5. Sophie #2
She hated that she already knew she could love things about him.
Jace braced one hand beside her head and kissed her again.
The world narrowed to warmth, touch, and the steady weight of him above her. He took his time, kissing her like there was no storm waiting outside, no phone charging in the kitchen, no life to untangle beyond the cabin walls.
Only Sophie.
Only Jace.
Only this.
His hands moved over her with restrained reverence, sliding beneath the loose flannel, pausing whenever her breath caught. She arched toward him, wanting more, and felt his control falter.
“You’re beautiful,” he said roughly.
Sophie’s throat tightened.
Not because no man had ever said that.
Preston had called her beautiful often.
But he had always said it like approval.
Jace said it like wonder.
She touched his jaw.
“Even in borrowed sweatpants?”
“Especially.”
“That’s a concerning preference.”
“I like you in my clothes.”
Heat curled low inside her.
“Oh.”
His mouth curved.
“Yeah.”
Then he kissed her again, and words became unnecessary.
Sophie had expected passion to feel like losing herself. Maybe because that was what she had feared marriage would be—surrender, erasure, becoming someone else’s idea of a woman.
But with Jace, passion felt like return.
He made space for her in every touch. Every kiss asked and answered. Every slow movement told her he wanted her exactly as she was: messy, laughing, uncertain, brave, runaway history and all.
She tugged at his shirt, and he helped her pull it over his head.
Then she forgot how breathing worked.
Jace Wilder without a shirt was a crisis for runaway brides.
A broad-shouldered, hard-chested, mountain-built crisis.
Sophie stared.
He lifted a brow.
“Problem?”
“Yes.”
His expression sharpened.
She touched his chest, feeling the muscle tense beneath her palm.
“You look like that and live alone? That seems wasteful.”
For one second, he stared at her.
Then he laughed again.
Full and warm and so real it made her heart ache.
“You always this honest in bed?”
“I have no data. Recently my bed choices have been limited by moral panic.”
His smile turned wicked.
“Good thing we’re collecting data.”
Sophie’s pulse leapt.
“That was surprisingly smooth.”
“I have moments.”
“You’ve been hiding them under all the grunting.”
“Efficient storage.”
She laughed, and he kissed the sound from her mouth.
After that, the teasing softened into heat.
Jace loved her slowly at first, as if patience could become a form of devotion. Then deeper, with a hunger that made her cling to him and whisper his name.
There was nothing polished about it.
Nothing planned.
No music, no seating chart, no aisle runner, no vows written in careful cursive.
Just the crackle of the fire in the other room, snow falling against the windows, and the man above her looking at her like she was the only promise he wanted to make.
When pleasure swept through her, it startled tears into her eyes.
Jace kissed them away.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
She held onto him, trembling.
“I know.”
Those two words undid him.
He gathered her close, his own release breaking through him with a rough sound against her throat, his arms tightening as if letting go was not an option.
For a long time afterward, neither of them spoke.
Sophie lay tucked against his side, her cheek on his chest, listening to the hard beat of his heart gradually slow beneath her ear.
His hand moved lazily through her hair.
The room smelled like cedar, cotton, and warmth.
The wedding dress remained hidden in the closet.
A wise decision.
Eventually, Sophie said, “I think I’ve discovered the problem.”
Jace’s chest shifted beneath her.
“With what?”
“My previous weddings.”
“Only one problem?”
She pinched his side lightly.
He caught her hand and kissed her fingers.
Her heart fluttered.
“I don’t think forever was the issue,” she said softly.
Jace went still.
She lifted her head to look at him.
“Maybe the groom was.”
Something fierce and tender moved through his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Maybe he was.”
Sophie rested her chin on his chest.
“Does this make me extremely impulsive?”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“Could you hesitate before answering?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
His thumb brushed her cheek.
“Doesn’t make you wrong.”
Her smile faded.
“No?”
“No.”
The words settled over her like a blanket.
Outside, the snow had stopped falling.
A sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds, touching the window with pale gold.
Sophie noticed it at the same time Jace did.
The storm was clearing.
Reality was coming back.
Her car. Her phone. Preston. Her mother. The wedding she had left behind. The life she still had to officially refuse.
She tried not to tense.
Failed.
Jace’s arm tightened around her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sophie.”
“No lying about being fine,” she remembered.
“House rule.”
She pressed her face briefly to his chest.
“The storm’s clearing.”
“Yeah.”
“Which means I can leave.”
He said nothing.
That silence felt different from the others.
He was not agreeing.
But he was not asking her to stay either.
Sophie told herself that was good.
Healthy.
Respectful.
So why did it hurt?
She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself.
Jace watched her, expression unreadable.
She forced a little smile.
“Well. I suppose I should eventually turn my phone back on and find out whether Aunt Diane has started a prayer chain or a podcast.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
But something guarded had entered his eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
One word.
Quiet.
Practical.
Painful.
Sophie looked toward the closet where the wedding dress had been banished.
Then back at the man in the bed.
The right man.
The wrong dress.
The strangest, safest morning of her life.
And as sunlight touched the snow outside, Sophie realized the scariest part of running from the wrong life was not leaving it behind.
It was discovering how badly she wanted to stay somewhere new.
***