Chapter Nineteen – Christopher
Christopher stood frozen in the clearing, watching Sorcha disappear between the trees. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving him alone with the weight of his revelation crushing down on him.
“She ran,” he whispered into the night air. “She actually ran.”
His bear growled with anguish inside him, urging him to follow her, to explain more, to make her understand. Christopher closed his eyes and fought against the instinct with everything he had.
No, he said, his voice firm despite the tremor running through him. She needs space.
But what if she leaves? his bear demanded. What if she packs her car tonight and drives away forever?
The thought sent a stab of panic through Christopher’s chest so sharp he had to brace himself against a tree. He’d known showing Sorcha his true nature was a risk, but he’d convinced himself she was ready. That their connection was strong enough to withstand the shock.
He pushed himself upright and began walking back toward the office, his steps heavy with dread.
She won’t leave, he told his bear, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Not without saying goodbye at least.
You don’t know that, his bear countered. She was terrified. You saw her face.
Christopher winced at the memory. The flash of fear in Sorcha’s eyes had cut deeper than any wound he’d ever experienced.
She wasn’t afraid of us, he argued as he trudged through the snow. She was afraid of what it meant.
And what does it mean? his bear pressed. That she must choose between her life and ours?
That was the crux of it. Christopher had offered to follow her, to leave Bear Creek behind, but would that truly work?
Could he thrive away from the mountains, the forest, everything that had given him a new life, a new sense of purpose?
And if he couldn’t, how long before resentment poisoned what they had?
He reached the office and slipped inside; the warmth did nothing to thaw the icy dread in his gut. He went to the coffee machine and went through the motions of making a fresh pot.
She might be packing right now, his bear fretted as Christopher fetched a clean mug and set it down on the counter.
“Stop,” Christopher muttered under his breath. “Give her time to process.”
But how much time do we have? his bear insisted.
There was no answer to that question. So instead, he tried to focus on paperwork, but the words blurred before his eyes. Each minute that passed felt like an hour, each hour an eternity as the witching hour approached.
Two hours had passed since Sorcha had run from him. Two hours of torment, of second-guessing, of wondering if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
His bear had finally fallen silent, retreating into a corner of his mind to nurse its wounded heart. Christopher envied its ability to withdraw. He had no such escape from the crushing weight of regret.
The fire in the office hearth had burned down to embers. He should add another log, but he couldn’t summon the energy to move. The chill settling into the room matched the ice forming around his heart.
Then he felt it—a shift in the air, a presence that called to him on a level so primal it made his breath catch. His head snapped up, every sense suddenly alert and focused.
Sorcha.
She was coming toward him. His bear surged forward, suddenly wide awake and hopeful. Christopher rose from his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs as he moved to the door, drawn by an invisible thread that connected them.
He opened the door just as she reached the bottom step of the office porch. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes bright with determination. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the space between them charged with unspoken words.
Then Sorcha was moving, rushing forward, and Christopher opened his arms just in time to catch her as she threw herself against his chest.
“I choose you,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I choose us.”
Christopher’s arms tightened around her, his body trembling with relief so profound it threatened to buckle his knees. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, reassuring himself that this was real, that she was here.
“Are you sure?” he asked, needing to hear it again, to know this wasn’t just his desperate imagination.
Sorcha pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said. “I love you, Christopher Stiller. Bear and all.”
The words washed over him, soothing the raw edges of his fear. His bear roared with joy, and Christopher couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.
“I love you too,” he whispered, framing her face with his hands. “More than I ever thought possible.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, pouring everything he felt into the kiss—his relief, his joy, his love, his promise. Sorcha responded with equal fervor, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him close as if afraid he might vanish.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Christopher pressed his forehead to hers. “What changed your mind?” he asked softly.
“My mother, strangely enough,” Sorcha replied with a small laugh.
“She helped me see that I was letting fear make my decisions. And when I asked myself what I truly wanted, the answer was simple.” She brushed her lips against his again.
“It’s you. It’s always been you, even before we met. I just didn’t know it yet.”
He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet, burying his face in her hair.
“Sorcha,” he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips. “Are you sure?”
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her hands framing his face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she said. “I was so afraid of making the wrong choice that I almost missed the right one.”
Christopher touched his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Never,” Sorcha promised. “I just needed to silence all the voices in my head telling me what I should want. When I did that, there was only one voice left—my heart. And it was screaming your name.”
He kissed her then, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips against hers. Sorcha responded with equal fervor, her mouth opening beneath his, her body melting against him as if she couldn’t get close enough.
Christopher lifted her onto the desk, papers scattering unheeded to the floor as he stepped between her thighs. Sorcha’s hands slid under his shirt, her touch scorching against his skin.
“Here?” he asked against her lips, even as his hands found the hem of her sweater.
“Here,” she confirmed, raising her arms to help him pull the garment over her head. “Now.”
The sight of her in the soft glow of the desk lamp—skin flushed, eyes dark with desire, wearing only her bra and jeans—nearly undid him.
Christopher’s hands shook as he reached for the clasp of her bra, suddenly overcome with the knowledge that this was different.
This wasn’t just passion or physical need. This was a beginning.
Sorcha seemed to sense his reverence, her own movements slowing as she unbuttoned his shirt. When her palm pressed against his bare chest, directly over his heart, Christopher felt something shift between them—a deepening, a recognition.
“I can feel your heartbeat,” she murmured, wonder in her voice.
“It beats for you,” Christopher said simply. “It always will.”
He lowered his head to press his lips to the delicate skin of her collarbone, then traced a path with his tongue to the curve of her breast. He took his time, drawing circles around one nipple before taking it between his lips, sucking gently, then more firmly as she gasped.
His teeth grazed the sensitive peak before he moved to lavish the same attention on her other breast, licking and nipping until Sorcha arched against him, a throaty moan escaping that made his blood run hot.
With gentle hands, he lifted her from the desk and carried her to the small sofa near the fireplace. The embers still glowed, casting a warm, flickering light across her skin as he lay her down.
“Wait,” he said, reluctantly pulling away to stoke the fire back to life.
Sorcha watched him, her eyes never leaving his as flames leaped back into being, painting golden light across the room. When he turned back to her, she had shed the rest of her clothes and lay waiting for him, gloriously naked in the firelight.
“Come here,” she whispered, holding out her hand.
Christopher stripped off his remaining clothes and joined her on the sofa, covering her body with his own. The feeling of skin against skin, her softness yielding to his hardness, was exquisite torture. He wanted to savor every moment, to memorize every inch of her.
“I want to taste you everywhere,” he murmured against her neck. “I want to learn every sound you make when I touch you.”
Sorcha’s fingers tangled in his hair as he moved lower, exploring the landscape of her body with lips and tongue. He lingered at her breasts, drawing each nipple into his mouth until she gasped his name, her hips rising restlessly beneath him.
He continued his journey downward, trailing kisses across the soft plane of her stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into her navel. Sorcha trembled beneath him, her breathing growing more ragged with each touch.
When he settled between her thighs, looking up at her with a question in his eyes, Sorcha nodded, her lips parted in anticipation. Christopher lowered his head and tasted her with a single, slow stroke of his tongue.
“Christopher,” she gasped, her back arching off the sofa.