deep and thorough, like we have all the time in the world.
The fire pops behind us, throwing sparks of gold across his shoulders, and the quilt slides to the floor.
I’m wearing nothing but his sweatshirt pushed up to my collarbones and a pair of his wool socks that reach mid-thigh; his sweatpants fell right off.
He’s still in jeans and a T-shirt that was under his flannel, and the contrast is driving me insane.
Dawson drags his mouth down my throat, beard scraping just right, and I arch into him without meaning to. His hands are everywhere, mapping my waist and my ribs. When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, I gasp his name.
“Love the way you say that,” he mutters against my skin. “Gonna need to hear it a lot more.”
He cups me fully then, calloused palm closing over bare skin, and my head falls back against the rug. His thumb circles my nipple once, twice, slow and deliberate, until it’s tight and aching and I’m squirming.
“Sensitive little thing,” he says, voice rough with wonder. He lowers his head and takes me into his mouth. I see stars. My hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, and he hums approval against me. The vibration shoots straight between my legs.
He switches sides, giving the same slow, worshipful attention until I’m panting and writhing and trying to rub my thighs together for any relief.
He wedges one thick thigh between mine instead, pressing up just enough that I can grind against the hard muscle of his leg. The friction is perfect and maddening.
“Dawson, please—”
“Please what, sunshine?” He lifts his head, eyes dark and wicked. “Tell me.”
I flush everywhere. “Touch me. Lower.”
A slow, filthy grin spreads across his face. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He slides one big hand down my stomach, tracing every curve like he’s memorizing me. When he reaches the edge of my panties, he pauses, looking up at me with a question in his eyes.
I nod so hard I almost head-butt him.
He peels them down slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. When I’m finally bare to him, he stares for a long second, reverent and hungry.
“You’re beautiful.”
Then his mouth is on me. The first slow lick has my back bowing off the rug.
The second has me moaning loud enough that I’m glad his nearest neighbor is ten miles away.
He takes his time with long, deliberate strokes, gentle circles, and little flicks that make my legs shake.
When he slides one thick finger inside me, I nearly come apart on the spot.
“Easy,” he murmurs against me, voice vibrating through every nerve. “We’ve got all night.”
He works me open slowly, adding a second finger, curling them just right while his tongue keeps that perfect rhythm. When he sucks my clit gently between his lips, I shatter, the orgasm rolling through me in long, blinding waves.
He doesn’t stop until I’m boneless and trembling, then crawls back up my body, kissing me so I taste myself on his tongue. I reach for his belt with shaky fingers.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
He catches my wrist, brings it to his mouth, and kisses the inside of my palm. “Not yet.”
“But—”
“This was about showing you what you do to me.” He brushes my hair back from my damp forehead, eyes soft and fierce all at once. “Next round, I want you in my bed. Lights low. All night. No rushing.”
I swallow hard. “You’re very bossy.”
“You have no idea.” He scoops me up, quilt and all, and heads for the loft stairs. “But you’ll like it.”
I loop my arms around his neck and press my face to the warm skin of his throat. “Promise?”
He pauses on the third step, kisses me slow and deep and filthy. “Cross my heart, sunshine.”
The fire crackles below us as he carries me up to the one bed in the entire cabin (big, wide, made for a man his size and now, apparently, for us).
Outside, the storm keeps raging.
Inside, Dawson lays me down on cool sheets that smell like him, follows me down, and spends the next hour proving exactly how patient a hungry mountain man can be when he’s finally got the girl he wants exactly where he wants her.
Tomorrow we’ll eat cookies, drink coffee, and watch the snow pile higher.
Tonight, there’s only one thing on the menu.