The kiss was not what she expected. It was slower than the ones she'd imagined in the dark of her own head, more deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth rather than taking it. His lips moved against hers with a patience that bordered on cruel, and Maya felt something in her chest crack open, a fissure she'd been walking around for days without admitting it was there.

She kissed him back.

Not the way she'd kissed men before—careful, measuring, one eye on the exit. Her hands fisted in his flannel and she pulled him closer, her mouth opening under his, and she heard herself make a sound that was almost a whimper. His scarred hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her into him, and she felt the heat of his palm through the dead man's shirt like a brand.

She shifted her weight on his thighs. Deliberate. Demanding. A roll of her hips that she felt all the way down to her toes, and the sound he made—low, rough, surprised—sent a thrill through her that was pure power.

Cole broke the kiss. His breath came hard against her mouth, and his eyes were winter sky gone dark, pupils blown wide. "That's not standing still."

"No." She didn't look away. "It's not."

His grip tightened on her back, and she felt him against her through the dead man's jeans—the hard length of him, unmistakable, a promise she'd been circling for days. Her breath caught. She'd known, logically, that this was where they were headed, but knowing and feeling were different animals, and this one had teeth.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm not."

His thumb traced the line of her spine, and she was, she realized. Shaking. Not from cold—the fire was high and his body was a furnace beneath her—but from the sheer weight of the moment, the impossibility of it. She was straddling a man she barely knew in a dead man's cabin in the middle of nowhere, and she'd never felt more awake in her life.

"Liar," he said, but there was no heat in it. Just that low, graveled voice that seemed to resonate somewhere deep in her chest.

She should have felt scared. She'd spent her whole life being the one in control, the one who asked the questions, the one who walked away. But here, with his hands on her and his breath in her mouth, she felt something she couldn't name. Not fear. Something rawer.

His hand came up to her face, scarred fingers tracing her jawline, and she turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. She felt him go still beneath her, felt the tension ripple through his shoulders, and something shifted in the air between them.

"You said you'd teach me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "What happens when I don't stand still."

His eyes searched hers. "Maya—"

"So teach me."

The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm—fast, steady, a rhythm she was starting to know as well as her own. The fire crackled. The wind had died outside, leaving the cabin in a hush that felt almost sacred.

Cole's hand slid from her face to her shoulder, then down her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He caught her wrist, his thumb pressing into the pulse point, and she felt it jump under his touch.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Don't I?"

His jaw tightened. The firelight caught the lines around his eyes, the shadows under them, the weight of years she couldn't begin to guess at. She'd seen the scar on his hand, heard the story of the girl he couldn't save, and she'd thought she understood him. But sitting here, with his body hard beneath her and his eyes burning into hers, she realized she'd only scratched the surface.

"I'm not gentle," he said. "You need to understand that."

"I don't need gentle."

"You think you know what you want."

"I know I'm tired of running."

Something flickered in his eyes—something that looked almost like pain. "Running from what?"

She laughed, a short, broken sound. "Myself, mostly. The stories I chase. The things I've seen." She shook her head. "You're not the only one with ghosts, Cole."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand came up to cup her face again, and he kissed her—not slow this time, not patient. It was a claim, a demand, a question she didn't know how to answer. She answered it anyway, her mouth opening under his, her fingers twisting in his flannel, pulling him closer.

His hands moved. One fisted in the dead man's shirt at her hip, pulling the fabric taut, and the other slid up her spine to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. He tilted her head back, deepening the kiss, and she felt the scrape of his stubble against her chin, the heat of his breath, the low sound of want that rumbled in his chest.

She wanted more.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and clear, and she didn't push it away. She wanted his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat, the weight of him pressing her down into the bedroll. She wanted to stop thinking, stop running, stop being the one who held herself together. Just for one night, she wanted to fall apart.

"Cole," she breathed against his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, his breath uneven, and there was something in his face she couldn't read—something that looked almost like wonder.

"Say it again."

"Cole."

His name on her lips seemed to undo something in him. He kissed her again, harder this time, and she felt his hand slide from her hip to the waistband of the dead man's jeans. His fingers found the button, worked it open, and she felt the cool air against her skin as the denim loosened.

She should stop him. She should ask what this meant, where this was going, whether he was going to disappear in the morning like every other man she'd let get close. But the words wouldn't come. All she could do was feel—the heat of his hand on her stomach, the roughness of his palm, the way his thumb traced the edge of her underwear like he was memorizing her.

"You're so wet," he said, and the words sent a shudder through her. "I can feel it through the fabric."

Her cheeks flushed. "Cole—"

"Don't be embarrassed." His voice was low, rough, almost reverent. "I've been thinking about this since the moment I found you in that snow. About what you'd feel like. How you'd sound." He pressed his palm against her, and she gasped. "You're better than I imagined."

She should have felt objectified. Instead, she felt seen. Wanted. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him, and everything else—the storm, the dead man, the past—had faded into static.

She reached for his belt. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle, clumsy with want, and he laughed—a low, rough sound that vibrated through her chest.

"Eager?"

"Shut up."

He caught her wrists, stilling her hands. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to take my time."

The words sent a thrill through her. He guided her hands to his shoulders, and she gripped the flannel, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. His hands found her hips, and he shifted beneath her, the movement sending a jolt of pleasure through her core.

"I want to feel you come apart," he said, his voice a low growl. "I want to watch your face when you forget everything else. I want to hear you say my name like it's the only word you remember."

Her breath caught. "That's—"

"What?"

"A lot."

"You asked me to teach you." His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the dead man's shirt. "This is the lesson, Maya. What happens when you stop standing still."

She should have been scared. Should have felt exposed, vulnerable, like she'd given something away she could never get back. But all she felt was the heat of his hands on her body, the weight of his gaze, and the strangest sense of rightness.

"Then teach me," she said.

His eyes darkened. He kissed her again, and this time there was nothing patient about it. His hands moved with purpose, pulling the dead man's shirt off her shoulders, baring her to the firelight. She heard his breath catch, felt his gaze on her skin like a physical touch.

"God," he said, his voice rough. "You're beautiful."

She should have deflected. Made a joke. Anything to break the intensity of the moment. But the words died in her throat as he leaned down, pressing his mouth to the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. His stubble scraped her skin, and she shivered, her fingers tightening in his hair.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. "Last chance to stop."

She met his eyes. "I don't want to stop."

Something shifted in his face—something she couldn't name, but that she felt in her bones. He kissed her again, and she felt his hands at the waistband of the dead man's jeans, pushing them down her hips. She lifted her weight, helping him, and the fabric slid away, leaving her in nothing but the thin cotton of her underwear.

He looked at her. Just looked, his eyes tracing the lines of her body, and she felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

"You're shaking again," he said.

"I know."

"Good." His hands found her hips, thumbs tracing the jut of bone. "I want you to feel this. Every second of it."

He leaned in, pressing his mouth to her stomach, and she gasped as his lips traced a path lower. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading them, and she felt the heat of his breath against the cotton of her underwear.

"Cole—"

"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, his eyes never leaving hers. "Let me take care of you."

She should have protested. Should have told him she didn't need taking care of, that she'd been handling herself her whole life. But the words wouldn't come. All she could do was watch as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down her legs.

The firelight caught the slick heat between her thighs, and she saw his eyes darken at the sight. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then higher, and she felt his breath against her, warm and teasing.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice a low growl, "how long I've wanted this."

And then his mouth was on her, and she forgot how to think.

His tongue traced her, slow and deliberate, and she arched into him, her fingers twisting in his hair. He groaned against her, the vibration sending a shockwave through her body, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before—a high, broken whimper that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest.

He worked her with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, learning her like she was a language he'd been trying to speak for years. She felt the pressure building, coiling in her core, and she tried to pull away, to catch her breath, but he held her hips, keeping her in place.

"Don't run," he said, his voice muffled against her. "Let me feel you."

The words undid her. She came apart under his mouth, her body shuddering, her hands gripping his hair as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. He didn't stop, didn't pull away, just kept working her through it until she was trembling, boneless, barely able to breathe.

He pulled back, his mouth slick, his eyes burning. "That's what happens," he said, "when you don't stand still."

She laughed, a breathless, broken sound. "I think I need another lesson."

His eyes darkened. "I've got all night."