Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Her low moan sets fire to my blood. “You like having me here?” I whisper, tangling my hand in her hair and giving one soft yank that sends her moaning back in my ear.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Harder, faster, anything.”
I obey. I drive deeper, harder, and her walls clamp around me, a velvet vice that makes me lose my breath. One arm hooks under her hip, lifting her slightly so I can find a rhythm that’s mine and hers. I slip my thumb to her clit again, circling, pinching, flicking, while my other hand fists in her hair or skims over her ribcage, dragging nails lightly over skin that’s mine to mark.
She melts, legs trembling, head thrown back, eyes half–lidded. Every thrust sends a pulse of warmth back into me, until my own senses blur. I feel her come apart beneath me, every shuddering wave vibrating through my cock, and I chase it, burying myself deeper, wanting to give her the release she craves as much as I crave it myself.
My pace picks up. Fingers dig into her ass, hips slamming home with a raw, desperate precision. She whimpers, and I lose it—muscles tensing so hard I swear the floor might shudder. Then I spill inside her, hot and thick, chest heaving as I ride out the last of my need. My thrusts slow, then stop, and I collapse across her back, arms folding around her.
I tuck her under my arm, forehead resting against the nape of her neck. “Sleep, sweetheart,” I whisper, fingers threading through her hair, pressing my face into it. Her palm comes to my chest. In her arms, I can finally lay down every wall I ever built.
For the first time, I feel everything. With Briar, I’m unguarded and alive—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Epilogue
Briar
two months later
Snow makes everything quieter.
Maybe that’s why I wake to the kind of hush that feels unreal, like the whole world has softened overnight. I blink up at the ceiling, warm under layers of blankets, my body tucked against a solid furnace of heat—Saxon. His arm is draped over my waist, heavy and warm, fingers locked loosely against my stomach as if even in sleep he refuses to let go.
Our first Christmas morning as a family.
A smile pulls at my lips before I’m even fully awake.
Saxon shifts behind me, burying his face into the curve of my neck with a low, sleepy groan. “No,” he mutters. “Too early.”
“It might be,” I whisper, “but someone’s going to be up any second now.”
Right on cue—a thump. Then another. Then—
“Mommy! Captain Saxon! It snowed!”
Saxon doesn’t even open his eyes. “Told you.”
Junie bursts into our bedroom without knocking, her hair wild, her slippers mismatched, her excitement about three sizes too big for her tiny body. “It’s Christmas! There’s snow! There are presents! Santa came! He—”
She stops dead in the doorway.
Her eyes widen. “You’re snuggling.”
Saxon’s arm tightens around me. “We are.”
She beams like it’s the greatest gift she’s ever received. “I knew it.”
Saxon finally cracks one eye open, looking at her upside down from where his face is practically buried in my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”
Junie runs and launches herself onto the bed, and while she aims for the spot between us, she overshoots and lands half on Saxon’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
“Oof—Junebug.”
She giggles and hugs him fiercely. Saxon hugs her right back, groaning dramatically while she giggles louder. I watch them with a smile. This big, immovable mountain of a man who once swore he’d never let anyone rely on him again—cradling my daughter like she hung the moon. My heart swells, warm and achy in the best possible way.
“Come on!” Junie squeals. “The tree! The presents! The cocoa! The cinnamon rolls!”
“Cinnamon rolls?” Saxon perks up.
“Yes!” She pats his cheeks like she’s reviving him. “Extra frosting.”
He sits up immediately. “Well, why didn’t you lead with that?”
The living room looks like a snow globe.
Outside the big picture window, Devil’s Peak is blanketed in fresh, unbroken white. The faint glow of sunrise turns everything pinkish and magical. Inside, the Christmas tree twinkles with warm lights, ornaments leaning slightly crooked because Junie “decorated” the lower half to death.
Presents spill out in colorful piles under the branches. Junie gasps when she sees them. Then she looks back at us like she needs confirmation she isn’t dreaming.
Saxon ruffles her hair. “Santa must’ve thought you were pretty damn good this year.”
She giggles. “I’m always good.”
I snort into my coffee.
She whirls. “Most of the time.”
“Better,” I say.
Saxon hands me a mug, brushing his fingers over mine. His touch lingers a second too long, warm enough to send a flush up my cheeks. He does that on purpose—little branded moments of heat that remind me that even though he’s now my husband, the man is still pure danger in slow doses.