Page 14 of Wooing Winter

Orson’s arms encircle me, a tentative hold that feels like he’s ready to let go if I ask him to.

But I don't. Against every ounce of reason, every whisper of caution that flickers through my mind, I lean into his embrace. His lips meet mine in a kiss filled with regret and yearning that makes tears escape my eyes, tracing paths down my cheeks.

I pull back first, breathless and more unsure than ever. "Orson," I start, my voice shaking like the leafless branches tapping against the windowpane behind him. "We can't—it isn't?—”

“What? Tell me. What isn’t it?” Orson implores.

I swallow hard, struggling to put into words the turmoil twisting inside me like a storm. “It isn’t safe,” I finally manage to say. “For either of us. Too much has happened, too many mistakes. You’re asking me to risk my heart when you’ve broken it before.”

Orson nods slowly, pain etched across his features, as if each word I speak is a blow he’s willing to take if only to stand here with me a moment longer. “I know,” he says, gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “But I made a mistake. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

A tiny laugh tinged with bitterness bubbles up from deep inside me. “Everyone says that. You can’t guarantee things won’t fall apart again.” I gaze into his eyes, losing myself momentarily in their depths before reality snaps me back like a frigid gust of wind.

“Winnie,” Orson starts again, his voice steady with determination this time. “Give me a chance to make things right. After the wedding, we’ll leave together, escape our lives, and start something new—just the two of us.”

It's tempting—so tempting that it terrifies me. “And where would we go?” My voice is barely audible over the roar of possibilities and fears colliding within me.

“Anywhere,” Orson says. “Anywhere you’d like. It doesn’t matter where, as long as we’re together.”

Every fiber in my body screams at me to say yes—to flee into the unknown with Orson—but as I look at him in the soft glow from my bedroom lamp, seeing all the love and regret mingling in his hopeful eyes, I realize escaping won't erase our pasts or simplify our futures.

"Running won't change who we are or what we’ve done," I say, steadier now, as resolve solidifies within me like ice over a winter pond. “We’ve been down this road before and didn’t make it for a reason.”

Orson smiles sadly, understanding too well the chaos we've both weathered to get here. “Yes,” he agrees quietly. “But never like this, Winter. Now, we know better. We’re older and have the careers we fought so hard to get.” He leans in once more, and our lips meet again.

This time, I sink into the kiss, allowing myself to feel it all—the pain of past mistakes, the hope for what might still be rectified. We're a tangle of need and forgiveness, wrapped in a silent promise that this time might be different. Can things be different?

Orson’s lips travel from mine, trailing fire across my jaw to the sensitive skin of my neck. Each touch is a spark that kindles deeper desire within me. His hands are bold and seeking under the thin fabric of my t-shirt, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake.

I tangle my fingers in his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer, lost in the intoxicating scent of his skin.

Our breaths mingle, ragged and quickening his fingertips brush against the bare skin of my waist. The room seems to spin slightly, the edges blurring into irrelevance as all that matters is the here and now—Orson and me and the burgeoning need that swells between us. My heart thuds loudly against my chest, a fierce drumbeat echoing in my ears.

As Orson draws back slightly to look at me, a determination sets into his features. "We can reset everything," he whispers, his voice steady and sure. "We can start over right now without forgetting the lessons from the past. Things will be better. I promise, so much will be better this time."

For a heartbeat or three, I let myself consider it—really consider it—the possibility of “us” without the shadows of our former selves looming overhead. Perhaps it is the way he says it—with so much hope—or maybe it is because deep down, I’ve never stopped loving him.

"Ask me tomorrow," I breathe out, afraid to commit to anything more than that.

Orson pulls back again, just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze intense. "I’ve missed you so much, Winnie," he whispers, his voice rough with desire.

Without breaking eye contact, I reach for him, drawing him back to me. “I’ve missed you, too,” I say, affirming what our hearts yearn for.

His lips meet mine again with renewed urgency, and all thoughts of caution are swept away by the surge of emotion that overtakes me.

As we fall together onto the soft quilt of my bed, I feel every wall I've built around myself crumbling under his touch. My mind screams at me to kick him out, to not let myself get caught up in this dangerous game again. But my body disagrees fervently and immediately melts into his embrace, our limbs tangled together like a messy jigsaw puzzle.

Orson's lips find the valley of my breasts, pressing soft kisses that send tingles into my core. His tongue circles my taut nipples, suckling gently, then grazing his teeth as I plead for more. His hands are warm and familiar as they explore long-neglected paths yet thrillingly rediscovered. "I've missed this.” Everything he does feels new but familiar, like a first encounter and a sweet reunion—each touch rekindling flames I thought we'd carefully extinguished years ago.

Caught up in his kiss and the warmth of his body, I try to convince myself that this can be a one-time thing. We’re two souls who loved each other long ago and want to reconnect. If I pretend this is nothing but sex, maybe I can walk away unscathed. But it’s too late for rational thoughts as his mouth feasts on my heaving breasts, like a former addict reunited with his favorite fix.

Orson pauses, his eyes searching mine for a moment that stretches into eternity. "I love you," he says fiercely. It isn't a confession but a reaffirmation—of ten years ago and every moment since that has led us back here.

Perhaps driven by eight years of pent-up longing, Orson slides his hand into my panties and roughly tears them off. I gasp with surprise but quickly surrender in his grasp, our rhythms finding a desperate urgency that feels unstoppable. There’s a frantic desire to make up for every night spent apart. Yet even in hunger, there’s a tenderness—as if each caress is cherished and memorized.

I know I should stop, but as Orson whispers sweet nothings and dirty compliments that make my skin flush with desire, my resolve crumbles, and I shamelessly offer myself, writhing with arousal and singing his praises.

Orson’s hands explore every inch of my trembling body, his lips leaving a trail of fire wherever they land. When he asks if I remember the first time we made love here on this same bed, the night after our senior prom, I can’t bring myself to lie.

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