Chapter 13: Dawn Claiming
Cass woke to a low, familiar heat pressed against the small of her back. It took her sleep-drunk brain a moment to place it: the solid, insistent weight of him, even in sleep. It was the same as last night, a half-hard promise against her spine. But the fog of the brandy and uncertainty was gone, burned away by the clarity of a decision made in the dark.
She held still, listening. His breathing was deep and even behind her, his arm a heavy, warm band across her waist. The room was silent, bathed in the deep indigo of pre-dawn. The single candle on the desk had long since guttered out, leaving only the faint, grey light from the window filtering through the frost.
This time, she didn’t freeze. This time, she leaned into the sensation.
Slowly, deliberately, she arched her back, a subtle press of her hips backward. The soft cotton of her sweatpants did nothing to mute the feel of him, the firming length of him.
A soft, involuntary sound escaped him, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated against her back. His conscious mind was still asleep.
But his body wasn’t. One hand splayed across her abs over her sweatshirt, fingers pressing possessively into the firm muscle beneath the soft cotton. His other hand slid up, palm cupping the full weight of her breast through the fabric, his touch blunt and certain even in slumber.
Cass froze, her own breath catching. She’d expected him to wake, to sputter an apology. This unthinking claim was different.
It was electric.
She ground again, harder this time, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that pressed her backside firmly against his now rigid length. A sharp inhale hissed through his teeth, but his eyelids remained closed, his breathing deepening. He held her to him tighter, his arm banding like iron, pulling her flush against the solid, sleep-warmed length of his body. Asleep.
She did it again, the friction a sweet, building burn. Her own body was awakening, a pooling heat answering his. His hand on her breast kneaded gently, his thumb brushing over her nipple, which hardened instantly against the worn sweatshirt material.
He murmured something garbled and nonsense into her hair, his hips making a small, reflexive thrust. The gesture was pure, unedited instinct. It stole the air from her lungs.
For a few suspended minutes, it became a strange, secret dance. She would move, and his sleeping body would answer—a tightening grip, a shift of his hips, the rough pad of his thumb circling again. The room was cold everywhere except where they were fused together, a sanctuary of shared heat under the thin blanket. The faint scent of old paper and yesterday now mingled with something warmer, something uniquely their own.
Finally, she stilled, her heart hammering against his palm. She needed to think, but thought was a distant country. The rational part of her mind, the one that managed routines and expectations, was offline. All that remained was sensation, and the dizzying knowledge that this quiet, brilliant man wanted her with a rawness he couldn’t even censor in his dreams.
Carefully, she slipped her phone from under the pillow. The screen’s blue light was a stark invasion in the dark room. She opened her messages to Maya. Her thumbs hovered.
Telling her would make it real. It would also make it hers.
She typed quickly, the words tumbling out in a hushed, frantic confession.
Cass: Okay so. Woke up again. Same situation. Except this time I… didn’t move away.
She hit send. Almost instantly, three dots appeared, vibrating with Maya’s anticipation.
Cass shifted just slightly, and Liam’s arm pulled her back instantly, his face nuzzling into the nape of her neck. She could feel the smile on her own face, wide and foolish in the dark.
Maya’s reply came.
Maya: AND??? Don’t you dare leave me hanging Blackwood. Is he awake? Details. Now.
Cass took a picture of the window, the frost feathers glittering in the tentative dawn light. She sent it, then typed her reply, her words final and full of a quiet, thrilling surrender.
Cass: No. Still asleep. But his hands aren’t. And neither am I.
The phone vibrated softly in her hand, a frantic pulse. Maya’s reply was instantaneous.
Maya: YOU MINX. Is he… as hard as last night... Or as he was during truth or dare?
Cass’s breath fogged the screen as she typed, her hips moving in a slow, relentless circle against him.
Cass: Oh, it’s the truth or dare version. Believe me.
The reply was instantaneous.
Maya: PROOF. For science. And my poor, deprived imagination.
Liam let out a soft, ragged sigh, his hips pushing forward into the curve of her backside as if seeking more. His hand slid from her breast, down over her ribs, coming to rest low on her stomach, fingers splayed. The pressure pinned her gently, a half-claim. She could feel every rigid, defined inch of him, a searing line of heat even through two layers of fabric. She arched, pressing back to meet him, and he made a raw, hungry sound into her neck that didn’t sound like sleep at all.
She fumbled with her phone, her own breathing uneven. She angled the camera down, over the slope of her shoulder, past his arm wrapped around her. The flash was off, but the screen’s light caught the stark outline of the blanket tented over his hips, the pronounced, unmistakable ridge pressed against her. She sent it, her thumb slick on the screen.
For a long moment, there were only the three pulsing dots. Then Maya’s verdict came.
Maya: Holy shit. You’re a saint for not turning around. Or a monster. I can’t decide.
Cass bit her lip to stop a wild laugh from escaping. She was neither. She was just achingly awake, every nerve hyper-attuned to the sleeping man holding her. She ground back again, a slower, more purposeful rotation, and his arm convulsed around her waist, pulling her so tightly against him she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. His forehead dropped to her shoulder blade, his breathing harsh and warm through the thin sweatshirt.
She typed with one shaky hand.
Cass: What do I DO? He’s not awake. Not really.
Maya’s answer was a bullet.
Maya: Wake him up. Obviously. But like… creatively.
Cass stared at the words. The room was getting lighter, a steel-grey wash seeping around the edges of the blinds. She could see the chaos of his desk now, the stacked books, the empty mug. The ordinary world was intruding. This strange, suspended night was ending. Liam shifted, his body a solid wall of heat behind her, and his hand flexed on her stomach, dipping just slightly beneath the waistband of her sweats. The calloused tips of his fingers brushed the bare skin of her lower abdomen.
She stopped breathing.
His touch was an electric jolt, a silent question. He was still lost in some dream, but his body was asking for permission. She didn’t move away. She pressed back into him, one more time, a full-body whisper. A shudder ran through him, and his fingers curled, gripping the soft flesh just above her hipbone, holding her there as if she might vanish.
Her phone buzzed, lighting up in her hand.
Maya: Well? Did you wake the beast?
Cass looked at the message, then at the window, then at the strong hands splayed possessively low on her body. The line between his dream and her reality was dissolving.
She pressed back once more, a deliberate, slow roll of her hips, and his entire body went rigid against her. His arm locked around her waist like a steel cable, pulling her in so tightly her breath hitched.
"Mm," he groaned, the sound thick and drowsy against her neck.
It wasn't quite a word, but it was awareness. His hand slid lower, his broad palm pressing flat against her stomach beneath the sweatshirt, his fingers curling into the waistband of her sweatpants. The drag of his calloused skin on her bare belly was a lightning strike.
She tried to shift, to turn just an inch and see his face. The movement was instinctive.
He only held on tighter. His forearm was a firm bar across her ribs, his other hand anchoring her hip. The more she ground and moved, the tighter Liam held her. He was holding her tight enough right now she couldn't turn to face him. She was pinned against the solid wall of his chest, trapped by his sleepy, overwhelming strength.
He didn't answer with words. He answered by dragging his nose along the sensitive cord of her neck, his stubble a delicious abrasion. His hips moved in a slow, answering rhythm against her backside, a lazy, half-conscious mirror of her own motion. The thick ridge of him, still confined in his own sweatpants, pressed insistently into the cleft of her ass.
Her phone, forgotten in her hand, buzzed again. The screen lit up the space between their bodies with a cold, electric glow.
Maya: Hello? Did you die? DID HE WAKE UP?
Cass stared at the glowing words. DID HE WAKE UP? Her thumbs moved over the screen, clumsy with the conflicting urges to stay perfectly still and to tell Maya everything.
Cass: Not yet. But it's close. The more I grind and move the tighter Liam holds me. He's holding me tight enough right now I can't turn to face him.
She sent it, the message whooshing into the digital ether just as Liam made another low sound. This one was less a sigh and more a grunt of effort, his biceps flexing against her ribs in a taut, unconscious strain. The phone buzzed instantly.
Maya’s reply was a single, blazing line.
Maya’s reply was a single, blazing line.
Maya: WELL DAMN BITCH, DO MORE GRINDING OR SOMETHING. YOU’RE KILLING ME OVER HERE.
A choked laugh escaped Cass’s throat, immediately stifled. The vibration of it traveled through her body into his. His arms, already locked tight around her, flexed in response, a pained murmur escaping his lips. She could feel the deep ache in his muscles through the fabric of his t-shirt, the strain of holding her so firmly for so long.
He was awake.
Not fully, not yet. But the quality of his stillness had changed. His breathing hitched, lost its sleeping rhythm. The hand splayed on her stomach went utterly motionless, as if he’d just become aware of its placement. The arm across her ribs felt less like a restraint and more like a question he was afraid to move.
Cass held her breath. The room was cold and silent except for the faint whistle of wind outside.
He exhaled, a long, slow release that warmed her neck. His nose pressed into her hair, inhaling. The scent of her shampoo, of sleep, of last night’s fading thrill. His mind, still soft at the edges, began its clumsy inventory.
Ache in his biceps. A deep, pleasant burn across his shoulders. The weight of someone against his chest. A warmth. A curve. Blonde hair tickling his chin. The familiar, book-dust smell of his own room, layered under something sweet and floral. The impossible softness of abdominal muscle under his palms.
Cassidy Blackwood.
The name landed in the center of his consciousness, a stone dropped into a still pond. The ripples expanded, connecting disparate moments.
Tutoring. Differential equations on a whiteboard. Her focused frown. The static charge in the air before the lights died.
The darkness. The blizzard screaming at the windows. The dare. His own voice, shaky but determined: Truth or dare?
His confession. The heat of his own face.
Her answer. The rustle of fabric in the black. The shocking, overwhelming wet heat of her mouth on him. The feel of her hair between his fingers. His own fractured groan echoing off the walls.
Her turn. The shaky breath she took. The press of her thighs against his ears. The taste of her, primal and clean. Her fingers gripping his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
Sleep. The deep, exhausted collapse into it, limbs tangled.
And now. This. Her body, real and solid and impossibly close, tucked against him like she belonged there. His own fierce, physical need for her pressed against the seam of her sweatpants, an undeniable fact. His arms, refusing to let go even as consciousness returned.
His voice was a dry, rusted thing. “Cass.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a confirmation.
She didn’t turn. She couldn’t, with how he was holding her. “Yeah.”
A beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. The grey light danced, defining the shapes of his books, the curve of her shoulder.
“My arms are killing me,” he said, the words gravelly. He didn’t loosen his grip.
A small, incredulous smile touched her lips. “I noticed.”
His chest vibrated with a low, sleepy chuckle against her back. “Right. Of course you did.” He drew in a long breath, his nose still buried in her hair.
He drew in a long breath, his nose still buried in her hair. “I appear to have aggressively re-enlisted you as my little spoon.” His voice was a sleep-roughened murmur. “My apologies. My limbs seem to have a bit of their own mind."
He still hadn’t let go. The ache in his biceps was a bright, hot signal, but the neural command to release her simply wouldn’t fire.
Cass kept her voice low, a smile in it. “A hostile takeover. I should’ve guessed you were a tyrannical sleeper.” She paused, then added, softer, “It’s a good kind of sore, though. Means you were here.”
His arms tightened, just for a second, a full-body flinch of gratitude at the words. A green flag, quietly acknowledged. He finally loosened his grip, his hands sliding to her hips, turning her gently within the circle of his arms until she faced him. The dawn light sketched the planes of his face, his eyes still soft with sleep and something else, something watchful and wary.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough.
“Hey back.”
They lay there, noses almost touching, breath mingling. The world outside his apartment was a silent, frozen tomb. Inside, the air was alive with everything unsaid. Her phone, still clutched in her hand against his chest, buzzed again. He glanced down at it, then back at her face.
“Maya?” he guessed.
“Maya,” she confirmed, not denying it. The screen lit up with another frantic text.
Liam’s eyes held hers. “Reporting on the hostage situation?”
A laugh escaped her, short and bright in the quiet room. “Something like that.” She searched his face. “Is it? A situation?”
His thumb stroked a slow arc over the dip of her waist, where her sweatshirt had ridden up. His touch was deliberate now, fully awake. “The power’s still out,” he said, his tone flat, stating a simple, inescapable fact.
Cass shifted her hips forward, a deliberate, rolling press against the solid, undeniable ridge of him straining against his sweats. “Yeah.”
A sharp breath hissed through his teeth. His hands slid from her hips to the small of her back, pulling her closer, eliminating the last sliver of space. His palms were warm and broad through the thin cotton. “You’re still locked out,” he murmured, his lips brushing her forehead.
Her answer was another slow, grinding circle, a affirmation that turned his words into a promise, not a problem. “Yeah.”
He let his hands roam then, one sliding up under her sweatshirt to splay against the bare skin of her spine, the other cupping the back of her thigh, hiking her leg over his hip. The new angle was deeper, more intimate. The faint scratch of his sweatpants against hers was the loudest sound in the world. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling. “It’s still snowing.”
Cass closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. “Yeah.”
For a long minute, there was only the syncopated rhythm of their breathing, the shared heat, the slow, exploratory movement of hands learning new territory. The world had narrowed to this bed, this dim light, this man whose shy intelligence had just been utterly eclipsed by his physical certainty.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the grey irises. The usual guarded humor was gone, replaced by a raw, searching intensity. “Cassidy.”
“Liam.”
“Yesterday…” he started, then stopped, struggling. “The things we did…”
“I remember.” She cut him off, her voice steady. “I remember all of it. Do you?”
“In crystalline detail.” His confession was quiet, haunted. “I keep thinking I dreamed the part in the living room. The… dare.”
“You didn’t.” She traced the line of his jaw, her fingers gentle. “And neither did I.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The fear was right there, mingled with the desire. The fear that this was a mistake, a snow-globe world that would shatter when the plows came. “What happens when the roads are clear?” he asked, the question hanging between them like the chill in the air.
Cass didn’t answer with words. She kissed him. It wasn’t like the frantic, gasping kisses in the dark. This was slow, deep, and unequivocal. A press of lips that held a conversation of its own. When she finally broke away, she kept her forehead resting against his. “We’ll have to open the door eventually,” she whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I’m walking out of it.”
His eyes drifted shut for a second, a wave of relief so profound it looked like pain washing over his features. When he opened them, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Maya’s going to need a comprehensive debrief.”
“She already is.” Cass grinned, nodding toward the phone now wedged between their chests. It buzzed again, persistently.
Liam snatched it up before she could, his movements quick. He held it aloft, reading the latest message on the screen. His eyebrows shot up. “She’s suggesting we, and I quote, ‘test the structural integrity of the bed frame.’” He looked from the phone to Cass, a real, unguarded laugh breaking free. “She’s terrifying.”
“She’s invested,” Cass corrected, plucking the phone from his fingers and tossing it toward the foot of the bed. It landed in the rumpled blankets with a soft thud. “But I’m not really interested in a panel discussion right now.”
“No?”
“No.” She leaned in, her lips grazing his ear. “I’m more interested in seeing if your limbs,” she bit his earlobe gently, “have any more opinions they’d like to express.”
His laugh was a warm puff against her neck that dissolved into a sudden, breathless stillness. For a long moment, he just looked at her, his gaze tracing the lines of her face in the weak light as if memorizing them. The playfulness from seconds ago softened into something quieter, more profound.
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering. Then he leaned in and kissed her.
It was nothing like the dark, experimental kisses from before the power went out. This was slow. Tender. His lips moved against hers with a deliberate, aching sweetness that spoke of a connection being carefully built, not just taken. It was a question, a thank you, a silent conversation all at once. She melted into it, her hand coming up to cradle the rough stubble of his jaw, her fingers sliding into his hair.
He tasted like sleep and a hint of the stale brandy from the night before. The kiss deepened by increments, a slow-build of heat and breath. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her flush against him until not even a sliver of cold air could separate them.
The tenderness lasted for a handful of heartbeats, a beautiful, suspended peace. Then the chemistry they’d ignited in the dark flared back to life, white-hot and urgent.
The shift was sudden. One second he was savoring her, the next he was consuming her. His mouth grew hungry, demanding. The hand in her hair tightened, guiding her head to the exact angle he wanted, deepening the kiss until she gasped. The sound seemed to detonate something in him.
He rolled, pinning her beneath him with a solid, delicious weight. The kiss broke for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to rasp, “Tell me to stop,” against her swollen lips, his voice shattered.
“Don’t you dare,” she breathed back, arching up into him.
A low growl vibrated from his chest into hers. He captured her mouth again, but all the gentle artistry was gone, replaced by pure, untamed need. This kiss was a claim. It was messy, full of teeth and tongue and shared, panting breaths. He devoured the gasp she made when his hips settled between her thighs, the thick ridge of him pressed exactly where she ached.
“Liam,” she managed, the word a fractured thing.
“I know,” he muttered, though she hadn’t said anything else. He tore his mouth from hers, trailing open-mouthed, biting kisses down the line of her jaw, her throat. His hands were everywhere, pushing her sweatshirt up, his palms skimming her ribs, his thumbs sweeping over her peaked nipples. “I know.”