Chapter 5
FIVE
STEVIE
The cabin is quiet. It’s as if the blizzard that blew has tucked us in under a blanket for the evening.
After tidying up the kitchen, we say goodnight and go our separate ways. To separate rooms. And our separate beds. Like responsible, well-behaved adults.
I last ten minutes.
I’m on my way to fill my water bottle when I noticed the light from under the crack of the den door.
But it’s the sound I recognize that gives me pause. It’s the roaring of a crowd in a hockey arena. The voice of the play-by-play commentator.
And the unmistakable sound of every person in that frame wincing in sympathy as one of the best enforcers in the league goes down.
I hover in the doorway. The TV glow cuts Grady’s jaw into planes and shadows. His hoodie is pushed up, exposing his muscular, inked forearms. On the screen, his number streaks across the ice. He makes the hit. His leg tangles with his opponent.
Their bodies fall to the ground.
The image, the noises pause. It rewinds, and it plays again.
I can’t let him keep doing this. And not just because I promised my brother I’d make him stop.
“Grady.” My voice is quiet.
He doesn’t look at me. He rewinds again. Plays it again.
I walk closer and lower myself onto the arm of the sofa. He keeps his eyes focused on the screen.
“You shouldn’t keep watching this,” I say.
He swallows. The tendons in his neck flex.
“I need to know what I could have done differently,” he says, voice raw. “I need to know where I went wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You got hurt.”
“Same thing,” he says, bitter. “It feels like the same thing.”
I pick up the remote, turn off the screen and face him. The fire settles. The wind, more faint now, blows outside the window.
“You’re still you,” I say. “You’re still you.”
He huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh and rubs a hand over the faint whiskers on his face.
“Some days I’m not sure who that is.”
“Then let’s found out who he is.”
When he looks at me—really looks—something in my chest tugs loose.
“Come here,” I say, and scooting down to the couch.
He hesitates for one moment, then he comes. Careful with his knee, we settle back in the cushions and I snuggle into him.
My hand finds the muscle above the brace and I squeeze it gently. “How bad does it hurt today?”
“Not bad,” he says. “Just… a little.”
“Then listen to that pain.” I slide my palm up to the quad, thumb pressing gently where the PT videos said to. “Bend?”
He moves slowly, obeying me for a change. The joint creaks in protest, then eases. He groans—half pain, half something else—and my heart lurches.
“Again,” I say softly. “Don’t push it. Just breathe.”
He does. In. Out. My breath syncs without asking. The fire lists, gives us a little more orange. The storm hushes the rest of the world and leaves us with the sound of his lungs and my pulse.
He tips his head, studying me. “You always like this?”
“Bossy?” I ask.
“Gentle,” he says.
“Only for patients who follow instructions,” I say, and he laughs, the low rumble of it sinking straight into my soul.
My hand stills along with his leg. He turns his face toward mine.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of us. But the kiss is there before I think about it.
Then it consumes every ounce of my being.
As he possesses my mouth, He’s hungry and careful at once. As if fragile or incredibly precious.
I open for him. He makes a sound I want to memorize and write into a song. When he coaxes me back into the sofa cushions, to cover me like he’s undoubtedly done a thousand times, his knee seizes. He sucks in a breath, sharp.
“Fuck.” He hisses, grabbing his knee. “I can’t even—”
“Hey.” I catch his cheeks in my hands. “Look at me.”
He does. The frustration in his eyes is a storm front. “I’m fine—”
“You don’t have to prove anything,” I say. “I know you’re a strong, sexy man.” I slide my thumb across his lower lip. “Maybe, just this once, you can let me take the lead.”
His jaw works. I see the fight and the want. He nods once.
I guide him back against the corner of the couch, where the arm meets the cushions.
“Good,” I whisper. “Now sit.”
He obeys, breath quickening. I climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, careful with his leg position, immediately, instinctively finding the angle that won’t make him pay for this later.
His hands hover at my hips like he doesn’t trust himself.
“Stevie,” he says, voice raw. “You’ll ruin me, Rockstar.”
“Maybe I’ll heal you instead,” I murmur.
I kiss him again. It’s slower now, deeper. His hands settle—finally—spanning my waist.
He lets me set the rhythm and the pace as I lean in to kiss him. He lets me lead as I stroke his chest and encourage him to cup my breasts with whispered praises.
When I rock forward, testing the give of the couch and the line of his body, he exhales my name. His cock presses against my core and we groan together as we move. Pressing ourselves against each other.
Feeding the pleasure brewing within us.
I feel, more than hear, the moment he lets go of the need to be the one holding the house up. He lets me.
“You already have healed me,” he says into my mouth as he slides his hands under my shirt and cups my breasts. “More than you’ll ever know.”
His thumb swipes over my nipple. Heat pools low and bright. I need more. I need all of him.
I take his wrists and lay his palms flat against my ribcage under my shirt. His fingers are warm and callused and reverent in a way that makes my throat tight.
He goes very still. “Stevie.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, and peel my shirt over my head, the fire gilding everything in copper. The storm mutters at the windows and I forget there’s a world beyond them.
His gaze drops. He sees it—the teeny, tiny notes, black ink tucked just under my left ribs, right where the breath is shallow when I’m nervous.
The opening of “Landslide.” The first song I ever learned to sing all the way through. The song Mom used to sing as a lullaby.
He touches the ink with his thumb, careful, tracing the curve of the notes like they’re a coastline. Something like wonder crosses his face.
“Rockstar,” he says softly. “It suits you.”
“Not many people have ever seen it.” A small smile tugging. “You’re one of the special ones.
“No.” He tenderly traces the notes again. “I’m the lucky one.”
“It’s ‘Landslide,’” I tell him, voice shaking. “The opening notes so I always have a reminder of where to begin.”
He looks up, and I’m not ready for what’s in his eyes: pride, yes, and heat, yes—but something steadier too.
“I could learn a lesson or two from you,” he says. “I sometimes feel like I was born missing the first few pages of the story.”
I laugh for one bright second and then forget how because his mouth is on my skin again, and his hands are learning me, and the fire is a drum in my ears.
I find the hem of his hoodie, tug. He lets me pull it off, breathless, tattoos catching light—the cross near his heart.
The script he pretends he doesn’t regret.
The spread of wings across his back I want to trace like a prayer. I
Tonight, I do. I lay my palms on his shoulders and slide them down, slow, feeling the strength there and the surrender.
He shivers, surprised, when I kiss along the edge of the cross, and it undoes me, how tender he is when no one’s looking.
The couch creaks when I move. His leg twinges once and I shift, immediately, instinctively, guiding his thigh where it needs to be, bracing with my calves. He groans—this time it’s not pain—and my name is a grit-edged vow.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
“Yeah,” he says, and it’s a sound I want to keep.
He slides his fingers under my panties and into the curls at the apex of my thighs. He groans. “You’re so wet.”
“I’ve been wet for days.”
“Thinking about me?” He finds my clit.
Nodding, I gasp as he applies pressure.
“Is this what you want?” He teases me. Strokes me. Makes me wild with need.
My hips move back against him, and I croon with my growing need.
“You’re so fucking sexy.” He nuzzles my neck. “I want…”
“What do you want?”
“I want to feel all of you.”
“I want that too.” Moving back, it’s my turn to slide my hand under his sweatpants.
His cock his long. Impossibly hard. And oh so thick. I press my free fist to my lips. God he’s going to feel so good.
I give him a squeeze and take delight in watching his eyes roll back.
Fumbling for a condom which—thank God, the cabin owner seems to have stashed everywhere—I slide it over his thick cock.
He grips my hips and lifts me up. Our gazes meet as I slide down onto him. Groaning as I stretch to meet his gaze.
It’s so good, I could sing.
We settle into a rhythm. Goading one another along.
I ride his cock, savoring the kind of closeness that makes conversation unnecessary.
He lets me set every rule, then breaks all of them with the way he says my name as we find our release.
We collapse into each other and the couch, catching our breaths.
His hand is heavy and warm over my ribs, thumb idly stroking along the notes like he’s still reading them.
“Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”
“Better than okay,” I say. “I want this to be more than cabin fever, Grady.”
His chest rises under my palm. “I know. I want that too.”
I could cry with the relief of it.
Instead I let my fingers wander his chest ink, teasing. “I’m pretty sure this one’s misspelled.”
He groans, laughing. “Don’t ruin the mood, Rockstar.”
“Impossible,” I say, and tuck myself closer, listening to his heart even while mine climbs the walls of my throat.
He kisses my hairline, a soft, unguarded thing that makes me ache.
“You make me forget it hurts,” he murmurs.
“You make me feel seen,” I reply.
Then we fall silent, letting the warmth of being wrapped together lull us into sleep.