3. Snow’d In
Chapter 3
Snow’d In
Kolby
T he moment I step into her place, I know I shouldn’t have, especially with all that hair flying wild. So hot.
“Jackson or Dad must have started the fire,” she says, walking past the wood stove.
It’s warm in here, not just because of the fire, but in a way that feels like a dream I made up when I was younger, when I tried to fall asleep at night after Dad got heavy-handed and my body hurt. Always made me feel better, the dreaming of when I’d finally get the hell out of that place.
It’s warm and comfortable. Smells like lavender, and lemon, and worn-in flannel. There’s music playing low somewhere— just the kind of silence that echoes. Her coat hits the hook, boots thud against the mat.
I stand there and watch as she moves around like she belongs here. Because she does. This is her world. A world I’ve often wondered about. One that ws the total opposite of that penthouse in NYC.
God. That penthouse.
Deborah had it staged like a magazine spread—everything white and hard-edged, glass vases full of twigs that cost more than a truck payment. We went to college together—Lincoln U. She liked bad boys, and I liked not being alone, and when Covid hit and the world got quiet, we got stupid. We said vows we didn’t mean because it was easier than going home alone.
Going home meant facing the trailer park, the memories of, the fists, the broken-down version of a man who used to make me clean blood off the floor like it was just part of the routine. It meant seeing her name scrawled on legal documents next to his, because she was as fucked up as him and bailed him out twice before she learned better.
And worse than that? It meant no football and facing it —the thing I never say out loud, the memories that finally were silenced by the volume of the game. The secret I left buried beneath cornfields and concrete, and the ones Deb knows about and dangles like a carrot whenever she wants something. Like alimony. Like control.
Her family’s got money stacked ten generations deep, and she still drains me like I owe her the air she breathes. Meanwhile, I live in a townhouse built for rookies and practice-squad temps. Nice place. Nicer than I ever had before, Deb. But never the American dream, not my American dream, anyway.
But here?
In Lo’s silo?
Books stacked under coffee mugs, a candle burning low on the table with a label that probably says something like Sweater Weather or First Frost. I hate that I like it. I hate that I feel like I can breathe here.
She doesn’t look at me as she fidgets with the landline. Her hair’s damp from the snow, and she’s wearing one of those oversized sweaters that fall off the shoulder just enough to make my thoughts wander to what I know best, better than football even . Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sharp, and she hasn’t said a word since we walked in.
Good. Because I don’t trust my voice either.
This is the first time we’ve been alone since the almost-kiss. Before Hart. Before she looked at me like I wasn’t worth the fallout.
And now? Now she’s standing in front of me, real, and exhausted, and just as guarded as I am.
I don’t belong here. I know that. But I’m here, anyway.
She presses the phone to her ear, frowns, then smacks the base with the heel of her hand like that’ll bring it back to life.
I raise an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“Dead,” she mutters, jiggling the cord like she’s trying to resuscitate it. “Stupid piece of crap. Jackson was supposed to fix the connection last month, but—shocker—he got distracted, disappeared for a couple days, like that’s not weird.” Her eyes flick up, annoyed at the phone, the storm, the world. Same.
“I could try calling from the brewery,” I offer, already knowing the answer.
She glances out the window. Whiteout. Wind howling. “If you want to get buried under a snowdrift and eaten by raccoons, be my guest.”
I smirk, liking that she wants to keep me here. “You saying I’m not worth the rescue effort?”
“I’m saying my dad already lit a fire before he left earlier. And this place stays warmer if we don’t open and close the door every five minutes.”
She crosses the room, nudges the iron stove door open, and the glow from the fire floods the space with warm, flickering amber light. It plays off her skin and catches the glint in her eyes and the gold hoop in her nose as she turns toward me with a look that’s equal parts exasperation and amusement.
“Get cozy, Grimes,” she says, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and tossing it at me. “Looks like you’re stuck here for a bit.”
It hits my chest, and I catch it reflexively.
Cozy. Jesus.
I should be irritated. I should be looking for an excuse to leave—call one of the guys on the team somehow, sleep in my damn truck, walk back to the townhouse on foot if I have to. But I don’t move.
Because it’s warm in here. Because the storm is howling outside, and I don’t have anywhere else to be. Because there’s something about her—firelit, still halfway annoyed with me—that makes my ribs feel too small for my lungs.
I sit down, and she walks to her kitchen. “Coco?”
“Got anything stronger?” I half-joke as I toe off my boots and shrug off my jacket, but honestly, I could use something right now to take the edge off.
She heads to the fridge. “I could use a drink myself.” She looks inside. “It looks like milk or Oenbeer.”
“What now?” I ask.
“Oenbeer. Beer and wine hybrid we’re …” She stops and shakes her head. “Milk or the other.”
“Oenbeer me.”
After she walks over and hands me the brown bottle, she sits down, not right next to me, but not in the chair. She curls her legs up under her like it’s no big deal. Like we haven’t spent years orbiting each other, dragging history that moment caused behind us like anchors.
I twist the cap off the drink and hand it to her then take hers, open it, and take a drink.
I set the glass bottle down, the sweetness sticking to my tongue like a memory I never made, and cock an eyebrow at her.
“Thoughts?” she asks.
“Tastes like grape soda grew up and got some dirt under its nails.”
“What?” She laughs as she reaches behind the couch.
“Offense she wants escape—messy, rough-edged, breathless.
I give her exactly that.
Her mouth tastes like grapes—sweet grapes. Her lips are softer than I expected, but her kiss isn’t. She clings to me like she’s trying to stay upright while the world spins, and I want her to fall under me.
My hand finds her waist, anchoring her, the other tangled in her hair. Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb when it brushes her jaw, and I like it … a lot.
She smells like something calming—lavender and sweet like vanilla, mixed with a faint smoky sweetness from her fire and the candle burning in the corner. And underneath it all? Her. Skin. Heat. Want.
I press my mouth to the side of her throat, not biting, not yet, just letting her feel it—the scrape of stubble, the heat of breath, the weight of being wanted like this.
She lets out the tiniest sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, making my balls draw up.
“Shit,” I murmur into her neck, because that sound— that sound—is going to live in my damn bones, my spine.
She arches under me when my hand slides down, finds the curve of her hip. Everything we’re doing is still clothed, but there’s nothing—not one damn thing—saying it’s gonna stay that way.
Her legs shift against mine, restless. Her hands pull at the hem of my shirt like she’s trying to find something.
Never kissed that way, and by her moans, I know she hasn’t either. They’re quiet but wrecked. I feel her pulse jump when I mouth along her collarbone. Her skin’s hot through the sweater, her body straining toward mine like it knows where this is going before her mind catches up.
I kiss up her neck, slow and possessive, until I find her ear. Then I whisper it low, commanding, no room for confusion, “We need more room.”
She shivers.
I lean back just enough to look her in the eyes, my grip still tight on her hips. “Less clothes.”
She breathes in a quick, sharp breath.
“Take me to your bed, Lo.”
She doesn’t say a word, just rises from the couch with this quiet sort of purpose, her fingers grazing mine like beckoning me to follow, and I do without hesitation.
The stairs curve up the inside of the silo, tight and narrow, the wood warm beneath our feet from the fire still humming below. I watch the sway of her hips, the hem of that too-big sweater skimming the backs of her thighs. My jaw clenches, and my hands ache to touch her everywhere at once.
There’s no sound but that music coming from somewhere, 90s, but I can’t hear it well enough to know the song above the creak of the steps, the soft rustle of fabric, our breathing—hers shallow, mine sharp.
She glances back once near the top. Her eyes catch the soft golden glow waiting above, and in that light, she looks at me as if she’s daring me again. Game on.
Her room is full of … things, but it doesn’t feel cramped.
It feels … hers .
The ceiling slants in a half-moon curve with exposed beams and a little window overlooking the snowy fields in the distance. Strings of fairy lights twist around the railing and over her bed like she lit the stars herself. There’s a stack of books on the floor, a half-finished glass of water on the nightstand, and a flannel blanket tossed across the end of the mattress like she never expected company.
The sheets are mismatched. One’s faded floral, the other a soft, washed-out navy. Lived-in. Unapologetic. Like her.
She steps closer to me, her breath feathering against my jaw as I pause in the center of her room, knowing I should go, but also fully aware I won’t.
Her hands hover at the hem of her sweater, fingers curling into the fabric like she’s not sure whether to let it go or hold it together.
I close the distance between us in two slow steps.
“You still want me?” I murmur, voice rough at the edges.
She nods, even as her breath catches.
I reach out, slide my hand beneath the bottom of the sweater, and find her waist, soft, heated skin against my palm.
“You can stop me,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat.
But she doesn’t. She presses in and tilts her chin up.
And when I kiss her this time, it’s slower. Deeper. Less frantic, more deliberate.
I walk her back toward the bed without breaking the kiss, until her knees catch the edge of the mattress, and she sinks onto it, breathless.
I stop her from lying back and drop to my knees. “Clothes need to go.” And they do.
She sits on the edge of the bed, legs slightly parted, one hand braced behind her, the other resting loosely on her thigh. Her chest rises and falls in slow, shallow breaths. She’s already shed her sweater and unclasping the white laced bra now, leaving her skin bare and glowing in the soft flicker of the fairy lights that drip from the rafters like starlight.
And I swear to God, I stop breathing.
I’ve seen beauty in a thousand forms. Posed. Artificial. Filtered to hell. I’ve had it curled up in my sheets, tucked under my arm, purring in my ear like they knew how to play the part. But this?
Lo isn’t playing. She’s so real.
I follow the line of her collarbone with my eyes, down to her breasts, full and perfect, her nipple—just one—pierced with a gold barbell drawn tight from the chill, matching her nose ring. My cock hardens even further.
Her breath’s shaking—so is mine—sheer tension radiating off both of us like static on an old TV. She shifts slightly, and my eyes drop to the faint stretch of muscle along her abdomen, another piercing in her belly button. My eyes stall there, and her body twitches, reminding me I’m still staring.
I take her all in. Her skin is flushed, soft in places I want to memorize with my mouth. Her curves are soft, unapologetic—thighs strong, pale, and open in invitation. The slope of her waist rolling into hips that make my hands twitch with the need to squeeze them.
Her gaze catches mine and, for a second, everything stills. Because she’s looking at me now. Not shy. Not uncertain. Like she wants to know how I’ll come undone. Like she’s waiting for it.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head slowly, watching her watch me.
Her eyes drag down my chest, over the scars she’ll never know the stories behind—I’ll never trust anyone with them again—the ink on my ribs, the lines that years of training carved into me. Her bottom lip slips between her teeth, and my pulse kicks like a boot to the face.
Her gaze climbs back to mine, hungrier now. Curious. Reckless want.
“Lie back for me,” I say, voice feeling and sounding like gravel. “I’m going to make you come before I fuck you.” I grip her knees and pull them apart to make room for me between them. Heat emanates from her. “Jesus, Lo, you’re on fire.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hand cupping her pussy, I rub my palm hard against her as I lean down and take her nipple in my mouth. “So hot.” I push my finger slowly through her lips. “Tight as hell. So wet.”
“Uh-huh,” she moans as I push deeper inside, taking care not to touch her clit—not yet.
“Your pussy and I are going to get acquainted.”
“Get … there,” she says through a shuddering breath.
“Your ass and I will, too, if you keep sassing like that,” I warn as I run my thumb around her clit.
“Okay, yeah. Oh, yeah, just like that.” Her thighs tighten around me. “Not my ass, though … ever.”
Two things learned. One, she doesn’t understand a threat; and two, Lo’s not an ass girl … not yet.
“And how about this?” I ask as I squeeze another finger inside of her.
She leans forward and grabs my shoulders, sinking her nails into them.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“Don’t need instruction, Lo. I know how to make you come.”
“I … I?—”
“You’ll find this more enjoyable if you trust me to set the pace.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Her voice squeaks, and I really like the sound of it.
I pump my fingers in a little deeper, curling them, seeking, searching, and … right there … finding her G-spot.
“Yes. Yes. Oh yes.” Her thighs tighten around my hips.
Before she has a chance to instruct me any further, I palm a nice, plump tit in my hand and lean in to lick across it.
“Uh-huh, yes … yes.”
Her nipple hardens even more against my tongue as I suck it into my mouth, still fingering her.
Whimpering, she thrusts against my hand as her nails bite into my back.
“I want you to come on my hand. Do you want that? To come on my hand?” I tap her G-spot and massage it, and when I feel her insides quiver, I know she’s there.
A strangled cry escapes her as her thighs start to shake. She starts to pull away.
“Fuck no.” I grip her hip. “You’re gonna come on my fucking hand.”
And that is exactly what she does.
Breath labored, she clenches her teeth as she tries to hold back. I’m not having that.
I squeeze one of her tits and tweak a nipple while sucking hard on the other then biting down just enough to make her let go.
“Yes!” she cries. “Oh my … gaw,” over and over again until her body begins to relax.
Not normal for me to go down on a hookup, but right now, that smell, her need, I’m not leaving here, but not dipping my tongue inside, either. Too many regrets live rent-free in my head. No, scratch that, they cost me. They cost me more than I’ll ever make.
Eating Lauren Brooks out isn’t going to be shoved into that category. Not anymore. Fuck that.
I give her just a beat of breath before I’m on my knees, eyeball-to-eyeball with her bare flesh, glittering with her orgasm. And then …
My mouth is on her in a snap, and she’s on her back, squirming underneath me as I take my first taste. No regrets … yet.
A strained moan, “Nnnnh—” comes from somewhere hidden inside her, and I lick deeper in, trying to see if I can find it.
Seconds … seconds, and she’s got her hands in my hair, tugging, crying, “Ohhh—” as in orgasms.
Throwing one leg and then the next over my shoulders, I nip at her thigh and suck before I go all-in, licking, tasting … devouring her, pressing my face as close as I can get to her without seeming like I’m trying to climb in, and yeah, that thought is there.
I wanna smell like her, bathe in her scent, feel her … everywhere.
When her thighs begin to shake, I reach down and unbutton my pants, shoving them down as I stand, keeping her legs on my shoulders.
“You clean? Protected?” I ask, rubbing my dick up and down her heat, dying to hear the words fuck yes so I can shove my dick in her pristine pussy.
“So clean,” she whimpers. “I … I … I?—”
“Gonna dirty your pretty pussy, Lauren Brooks.” My eyes roll back so far in my head that I should be afraid they’ll stick, but I want in so bad I don’t give a shit if they do.
I push in. Feels good, too good, so fucking tight.
“Fuck, Lo. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Shutupandjustdoit!” she cries out.