Chapter 5: First Snow, First Time
He didn’t answer with words. He just pushed his door open, the cold rushing in like an unwelcome guest, and came around to her side. He opened her door, offering his hand. His palm was warm and dry against her chilled skin. The cabin’s single light from the window pooled on the snow, creating a golden path to the door.
He led her up the steps, onto the porch. The wood, dusted with a fresh, fine layer of snow, creaked under their weight. He fumbled with the keys, the metal jangling in the silent, star-flecked dark. Sierra watched him, the focused set of his jaw, the way his breath plumed in rapid little clouds. He was nervous. It was adorable.
The key turned, the lock clicked, and he pushed the heavy wooden door inward, revealing the warm, fire-lit interior she remembered. The scent of pine and old books and him washed over her.
But he stopped on the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, blocking her entry slightly. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable in the shadows. “Sierra.”
“Yeah?”
“This… inside. It is where I… live. It is not just a place.” His voice was low, strained. “You understand?”
She did. This wasn’t a hotel room. It was his sanctuary, the place where his quiet weighed heaviest. Letting her in was a different kind of surrender. She smiled, a soft, understanding curve of her lips. Instead of answering, she placed her hands flat on his chest. Then she pushed.
Not hard. Just enough to make him take a step back.
Off the porch.
Into the ankle-deep snow that covered the clearing in front of the cabin.
He let out a grunt of surprise, his boots crunching through the icy crust. “What—”
She stepped off the porch after him, ignoring the immediate cold that seared through her thin boot soles. The world was monochrome and brilliant, bathed in the milky light of a near-full moon. Snowflakes had begun to fall again, fat and slow, catching in her eyelashes.
“You’re thinking too much,” she said, her voice barely a whisper in the vast white quiet. “All that weight. All that quiet.” She closed the distance between them, the snow silencing her steps. “Let’s get messy first.”
She reached up, her cold fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled his face down to hers.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was a collision. A release. All the pent-up tension from the truck, from the dinner, from the weeks of charged glances in her studio, exploded out of him. His arms locked around her back, crushing her against the solid wall of his body. Her lips parted under his, and the taste of him—vodka and crisp air and something uniquely, essentially Lesha—flooded her senses. He kissed like he was starving, like he was trying to absorb her through his skin.
She met him with equal fervor, her teasing confidence melting into raw need. Her back arched into him, her breasts pressed against his chest. One of his hands came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicted the fierce possession of his mouth.
They stumbled, boots slipping on the hidden ground, and he steadied them without breaking the kiss. The snow fell, dusting their hair and shoulders with silver. The cold was a distant phantom, irrelevant against the heat they were generating. A low moan vibrated in his chest, and she swallowed the sound, claiming it.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, their breath mingled in a frantic, shared cloud. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes wide, pupils blown black in the moonlight. He was looking at her as if she’d rewritten the universe.
“See?” she panted, a grin spreading across her kiss-swollen lips. “Not so heavy out here.”
He shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. “You are impossible.”
“You’re welcome.” She shivered then, a full-body tremble that was only partly from the cold. The electric charge between them was still arcing, making her nerves sing. “Okay. Now I’m freezing. Your turn to lead.”
He didn’t need telling twice. In one swift motion, he bent and hooked an arm behind her knees, lifting her against his chest. She let out a surprised squeak, linking her arms around his neck. He carried her the few steps back onto the porch, through the open door, and kicked it shut behind them with a heavy thud that echoed in the small space.
The warmth of the cabin was a physical shock after the biting cold. The fire crackled in the hearth, painting the room in dancing amber light. He didn’t set her down. He stood there in the center of the room, holding her, just looking at her face. The vulnerability was back, but it was edged now with a fierce, unmistakable want.
“Boots,” she murmured, nodding towards her feet. “They’re getting snow all over your floor.”
He knelt, still cradling her, and set her gently on the thick rug before the fire. He kneeled in front of her, his hands going to the zipper of her left boot. His fingers, though slightly clumsy with cold or nerves, were careful. He pulled the boot off, then her sock, his warm palm cradling her chilled foot. He did the same with the other, his touch methodical, reverent. Then he stood to remove his own.
She stood up, the wool of the rug prickling against her bare feet. The firelight played over his face as he turned back to her. They were both damp, sprinkled with melting snow.
“Come here,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky register.
He obeyed, stepping into the space she commanded. She reached for the buttons of his coat, her fingers working them open slowly. She pushed the heavy material off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a damp thud. His henley was damp at the collar from the snow. She gathered the fabric in her fists and pulled it up and over his head. He raised his arms, letting her undress him, his eyes never leaving hers.
His torso was exactly as she’d imagined: lean, powerfully built, with the hard planes and scars of a life lived roughly. A faint trail of dark hair led from his navel down into the waistband of his jeans. She splayed her hands over his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy drum of his heart under her palms. His skin was hot.
“Your turn,” he rasped, his hands coming up to hover near the buttons of her silk blouse.
She shook her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Uh-uh. My show.” She took his wrists and placed his hands back at his sides. “Just watch. And learn.”
She made a performance of it. Slowly, teasingly, she undid each small pearl button of her blouse, revealing an inch of skin at a time. The firelight gilded her collarbone, the swell of her breasts held in lace. She saw his jaw tighten, his hands clench into loose fists at his sides. When the blouse was fully open, she shrugged it off. It whispered to the floor.
He stared, his breathing audible now. She reached back, unhooked her bra, and let it fall away.
A strangled sound escaped him. He was utterly still, a statue carved from desire.
“Touch,” she whispered.
His hands came up as if pulled by magnets. They were rough, calloused, but his touch was devastatingly gentle. He cupped the full weight of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, which hardened instantly under his gaze and his touch. A shudder ran through him.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, the words sounding ripped from him. “It is… not fair.”
She laughed, a low, rich sound. “All’s fair.” She stepped into him, pressing her bare skin against his. The contact was electric. She kissed him again, slower now, deeper, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her waist, coming to rest on the swell of her hips. He held her like she was something rare and fragile, even as his body strained against hers.
She broke the kiss, her lips trailing down his jaw to his throat. She felt his pulse hammering against her mouth. “Jeans,” she muttered against his skin. “Off. Now.”
He fumbled with his belt, his usual coordination gone. She helped, pushing his hands aside and making quick work of the buckle and button. She pushed the denim and his boxer briefs down over his hips in one motion. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
He stood before her, fully revealed in the firelight. He was beautifully, frankly aroused. She let her gaze travel over him, taking her time, a small, approving smile on her face. She saw the flush spread down his chest.
“Don’t be shy,” she murmured, wrapping her hand around him. He was hard, smooth, hot as a brand in her cool grip. He gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. “See? Perfect.”
She guided him backwards until his calves hit the low sofa. “Sit.”
He sat, his eyes dark pools of need. She stood before him, a goddess in the firelight, and began to unbutton her tight black pants. She peeled them down her legs, along with her lace underwear, stepping out of them with a grace that held him spellbound.
Then she smiled, a wicked, delighted glint in her ice-blue eyes. “You know,” she said, her voice playful, “you’ve been so good. So attentive.” She took a single step forward, placing a knee on the cushion on either side of his hips, but instead of lowering herself onto him, she shifted her weight, moving up his body. She straddled his chest, her thighs framing his shoulders.
His brow furrowed in confusion, his hands coming up to steady her hips.
She leaned down, her hair creating a private, perfumed curtain of lemongrass and vanilla around their faces. Her plush lips brushed his ear. “I want you to make me come. Just with your mouth.” She whispered it like a secret, a wicked promise. “Can you do that for me, Lesha?”
The request, so blunt, so bold, seemed to short-circuit his brain for a second. Then a new kind of intensity flooded his features—not just want, but determination. A challenge accepted.
He nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. “Yes.”
“Good boy.”
She maneuvered herself higher, settling her weight over his face. He understood instantly. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her firmly as she lowered herself onto his waiting mouth.
The first intimate touch of his tongue made her cry out, a sharp, sweet sound that echoed in the quiet cabin. He was inexperienced, but he was a quick study, and he was utterly, devotedly focused on her pleasure. He listened to her gasps, her choked whispers of “there” and “yes, like that,” and he obeyed. His hands explored the curves of her ass, kneading gently, holding her close.
The sensations built, a slow, coiling heat that started deep in her belly and spread outwards. She rocked against him, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, just holding on. The room dissolved into the crackle of the fire, the sound of her own breathless moans, and the relentless, perfect pressure of his mouth and tongue.
When it crashed over her, it was a deep, rolling wave, not a sharp peak. She shuddered, her thighs clamping around his head, a long, low cry tearing from her throat. She collapsed forward, her hands braced on the back of the sofa, trembling.
He held her through it, gentle, relentless, until the last tremor subsided. Only then did he ease his grip, letting her slide off him onto the cushions beside him. She was boneless, sated, a sheen of sweat cooling on her skin.
She turned her head to look at him. His mouth was glistening, his breathing ragged. He looked utterly wrecked, and utterly proud.
She reached out a shaky hand, cupping his cheek. “See?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Shared pleasure.”
A slow, real, unguarded smile spread across his face, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen on him. He leaned down, kissing her softly, letting her taste herself on his lips. It was intimate beyond anything she’d planned.
The night, she knew, was far from over. The fire was burning down, but the heat between them was just beginning to build.
She curled into his side, her head on his shoulder, and watched the embers glow, feeling, for the first time, the heavy quiet of his cabin not as a weight, but as a shelter. His arm was solid around her, his skin cooling where the firelight didn’t reach. Her own breathing had slowed, but a different, familiar energy was already stitching itself back together in her veins, tingling and insistent.
She tilted her head up, nipping softly at the line of his jaw. He hummed, a low, contented sound that vibrated through her cheek. She shifted, turning her body into his, and kissed him. It was slow, deep, and unhurried, a rediscovery of the shape of his mouth without the frantic pressure of the snow. Her tongue swept against his, tasting the lingering trace of her own pleasure, a uniquely intimate flavor that made her sigh into him.
Her hand drifted down, skating over the flat plane of his stomach. She felt him tense, then consciously relax under her touch. Her fingers traced lower, through the coarse dark hair, and wrapped around him. He was still impressively hard, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cooling air of the room. It nudged against her thigh as she moved.
She broke the kiss, a giggle escaping her. “Someone’s still very eager,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. She gave him a gentle, teasing squeeze.
He groaned, a raw, helpless sound. His hips bucked once, involuntarily, into her fist. “Sierra.”
“Shhh,” she soothed, kissing the corner of his mouth. “No thinking. Just feeling.” She pushed lightly at his shoulder, guiding him to lie back fully on the wide sofa cushions. She followed him down, not breaking contact, her body slotting alongside his. She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. The fire painted his skin in gold and deep shadow, highlighting the desperate clench of his abdomen, the stark line of his arousal against his stomach.
“My turn for a taste,” she said, her voice a husky promise.
She kissed a trail down his chest, her lips and tongue exploring the landscape of scars and muscle she’d only glimpsed before. She took her time, feeling him shiver under her. When she finally reached his navel, she glanced up. His head was thrown back, eyes screwed shut, every cord in his neck standing out in sharp relief. His hands were fisted at his sides, knuckles white.
“Look at me, Lesha.”
His blue eyes flew open, glazed with a struggle she found utterly captivating. He was fighting for control, and he was losing, and he knew it.
She held his gaze as she lowered her head. Her first touch was a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of him. He jerked, a hissed Russian curse filtering through his teeth. She smiled against his skin, then let her tongue slowly, deliberately, trace the thick vein along the underside from root to tip.
A full-body tremor wracked him. His hand came up to touch her hair, but instead of gripping, his fingers just splayed there, trembling.
“So responsive,” she murmured, her words a hot puff of air against his wet skin. She nuzzled further down, her tongue dipping to explore the tight, heavy weight of his balls. The choked-off sound he made was pure, unraveling need. She licked a slow, broad stripe back up, savoring the salt and musk and pure himness of it, the way his entire body bowed off the cushions.
“You’re… you will…” he gasped, his English fracturing.
“I will what?” she asked innocently, swirling her tongue around the head. She took him into her mouth, just an inch, humming softly.
“I cannot… hold…” His confession was ripped out, agonized and honest. His hips twitched upwards, but he forced them still, a visible war playing out in the rigid tension of his thighs. He was trying so hard, so beautifully hard, to last. It was the most endearing thing she’d ever witnessed.
She released him with a soft pop. “Then don’t hold,” she whispered, looking up the length of his body. Her fingers traced feather-light circles on his inner thighs. “This isn’t a test. Let go.”
She took him deep then, her mouth a hot, wet slide. Her hand worked the base in rhythm, her tongue doing wicked, clever things she knew he’d never felt before. She lost herself in the symphony of his reactions—the guttural moans, the way his abdominal muscles fluttered, the desperate clutch of his hand in her hair that was somehow still gentle.
His control shattered. His cry was short, sharp, and torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips lifted, driving himself into her mouth as he pulsed, once, twice, a third time, a hot, salty rush. She took it all, swallowing gently, riding out the aftershocks that shuddered through him until he collapsed back, utterly spent, breath sawing in and out of his lungs.
She crawled back up his body, settling her weight on top of him. She kissed his sternum, his throat, finally his mouth. He kissed her back, slow and dazed, his hands coming up to frame her face.
“That,” he breathed against her lips, his voice wrecked, “was not fair.”
“Told you,” she smiled, nuzzling his nose. “All’s fair.” She rested her cheek on his chest, listening to the wild, slowing gallop of his heart. The fire had crumbled to glowing coals, but the room felt incandescent. Outside, the silent, snowy world waited, but in here, for now, the quiet was just a blanket, and the loneliness was a forgotten ghost.