Page 53 of Snowbound
If only real life had the happily ever afters I write.
But for now?
I’ll take the next chapter.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Owen
The lights blink red,then green. Her sweater's crooked, one shoulder bare. Her hair is a mess, lips parted, and she smiles. That real one. The one I haven’t seen in weeks, maybe longer, as if it surprises her to be happy.
We strung up lights around the windows and found old ornaments in a box marked “trash” that she refused to throw out. One was a one-eyed teddy bear she insisted on keeping. So cute.
And now? She stands between the firelight and the tree, flushed and glowing like some kind of miracle. Like Christmas finally came for me.
“I can’t believe that word count!” she tells me, with this dazed kind of triumph, her eyes glassy from too much focus. She bends her neck like she’s got a crick from sitting in bed too long.
“Must be the sex,” I mumble into my mug of coffee. “Yer Irish cabana boy at your service.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t stifle the giggle.
But she doesn’t walk away.
Snow starts falling again. Fat flakes smear the glass, dulling the world outside into grayscale, and she releases a breath, as if relieved, and I’m not sure why.When she starts rubbing her arms with her hands, I pull her closer.
"You cold, love?”
She nods, but it's a lie. She just wants to be closer, and I’m happy to oblige.
“I love when you say that.”
“Love?”
“Mmm. I know where you’re from that doesn’t mean anything, but?—”
“Shhh.” I press my finger to her lips. “It absolutely does. Just because it’s used freely and often doesn’t mean it’s a throwaway word forme.”
Her eyes shine at me. I kiss her cheek.
“You need a break now. It’s dinnertime.”
“Mmm. I’m starving,” she whispers, but doesn’t move.
My hands are warm when they slide under her sweater, my palms rough against the soft swell of her belly, the gentle curve of her bare breasts. Her breath hitches, and she arches, gasping.Holy hell, the sounds she makes.
I press her back against the window, large snowflakes still falling.
"Owen…" Her voice cracks, and fog blooms around her shoulders. I watch it mist the glass behind her, every exhale marking the spot where our bodies push heat into winter.
"No one's out there," I say, nudging her thighs apart. My mouth is on her neck, my voice inside her ear. "But if they were… they'd see who you belong to."
She whimpers, but doesn’t protest.
The tree lights blink red again, then green, casting our skin in color, our reflections twitching across the window—her bare thigh, my knuckles at her waist, her palms flattened to the glass like she needs the cold to stay standing.
She melts into me… ready. When I push into her wet heat, she holds my gaze, daring me to make her mine again.
Each thrust makes the glass shiver—not enough to break—just enough to remind her who she’s with. Where she is. What she means.
