Chapter 15

ChapterFifteen

Nick

It’s been a long time since I’ve woken with a woman in my arms. Truth be told, I’ve never woken with a woman in my arms. Not like this. Beside me, yes. Close, yes. But never with her chest pressed against mine, her head in the nook of my shoulder, her hand palming the other side of my neck. I’ve never felt the slow, steady puff of breath from a woman’s mouth against my chest in the still of the morning.

Patricia wasn’t one for cuddling. She said I got too hot, and that I snore. Sadie doesn’t seem to mind even if I do get too hot or that I might snore. It’s so early it’s still dark outside, but I can tell the storm has settled. The idea of the storm not keeping her here is terrifying to me. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want her to leave.

I don’t want to spend this holiday alone. Not after having her. Not after kissing her. Not after holding her all night. The idea that she could see the clear skies as the path to escape makes me feel sick inside.

What am I going to do if she decides to leave?

What am I going to do if she calls a taxi and disappears from my life forever? Worse, what am I going to do if she asks me to drive her to the airport?

I have half a mind to make her stay. The other half is seriously considering going outside and cutting down a tree like a lumberjack, offering her an incentive to stay by telling her she can decorate it—giving her something, anything to do so that she doesn’t go.

This tiny woman in my arms has turned my world upside down and inside out in days.

I don’t know what she could do if she had the three weeks she was planning on staying. She would wreck me, destroy my life, change everything. The funny thing is that I want to do all that.

She lets out a little sigh and snuggles in deeper. Like she’s not ready to let go of this, me. I like that—the idea that she wants to cling to me like I want to cling to her. I like it a lot. Too much.

After a baked potato soup—which was fucking delicious—she gave me two options. We could play Yahtzee like old people, because she printed off Yahtzee cards as I certainly didn’t have any. Or we could watch a movie. I’m a dude, a man, so of course, I picked movie.

Of course, she picked some cheesy Hallmark Christmas romance. It was terrible. I suffered through it, and it couldn’t have been that good, because not three quarters of the way in, her head was on my shoulder, and she was asleep.

If I was a better man, I’d have woken her at the end of the movie. But it didn’t. I slid down the couch, taking her with me. I pulled her into my side, her head on my chest, the throw over us, and I let myself have that moment. Then I let myself take the entire night.

As I hold her now, I’m hard as fuck. I want her with a fierceness that I’ve never felt for any other woman in my life.

I want to taste her and lose myself inside her. I’ve taken enough liberties with her already, so I don’t move. I hardly breathe. I’m torn between elation at having her in my arms all night long, and fear of what the day—the clear skies and undoubted sun after the storm will bring.

The wind is silent this morning. The battering of snow against the siding of the house is still. The entire world feels still in this moment.

It’s usually at times like these, alone in this house, that I feel the pointed ache of my loneliness. I don’t feel lonely with this woman here in my arms, though.

I feel like a king who can take on the world.

Shemakes me feel like I can take on the world, anything, anyone.

She fits against me, even though she’s tiny. She’s like the missing piece of the puzzle I’ve been aching to find, searching blindly for.

She sighs and my heart lurches. Sleep is leaving her, and with her awareness she might leave me too. My arm pulses around her waist. It’s involuntary, and I wince. I want to hold her closer, to keep her with me, to roll her onto her back and pin her captive beneath me on the couch—to never let her escape. I want to steal kisses from her mouth and burn my touch into her skin in a way that she’ll wear me forever. Kind of like I wear my scars, etched into me, burned into me by flame.

I wouldn’t mind being the flame that burns her—that etches me onto her skin—into her sighs.

Into every moan, and hope, and dream—into her heart.

I want to etch myself, my name, onto her heart.

I’ve never been this man, thought these thoughts. This is new. I don’t know how I feel about it as she lets out a cute little sound of surprise and—delight?

She lifts her head from my chest, her eyes finding mine. “You’re awake.”

“Mmhmm,” I grunt.

“How long have you been awake?”

“A while,” I admit.

“Oh.” Her cheeks turn pink. “You should have woken me. I would have gotten off you.”

She starts to do just that, and my arm around her waist becomes a band of iron. Her eyes widen in surprise, and I think hope. But maybe I’m reading into things. Seeing things that aren’t there.

Maybe my want for her is starting to cloud my vision.

“I’m in no hurry to get up,” I tell her. The bloom of pink in her cheeks deepens to a blossom of red. She’s exquisite. She’s always stunning, but she’s more so first thing in the morning when sleep and innocence clings to her. She’s never been more arousing as she is when she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and releases it slowly, her teeth sliding across the flesh, marring it red.

Warmth spills into me from the heat in her whiskey eyes as she breathes, “Oh.”

I want to kiss her again. The way she says, ‘oh’ her full lips moving around the word, has the ache in my dick feeling even deeper, more insistent. But I don’t want to scare her away or move faster than she’s ready to move.

I’m not the one that makes the call, though, because before I know it, she’s pushing up over me and dropping her mouth to mine. Even first thing in the morning she tastes like heaven. Like I could sink into her and never come up for air again. Like I could drown in her, in her whiskey eyes, her warm vanilla scent. I give her a minute to control the kiss, teasing the hesitation from her lips before I palm the back of her head, shifting to lower her onto the couch beneath me.

I’ve wanted this woman beneath me more times than I can count in the last few days. Her legs part around my waist, and heat sweeps through my body, viciously, painfully. It’s a sweet agony, a delicious torture. And a low growl rumbles from the deep of my throat in response.

I want more.

She arches her back, the white light of the moon and stars in the last moments of the clear night paint her skin silver. She looks like a goddess, a temptress sent to seduce me—to ruin me. And I couldn’t be more willing.

Her breath hitches as my tongue touches her throat, sliding to that place beneath her ear.

“Nick,” she breathes my name. It’s a rattled plea that I want to do nothing but satisfy—bow down to. She owns me, and she has no idea that I’m hers to do with as she wishes.

She’s caught me in her snare, and I have no desire to break free. Her hands are around my back, her nails biting into my shoulder through my shirt. It’s the first time since the accident that I’ve wanted to take it off with a woman. I want to feel her hands on me. Her nails in my skin. Her touch over my scars.

I’m not ashamed with her. I feel like a man with her, not half a man. I taste no pity in her kiss. I detect no sympathy in her moans. When she drops her head, arching her neck, her chest pushing up into mine, I know she’s genuine. Everything about her is genuine, and again, I find myself thinking that I want to bind her to me—brand her to me—possess her in every way.

I settle for making her come undone beneath me. She’s still in her leggings and the little sweater from the night before. I don’t hesitate as I move my hand beneath the material of her shirt up to her bra. I pull the lobe of her ear between my teeth, gently biting as my hand tugs the cup of her bra down, exposing her breast to my touch. She gasps into the silence as I roll her nipple between my thumb and finger, her body quivering and quaking beneath mine.

She’s so incredibly responsive, so incredibly beautiful, so incredibly tempting.

I could look at her forever under a silver Christmas moon. The image of her brands itself behind my eyelids, and I’m not so far gone under her spell to realize that I’m the one who wants to brand her, and yet she is branding me.

I’m not so far gone to realize that I’m fucked.

“Nick,” she breathes again.

Oh, yeah. I’m fucked.

“Oh my God, Nick.” She’s moving her hips against mine, grinding into me and I groan. The sound is a deep, agonized rumble that I bury in her throat.

I have no doubt if she keeps doing that I’m going to come in my pants. She feels so good. Even with the material between us. I feel like a kid again. Like I’m stealing a moment of passion on the couch in a basement. The only thing missing is a fear that we’re going to get caught.

“Oh my God,” she cries again as I palm her breast, squeezing.

She’s clinging to me, desperate for more. I want to give her what she needs, releasing her breast to move my hand between her legs, under her pants into her panties. She doesn’t stop me, and I don’t hesitate as I slide two fingers deep. Her body jolts, her head coming up, her face pressing into my neck as her nails bite into my back through my sweater. She’s so tight and so wet, so incredibly hot around my fingers. I pump my fingers into her, my thumb moving against her clit expertly.

I want to wreck her—to ruin her for any other man, and I strive to do that as I hook my fingers, finding her g spot. She cries out against me, and the sound is everything. I want more. I want it all. I want to own every moan that falls from this girl’s lips.

I want to command every sigh. I want to worship every orgasm from her body.

I want to own her, because she already owns me.

Her body tightens beneath mine, and before she can come, I pull my hand from her pants. She lets out a sound that has a grin tugging at my lips. She’s frustrated, and horrified, and exquisite in the fading moonlight. We only have an hour or so left of this dark, but I plan on making the most of it, pushing back onto my knees between her legs. My hands hook either side of her pants as my eyes find hers. There’s a question, a silent question that passes between us and she gives a small hesitant nod before I pull her pants down. I can see that she thinks that I’m going to take this all the way—and I want to—but there’s something in her eyes that tells me it’s not the time. Something that holds me back.

But I still want to shatter her. I want to command every ounce of her pleasure, and I want to destroy her for any other who could think to come after me. This is my version of etching myself into her skin, into her memory—into her heart.

I lift her legs over my shoulders, and she lets out a little cry of surprise as she tries to climb away from me on the couch. I hold her hips, pinning her down as I drop my mouth between her legs. The taste of her explodes on my tongue. She’s sweet and just a little salty. Just like her.

I flick my tongue against her clit, and she cries out. Her hands dive into my hair, her fingers curling, her nails biting my scalp.

My dick throbs in my jeans, begging to break free. To sink into her for release and reprieve.

I suck her clit into my mouth, letting my teeth skim over the sensitive flesh as I press two fingers inside her. She cries out my name on a desperate plea and starts to beg incoherently. Her body is trembling and shaking as I work her over, sucking and biting and pumping my fingers deep. It doesn’t take her long to come, to shatter around me. Her thighs clench my face between her legs, as my eyes drag up the length of her body to see her head thrown back.

She really is a siren come to pull me into the deep—to drown me in her whiskey eyes—to free me from the cage of my misery.

I’m not letting her go.

Not after this.

Not ever.

She’s mine.