Chapter 3: More
Her foot was warm against his shoulder, a point of contact that felt more intimate than anything that had come before. It wiggled, just a slight shift of her toes, playful and testing. Katsuki kept his hand over her ankle, his thumb tracing idle circles on the bone. He stared into the dying fire, trying to parse the quiet chaos in his head.
The blanket had slipped down to her waist. She’d made no move to pull it back up. In the dim, orange light, he could see the pale curve of her side, the shadow of her ribcage with each breath. She looked spent, soft. Innocent, almost. But the memory of her shattered cries, the way her body had convulsed under his mouth, was a live wire in his gut. Innocent was the last thing she was.
He felt himself thicken, a heavy, insistent throb against the confines of his sweats. It was a blunt, physical counterpoint to the strange, fragile quiet between them. He shifted slightly on the floor, the rough wool of the rug scratching his thighs.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured from the sofa. Her voice was raspy, worn out.
“Shut up. I’m not thinking at all.”
A soft, breathy laugh. “Liar.” Her foot pressed more firmly into his muscle. “Your shoulders are all tight. You get this stupid little crease right here,” her toes brushed the side of his neck, “when you’re working something over in that thick skull of yours.”
He caught her foot, his fingers wrapping around her instep. He could feel the delicate bones. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you,” she said simply. The statement hung there, undeniable. After tonight, it was truer than it had ever been.
He turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. She was watching him, her white hair fanned out on the cushion, her expression unreadable in the low light. The playful wiggling of her foot, the teasing tone—it was a mask. A brave, flimsy attempt to claw back to familiar ground. But her eyes were dark pools, watching him with a focus that made his skin prickle.
He saw it then. The same want. Not sated, just banked. Simmering beneath the exhaustion. She wasn’t just touching him for comfort. She was testing the water, seeing if the current was still there.
It was. It was a riptide.
He released her foot and stood up in one fluid motion. The sudden movement made her flinch, her eyes widening. He looked down at her, at the way she lay there, covered only to the waist, completely at his mercy. His mercy. The concept was a joke. He had none.
“You’re shivering,” he said, his voice flat.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He leaned over, bracing one hand on the back of the sofa, caging her head. He brought his other hand to her cheek. Her skin was cool. “See?”
She turned her face into his palm, a subtle, cat-like nuzzle. Her eyes never left his. “Your hand is just really hot. You always run hot. It’s annoying.”
He lowered himself slowly, until his knees were on the edge of the sofa cushion, bracketing her hips. He still didn’t touch her with his body, just held her face, his thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek. Her breath hitched. The playful pretense evaporated, leaving the air thick and charged.
“You want more,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. She didn’t deny it. She just stared up at him, her defiance a quiet, waiting thing. “What if I do?”
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “Then you should say it.”
“I already said plenty,” she whispered, a flash of her old fire returning. “You made me say plenty.”
“That was then.” He lowered his head until his lips were a breath from hers. He could feel the warmth, taste the ghost of whiskey and salt on her exhale. “This is now. And I’m not doing a damn thing until you ask for it. Nicely.”
Her eyes blazed. “You are the most infuriating, arrogant, manipulative—”
He kissed her. It was a hard, silencing kiss, all possessive pressure. She melted into it instantly, a small sound of relief vibrating in her chest. Her hands came up, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He let her, let her think she was taking control for a second, before he broke the kiss with a sharp nip to her bottom lip.
“Ask,” he breathed against her mouth.
She was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him. The blanket had fallen away completely. He let his gaze travel down her body, a leisurely, heated inspection that made her skin flush pink. He saw the goosebumps rise on her stomach.
“Katsuki,” she said, his name a strained plea.
“Not good enough.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair, not pulling, just holding on. She closed her eyes, a tremor running through her. When she opened them, the surrender was complete. It wasn’t broken this time. It was offered. “Please. I want you. All of you. Now.”
The words detonated in him. Any last shred of patience incinerated.
He hooked his hands under her knees and yanked her down the sofa, positioning her squarely beneath him. He didn’t bother removing his sweats, just shoved them down his hips, freeing himself. He was painfully hard, the ache from earlier now a furious demand.
He looked down at her, at her parted legs, at the evidence of her own desire glistening on her inner thighs. The sight was almost enough to undo him. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her warmth. He paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
Her eyes were locked on his, wide and dark. She nodded, a tiny, frantic movement.
He drove into her in one deep, relentless thrust.
The sound she made was punched out of her—a sharp, high gasp that melted into a long, shuddering moan. She was so tight, so impossibly hot and wet. He buried himself to the hilt, his forehead dropping to hers as a raw groan tore from his own throat. For a moment, he just stayed there, welded to her, feeling her body clench and flutter around him, adjusting.
“God,” he choked out.
Her legs came up, locking around his lower back, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. The motion broke his stillness.
He began to move. There was no gentle rhythm, no exploratory pace. It was a claiming. Deep, pounding strokes that shoved the sofa a few inches across the wooden floor with each thrust. The sound was obscene—skin slapping against skin, the creak of old springs, their ragged, mingled breaths.
Naomi was everywhere. Her nails scored his back. Her teeth sank into the muscle of his shoulder to muffle her cries. Her hips rose to meet every plunge, matching his ferocity with a desperate, grinding need of her own. This wasn’t him just taking. This was a fight, a collision, a years-long argument finally finding its pure, physical expression.
“Look at me,” he grunted, grabbing a fistful of her hair to tilt her face up.
Her eyes flew open, glazed with pleasure. She looked wrecked, beautiful, his.
“You’re mine,” he growled, the words coming from some primal, uncharted place inside him. He didn’t plan them. He just knew they were true. “All this time. You were always mine.”
Instead of arguing, she surged up, capturing his mouth in a searing, salty kiss. “You were mine,” she gasped against his lips. “Stupid. Arrogant. Mine.”
It was the confirmation, the reciprocation, that sent him over the edge. His control shattered. His thrusts became erratic, brutal, focused solely on chasing the coiling, unbearable pressure in his core. He felt her inner muscles begin to convulse around him, her body bowing off the couch as a silent, breathless scream tore through her.
The sensation shattered him.
He came with a roar, burying himself as deep as he could, spilling into her in hot, pulsing waves. His vision whited out at the edges. He collapsed onto her, his weight driving her into the cushions, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He could feel her heart hammering against his, a frantic, synchronized rhythm.
They lay there, a tangled, sweating heap, the only sound their ragged attempts to breathe. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in deep, pulsating shadows.
Slowly, the world came back. The smell of sex and pine and smoke. The cold air on his sweaty back. The incredible, overwhelming feel of her body beneath his, still joined with his.
He shifted his weight, but her legs tightened around him, holding him in place. “Don’t,” she whispered, her voice thick.
He stilled. After a long moment, he nuzzled into her neck, pressing a clumsy, unexpected kiss to her damp skin. “Heavy,” he muttered.
“You are,” she agreed, but her arms came up around his back, her hands smoothing over the scratches she’d left.
They stayed like that until the chill became insistent. Reluctantly, he pulled out and rolled off her, immediately missing the warmth. He stood on unsteady legs, pulled his sweats back up, and then looked down at her. She looked… liquefied. Blissful. His.
Wordlessly, he bent and gathered her up. She didn’t protest, just curled into his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder. He carried her to the bedroom this time, to the bed with its thick quilts. He laid her down, then crawled in beside her, pulling the covers over them both.
She turned immediately, slotting her back against his front, his body curving around hers. His arm draped over her waist, his hand splaying possessively on her stomach. Her smaller hand came up to cover his.
Outside, the wind had finally died. The world was utterly silent, buried under the snow.
Her breathing evened out into sleep. Katsuki lay awake, staring at the dark shape of her hair against the pillow. The words echoed in his head, quieter now, but indelible.
You were always mine.
And for the first time, the victory didn’t taste like ashes. It tasted like a beginning, terrifying and real, and he held onto it, and her, as the last of the embers faded to black.
He fell into a black, dreamless sleep, still wrapped around her. It was the deepest rest he’d had in years. The pale, snow-brightened light of morning was slicing through the gaps in the curtains when he stirred. His body was warm, heavy with satisfaction. She was a soft weight against his chest, her breathing deep and even.
His hand, which had been splayed possessively over her stomach, had drifted lower in the night. It rested now between her thighs, his fingers curled naturally into the warmth there. The memory of the previous night, vivid and raw, ignited in his blood. He smiled into the mess of her white hair, a slow, lazy thing.
He began to move his fingers, a subtle, circling pressure through the soft thatch of curls. She shifted in her sleep, a faint sigh escaping her. He increased the pressure, his touch firm and knowing. He felt her body respond, growing damp against his fingertips even in the depths of sleep.
He pressed one finger inside, then a second, sinking into her incredible heat. He curled them, a slow, insistent wake-up call.
Naomi woke with a gasping moan, her body arching back into his before her eyes even fluttered open. Her hand flew down, gripping his wrist, but she didn’t pull him away. She held him there.
“Morning,” he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He nuzzled the shell of her ear, his fingers still working in that gentle, relentless rhythm. “You were making this little noise. Sounded needy.”
“Bastard,” she breathed, but it was a weak, thready thing. Her hips tilted, granting him deeper access. “This is how you wake people up?”
“You got a better idea?” He nipped her earlobe, his own body hardening against the swell of her backside. “You’re already wet. Thinking about me in your sleep?”
She turned her head, her cheek grinding into the pillow. Her eyes were hazy, unfocused from sleep and instant, pooling desire. “Shut up. Just… don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He worked her with a focused, leisurely pace, his fingers stroking that perfect spot inside her until her breathing fractured into sharp little pants. He watched her face, the way her mouth fell open, the flutter of her eyelids. He felt the tell-tale tightening around his fingers, the quickening pulse within her.
Then he stopped, pulling his hand away completely.
She whined, a desperate, frustrated sound, and tried to twist onto her back to look at him. He used the arm under her to hold her firmly in place, spooned against him.
“Katsuki, I swear to god—”
“What?” he teased, his tone light and infuriating. He brought his wet fingers to her lips, painting them with her own arousal. “You want something? Use your words, Kino.”
She caught his fingers in her mouth, sucking them clean with a deliberate, filthy glare over her shoulder. The sight shot straight to his groin. “I want you to finish what you started, you manipulative asshole.”
“Demanding.” He released her and rolled onto his back, lacing his hands behind his head. The quilt pooled at his waist. “So do it yourself. Show me how much you want it.”
She stared at him, at his casual sprawl, the clear outline of his erection tenting the sheets. Her eyes narrowed. For a second, he thought she might actually hit him. Then, with a sharp, frustrated exhale, she shoved the covers back.
The morning light washed over her, highlighting the faint bruises on her hips, the old scratches on his back from her nails. She moved with a deliberate, furious grace, kneeling over his thighs. She didn’t look at his face. Her gaze was locked lower.
She took him in hand, guiding him to her entrance. She sank down slowly, a sharp hiss escaping her as she stretched to accommodate him. Her head fell back, her white hair cascading down her spine.
The feeling was blinding. He had to grit his teeth, his hands fisting in the sheets to keep from bucking up into her. He wanted to watch this. She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips, her hands braced on his stomach. Her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.
Her eyes opened. They were dark, defiant, and utterly vulnerable. She maintained the eye contact as she rose and fell, each movement a little faster, a little less controlled. He could see the pleasure building in the tremor of her lips, the flush spreading down her chest.
He let her set the pace, let her use him, until her movements became frantic and clumsy. Her breath hitched. He saw the exact moment her control snapped.
Only then did he move. He sat up in a burst of motion, wrapping his arms around her and flipping her onto her back in one fluid motion. He drove into her, reclaiming the rhythm, deeper and harder than she could manage on her own.
“My turn,” he growled against her mouth.
This time, when she came, he was already there with her, swallowing her cry as his own release tore through him, leaving them both shaking and hollowed out.
Later, they lay in a tangle of damp limbs and quiet. The room was bright now, the silence of the snowbound world absolute. He traced the line of her shoulder with a single finger.
“The roads will be clear by this afternoon,” he said, his voice oddly neutral.
She stiffened almost imperceptibly against him. “Yeah. Probably.”
“We should talk about this.” The words felt foreign and clumsy in his mouth.
She turned her head to look at him. Her expression was guarded, the earlier vulnerability locked away behind a familiar, sharp wit. “Talk about what? The fact that you’re surprisingly decent in bed for someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon? Noted.”
He scowled. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” She pushed herself up on one elbow, the sheet falling to her waist. Her hair was a spectacular mess. “Because it feels like we just spent twelve hours not talking about it pretty effectively.”
He sat up, facing her. The space between them on the rumpled sheets felt suddenly vast. “So what happens when we leave here?”
Naomi looked away, out the window at the blinding white landscape. She chewed her lip. “I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice small. “Do you… want something to happen?”
The question hung there. He, who always had an answer, a plan, a victory to claim, felt utterly unequipped. Wanting her was a constant, a fact of his existence. Everything else was uncharted, terrifying territory.
Before he could formulate a reply, a loud, metallic bang echoed from the direction of the front door. Then another. Someone was shoveling the porch.
Reality, cold and insistent, crashed back in.
Their eyes met, wide with the same startled understanding. The world was coming back. The cabin’s spell was breaking.
“Shit,” they said in unison.
The banging continued, cheerful and relentless.
The banging continued, cheerful and relentless.
Katsuki and Naomi froze, a shared jolt of panic snapping between them like a live wire. Their sanctuary of pine and quiet was being invaded by the scrape of a metal shovel on wood. The real world, with its expectations and complications, was digging its way in.
“They’re early,” Naomi hissed, already scrambling from the bed. Her movements were frantic, uncoordinated.
“No shit,” Katsuki barked, rolling out on the other side. His mind raced, calculating the evidence strewn across the cabin. The torn nightdress by the hearth. The empty whiskey glass. The sofa, conspicuously askew from the wall. The whole place smelled like sex and poor decisions.
They moved in a chaotic, silent ballet of panic. Naomi snatched his discarded black sweatshirt from the floor and yanked it over her head. It drowned her, the hem hanging past her thighs. Katsuki grabbed the first thing he saw—a soft, grey long-sleeve that was definitely hers—and wrestled it on. The fabric strained across his shoulders and ended high on his forearms.
“Pants, find pants,” he muttered, hopping on one foot as he pulled his sweats up.
Naomi was already stepping into her jeans, her back to him. They bumped into each other spinning around, both scowling, a tangle of limbs and urgency.
“Watch it, you ogre!”
“You’re the one taking up the whole damn floor, midget!”
They pushed past each other, then stopped. They both stared. His broad chest was constrained by the delicate grey cotton, the sleeves ridiculously short. She was swimming in his bulky black sweatshirt, the collar slipping off one shoulder.
A snort escaped her first. Then a choked laugh burst from him. It was a short, sharp sound of pure, absurd recognition.
“We’re idiots,” she giggled, her anger evaporating.
“Swap,” he said, already pulling the grey shirt over his head. They switched garments in the middle of the room, their fingers brushing in the hurried exchange. The simple correction felt strangely intimate, a silent cooperation amid the chaos.
They finished dressing in sync, a new efficiency driving them. Katsuki righted the sofa with a grunt, shoving it back into its impression on the rug. Naomi snatched up the torn fragments of cotton and stuffed them deep into her own duffel bag. She threw open a window a crack, letting the biting cold air rush in to dilute the scent in the room.
He gathered the glasses and bottle, dumping them in the kitchen sink just as a heavy knock landed on the front door.
Their eyes met across the main room. The space between them was now just a normal, messy cabin. The only remaining proof was the heat in their own skin, the memory in their muscles. The knocking came again, impatient.
Naomi smoothed her hair, took a deep breath that didn’t quite steady her, and walked to the door. Katsuki stood behind her, his hands in his pockets, forcing his face into its usual scowl. It felt like the weakest performance of his life.
She unlocked and pulled the door open.
Blinding white light and a gust of freezing air flooded in. Old Man Henderson stood on the porch, cheeks ruddy, his plaid jacket dusted with snow. “Mornin’! Road crew’s been through. Told you I’d dig you out first thing.”
“Mr. Henderson,” Naomi said, her voice impressively even. “You’re a lifesaver.”
The old man’s eyes crinkled, glancing past her to Katsuki. “Hope the storm didn’t leave you two too stir-crazy. Cabin fever can make people act a little… strange.”
Katsuki felt a flush creep up his neck. “It was fine.”
“We managed,” Naomi added quickly, a little too high. She stepped back to let the cold air fill the space between them and the outside world. “Thanks again. We’ll, um, we’ll get our stuff together.”