Page 47 of Cold as Stone
“Especially because we’re both terrified.” His mouth curves in a small smile. “Means it matters.”
When he kisses me, it’s soft at first. A question more than a demand. I answer by melting into him, my hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck.
The kiss deepens gradually, heat building like a slow burn. He tastes like whiskey and every secret I’ve ever wanted to tell. His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my chest.
He shifts me until I’m sitting on his lap, my thighs on either side of his, my chest lined up to his.
His hands map the curve of my waist, the line of my spine, never rushing, never demanding more than I’m giving. When his fingers slip under the hem of my sweater to find bare skin, I shiver at the contact.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my lips.
“More than okay,” I whisper back.
We stay like that for what feels like hours—kissing, touching, talking in whispered fragments between heated moments. He tells me about his first deployment, the way the desert made everything feel both infinite and claustrophobic. I tell him about my first house flip, how I cried when the buyers moved in because it felt like giving away a piece of myself.
We learn each other slowly. The scar on his shoulder from a motorcycle accident when he was nineteen. The way my breath catches when he kisses the spot just below my collarbone. How he laughs when I trace the tattoo on his forearm. How I melt when he says my name as I bite his earlobe.
“Tell me about Portland,” he says after a while, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my arm.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Your life there. Your friends. What made you happy.”
I think about it, surprised to realize how little there is to tell. “I had a nice apartment. A routine. I was good at my job.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I’m quiet, searching for something more substantial. “I had some friends from work. We’d go to happy hour sometimes. I dated a little, but nothing serious. I volunteered at a community garden on weekends.”
“Sounds lonely.”
The observation stings because it’s true. “I didn’t think it was at the time.”
He brushes my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “I told you what I want from this relationship. Now it’s your turn.”
I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in. “I want mornings with you,” I say quietly. “But I want the kind where we argue about who used the last of the cereal and then end up making out in front of the fridge.”
His eyes warm, that hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I want to come home to you, but I also want us to be the kind of couple who knows when we each need space, but still finds a way to reach for each other.”
I brush my thumb along his jaw. “I want to fall asleep with your hand on my hip and your bike outside the door. I want no-shirt Sundays so I can lick your chest.”
He chuckles.
“I want to look up from the bar and see you there, waiting for me. I want…” I swallow, forcing myself to admit what’s in my heart. “I want to know that I’m yours and you’re mine.”
Before he can interrupt, I rush on. “I want to come home to you grumbling about club politics while I hand you a beer. And yeah, I want the hot as fuck sex as well.”
He leans his forehead against mine. “Sounds good to me.”
He kisses me again. Slowly but deeply, this teeth nipping at my bottom lip.
The heat between us ramps up, but to my ever-loving frustration, he keeps us firmly at second base… and above the clothes.
Despite my best efforts, he slows us down.
“Why?” I ask, knowing I sound just the tiniest bit petulant.
