Page 18 of Frosty in Flannel
She was the only thing I wanted.
The only thing I needed.
“That’s it. Take it. This cock is yours.” I looked down where our bodies were joined. Her body stretching to accommodate my size. My fingers dug into her thick thighs and I knew she’d have marks in the morning. But this was it for me. This was the reason I was here. Why I’d survived.
To fuck Libby.
To have Libby.
“Come for me again,” I growled, slamming into her deep. “Let me feel it, Libby.”
She choked on a sob, back arching off the bed as her pussy clenched around me in another climax. It dragged me over with her, my body tensing as I came—deep, hard, groaning her name against her throat as I filled her.
I didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move.
I just stayed there, wrapped around her, breathing hard, heart pounding like I’d just survived another blast.
And maybe I had.
Because for the first time in years, I felt something that wasn’t pain.
I felt... wanted.
Chapter Seven
Libby
I didn’t want to leave the cabin.
Not just because my body still ached in all the best ways from the night—and morning—we’d just had. And not just because the sight Beckett, standing at the stove shirtless and barefoot, was giving me enough to dream about for a year.
It was so domestic it made my heart ache. It scared me a little, too—how quickly my body and heart were starting to believe this could be my new reality.
He moved around the kitchen with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything, and I found myself smiling as I watched him. His hair was still damp from the shower we’d shared—a shower that had turned into something else entirely before he’d dragged us both out with a muttered complaint about the water going cold.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the slow slide of skin against skin in the shower, the slick heat of his palms against my hips. He’d held me like a man who didn’t know how to let go—and now, in the morning light, it was hard to believe that had really happened. I wanted to reach out, to touch him again just to make sure he was real.
“What?” he asked without turning around.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Can you blame me?” I leaned back in the chair. “You’re cooking me breakfast while shirtless. It’s a very nice view.”
His shoulders tensed slightly, but when he glanced back at me, there was something almost shy in his expression.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“You like trouble.”
“Unfortunately.” But he was almost smiling.
He set a plate of pancakes in front of me, then settled into the chair across from mine. For a few minutes, we ate in comfortable silence.
It felt easy. Natural. Like we’d been doing this for years. His knee brushed mine under the table and didn’t move, and for a heartbeat I let myself imagine this was a normal morning in a normal life.
