Chapter 8
Beau
I've spent years keeping my distance. Building walls. Keeping people out.
One look at her, and every rule I built for myself starts splintering.
She's sitting there with firelight painting gold on her skin, lips parted, eyes wide and dark with something that mirrors the want clawing through me. I can hear the storm battering the cabin walls, wind howling like it's trying to remind me what happens when you let warmth in.
Too late.
I reach for her.
She meets me halfway.
The first brush of her lips is soft, testing. The second is a promise. I taste cocoa and sugar and something I haven't had in a long time—hope.
Her hands slide up my chest, over the flannel, fingers curling in the fabric like she needs to feel that I'm real. My pulse trips. The world narrows to her breath against my neck, the creak of the old floorboards, the way she fits perfectly in my arms when I pull her closer.
She makes a small sound—surprise or pleasure, I can't tell—and it breaks something loose inside me.
I kiss her deeper, my hand sliding into her hair, soft as silk between my fingers. She opens for me, and I'm lost. Her tongue touches mine, tentative then bold, and heat floods through me like I've been standing in snow for years and just found fire.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper against her mouth, giving her one last chance.
She shakes her head, eyes shining. Her hands fist tighter in my shirt. "Don't you dare."
The fire pops, throwing sparks. Snow slams against the window. Somewhere in all that wild noise, I stop pretending I don't need this. Need her.
I stand, pulling her with me, and she comes willingly. Her body presses against mine—soft curves to hard planes, a perfect fit. I walk her backward toward my bedroom, our mouths never breaking contact, hands exploring with increasing urgency.
The door swings open. My room is simple—a large bed covered in a dark quilt, windows showing nothing but white, a lamp casting golden light.
"Beau," she breathes as I back her toward the bed.
"Say my name again."
"Beau." This time it's a plea.
I pull back just enough to look at her—really look. Her hair's mussed from my hands, lips swollen from kissing, cheeks flushed. Beautiful.
More than beautiful.
"You sure about this?" I ask, because I need to know. Need her to want this as much as I do.
"I've never been more sure of anything." Her hands find the buttons of my flannel, fingers trembling slightly. "I want you."
Those three words shred my control.
I help her with my shirt, shrugging it off, and watch her eyes darken as she takes in my bare chest. Her hands spread across my skin, exploratory, leaving trails of fire. I hiss in a breath when her fingers trace the scar across my ribs—old injury, stupid mistake with a saw.
"You're so warm," she whispers.
"You're so soft." I reach for the hem of her sweater. "Can I?"
She nods, raising her arms, and I peel it off slowly. Beneath is a simple white bra that makes my mouth go dry. She's all curves—generous breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Real and perfect and here.
I lower my head, pressing kisses along her collarbone, tasting her skin. She tastes like she smells—vanilla and sugar, with something uniquely her underneath. Her head tips back, exposing the line of her throat, and I work my way down, kissing, tasting, learning her.
When I reach the swell of her breast, I pause, looking up. She's watching me with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing hard.
"More," she says simply.
I reach behind her, unhook her bra, and slide it off. Her breasts are beautiful—full and soft, nipples already tight. I cup one gently, reverently, then lower my mouth to taste.
She gasps, arching into me, her hands sliding into my hair. I lavish attention on one breast then the other, until she's making those small sounds again, the ones that drive me wild.
"Beau, please."
I ease her back onto the bed, following her down, my weight braced on my forearms. She looks up at me with trust and desire, and something in my chest cracks open completely.
I kiss her again, deep and thorough, while my hands work open her jeans. She lifts her hips, helping me slide them down along with her panties—simple cotton that's somehow sexier than anything else could be.
Then she's bare beneath me, and I have to stop and just look.
"You're staring," she says, but she's smiling.
"Can't help it." I trail my hand down her side, over the curve of her hip, along her thigh. Her skin is impossibly soft. "You're perfect."
"Not even close." But she's blushing, pleased.
I kiss her again, swallowing her protest, and let my hand drift between her thighs. She's already wet, ready, and when I touch her, she moans into my mouth.
"Oh God."
I explore slowly, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips lift. She's responsive, unguarded, letting me see every bit of pleasure on her face. When I slide one finger inside her, she clenches around me, and my control wavers.
"More," she pants. "I need more. I need you."
I kiss her once more, then pull back to shed my jeans and boxers. Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me—hard and ready—but there's no fear, only desire.
"Condom," I manage, reaching for the nightstand. Been a long time, but I have them. Always prepared, even when I never expected to need them.
She watches as I roll it on, then opens her arms. "Come here."
I settle between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. She's hot and wet, and it takes every ounce of control not to just thrust home.
"Look at me," I say roughly.
Her eyes meet mine, gold-flecked green, full of trust and desire and something deeper.
I push in slowly, watching her face. She's tight, so tight, and the sensation is overwhelming. Her mouth opens on a silent gasp, her hands gripping my shoulders.
"Okay?" I grit out, holding still even though it's killing me.
"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
I sink deeper, inch by inch, until I'm fully seated inside her. We both groan. She feels like heaven—hot and tight and perfect around me.
"Beau." My name is a plea and a prayer.
I start to move, slow and deep, watching pleasure wash over her face. She meets each thrust, her hips rising, nails digging into my back. The room fills with the sounds of our breathing, the creak of the bed, the slap of skin on skin.
"Harder," she gasps. "Please."
I oblige, increasing my pace, driving deeper. She wraps her legs around my waist, changing the angle, and we both cry out. I can feel her tightening around me, getting closer.
I’m going to explode any fucking moment… but not before she gets hers.
"Touch yourself," I tell her, voice raw.
She does, her hand sliding between us, fingers finding her clit. The sight of her touching herself while I'm inside her nearly undoes me.
"That's it, baby. Take what you need."
Her rhythm becomes erratic, her breathing harsh. I can feel her getting closer, can see it in the flush spreading across her chest, the way her eyes lose focus.
"Beau, I'm—oh God, I'm—"
She comes apart beneath me, crying out, her body clenching around me in waves. The sensation pushes me over the edge. I thrust deep once, twice more, and then I'm coming too, groaning her name, pleasure rolling through me in waves so intense I see stars.
We collapse together, breathing hard, skin slicked with sweat despite the cold outside. I roll to the side, pulling her with me, keeping her close.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Just the sound of our breathing, the crackle of the fire from the other room, the whisper of snow against the window.
"Wow," she finally says, voice soft and satisfied.
I huff a laugh against her hair. "Yeah."
She tilts her head back to look at me, eyes bright, smile tender. "So... that happened."
"No regrets?" I ask, needing to know.
"Not even one." She presses a kiss to my jaw. "You?"
"Best Christmas gift I've ever gotten."
She laughs, the sound warming something deep inside me. Then she snuggles closer, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart.
Outside, the storm continues. But in here, we're warm and safe and together.
And for the first time in years, I don't feel alone.