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."

She was still trembling when his hands found her again—those scarred, callused hands sliding up her thighs like they owned the territory they crossed. The rough wool of the bedroll scratched against her bare skin, and she felt the cold draft bite her back even as the fire's dry heat pressed hot against her face. She was caught between them, burning and shivering, and his hands were the only thing that made sense.

His thumbs pressed her open, spreading her wide for him, and she felt the cool air hit the slick heat between her legs. She made a sound—small, involuntary, barely a whimper—and he looked up at her, his winter-blue eyes catching the firelight.

He didn't say a word.

He just lowered his mouth to her.

His tongue pressed inside her, slow and deliberate, and she felt the world tilt. It wasn't like before—that frantic, desperate worship that had pulled her apart. This was different. This was claiming. His tongue moved inside her like he was mapping territory he'd already marked, already owned, and he was just reminding her of the borders.

Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling, and he groaned against her. The vibration shot through her, straight to her core, and she cried out—a broken, ragged sound that she barely recognized as her own voice.

He didn't speed up. He didn't slow down. He just kept that same deliberate rhythm, his tongue sliding in and out of her, tasting her, taking her, and she felt the next wave building before she'd even caught her breath from the last one.

She was still trembling from before—her thighs shaking, her hips twitching against his mouth. The fire crackled beside them, sending shadows dancing across the log walls, and she could smell the wood smoke and his sweat hanging thick in the air. She was drowning in it. In him.

"Cole—"

His name came out as a gasp, a plea she didn't know she was making. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his mouth slick and swollen, his eyes dark and hungry.

"I told you," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've got all night."

The words landed in the silence between them, heavy and certain. The fire crackled. The wind shifted against the cabin walls, a low moan that pressed against the logs. Her fingers were still twisted in his hair, and she could feel the pulse of him beneath her palm—steady, patient, unrelenting.

He didn't move. Didn't lower his mouth back to her. He just watched her, waiting, and she realized he was giving her a choice. She could push him away. She could tell him to stop. She could retreat back into that careful distance she'd been building since she stumbled into this cabin.

She didn't.

She pulled him back down.

His mouth met her again, and this time there was nothing slow about it. His tongue drove into her, hard and demanding, and she arched into him, her hips lifting off the bedroll. The wool scratched her back, the fire roared in her ears, and she was nothing but sensation—his mouth, his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against her inner thighs, the low growl that rumbled through her every time she pulled his hair.

She was so close. The wave was building, cresting, about to break—

He pulled away.

She made a sound of protest, raw and desperate, and he laughed—a low, dark sound that made her want to hit him and kiss him in the same breath.

"Not yet," he said. His hands slid up her thighs, over her hips, settling on her waist. "I said all night, Maya. I meant it."

She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, her body screaming for release. "That's cruel."

"That's the lesson." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh—soft, almost tender, a stark contrast to the possessiveness in his eyes. "You come when I say you come."

The words should have made her angry. Should have made her push him away and tell him exactly what she thought of his games. Instead, they made her shiver, made her thighs fall open a little wider, made her want to prove him wrong and obey him at the same time.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes tracked every movement, every breath, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"That's what I thought."

He lowered his head again, but this time he didn't go straight for her clit. He kissed her inner thigh, his lips brushing the sensitive skin, his stubble scraping against her. He worked his way up slowly, deliberately, and she felt every inch of the journey.

Her hands were fisted in the wool of the bedroll now, not his hair. She was gripping it so hard her knuckles were white, and she could feel the rough fibers biting into her palms. The fire had burned lower, the flames painting the cabin in shades of orange and shadow, and the wind had picked up again, pressing against the walls like something alive.

She didn't care about any of it. She cared about his mouth, his tongue, the way he was taking his time like he had all the world and all the night and all of her.

His tongue found her clit, and she bucked against him. He pressed her down with one hand, flat against her stomach, and held her there.

"Still," he said against her skin.

She couldn't be still. She couldn't do anything but feel. His tongue circled her, slow and teasing, and she could feel the wave building again, higher this time, stronger. She was climbing toward something she couldn't name, and he was the only thing holding her up.

"Cole—"

"I know."

He didn't stop. He didn't slow. He just kept working her, his tongue moving in that perfect rhythm, and she felt herself shattering. The wave broke over her, and she cried out—his name, a prayer, a curse—as her body convulsed against his mouth.

He didn't pull away this time. He stayed with her, his tongue gentling, softening, drawing out every last tremor until she was limp and trembling, barely able to breathe.

He pulled back slowly, his mouth slick, his eyes burning. He looked at her like she was something he'd been starving for, and she felt the weight of that look in her bones.

"That's two," he said. "I told you I've got all night."

She laughed, a breathless, broken sound. "You're going to kill me."

"No." He leaned down and kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips—salt and heat and something that was purely him. "I'm going to take care of you."

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against hers, and she felt the shift in him. The control he'd been holding so carefully was fraying at the edges, and she could feel the hunger beneath it—the raw, possessive thing he kept leashed.

His hands moved up her body, pushing the dead man's shirt aside, baring her to the firelight. He pulled back just enough to look at her, and she saw something flicker in his eyes—something that looked almost like wonder.

"You're beautiful," he said, and the words were rough, like they cost him something to say.

She didn't know what to do with that. She wasn't used to being looked at like that—like she was precious, like she was something worth keeping. She was the one who chased stories, who threw herself into danger, who never stayed long enough for anyone to see her.

But he saw her. He saw all of her, and he wasn't looking away.

"Cole—"

"I know." He said it again, softer this time. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, her sternum, the swell of her breast. "I know."

She didn't know what he knew. She didn't know what she was asking for. But she felt it—that thing between them, that pull that had been there since the moment he found her stumbling through the snow. It was bigger than the cabin, bigger than the storm, bigger than the story she'd come here to write.

He settled between her thighs again, and she felt his weight pressing her into the bedroll. The fire crackled. The wind moaned. And she felt the heat of his mouth on her skin, the promise of all night hanging in the air between them.

His tongue pressed inside her again, and she stopped thinking.

She just felt.

The rhythm was different this time—harder, more insistent, like he was done being patient. He drove her toward the edge with single-minded focus, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open, and she could feel the wave building again, faster now, stronger.

She twisted her fingers in his hair, pulling, and he groaned against her. The vibration shot through her, and she felt herself teetering on the edge.

"Please," she gasped. "Please—"

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his mouth slick, his eyes dark. "Please what?"

"Please let me come."

The words were broken, desperate, and she didn't care. She needed this. She needed him.

His eyes burned. "Come for me, Maya."

She did.

The wave broke over her, and she cried out his name as her body convulsed against his mouth. He stayed with her, his tongue working her through it, and she felt herself falling apart and coming back together in the same breath.

When she finally went still, trembling and boneless, he pulled back. He looked at her with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, and she felt the weight of it—the claim he was making without saying a word.

"I told you," he said, his voice low and rough. "I've got all night."

The words landed in the silence, heavy and certain. The fire crackled. The wind shifted. And she felt the next wave building before she'd even caught her breath.

She lay there, the firelight painting her skin in shifting oranges, her breath still coming in uneven pulls. The words sat between them, heavy as the wool beneath her, and she couldn't find the air to answer. Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, and she felt the coarse strands against her knuckles, the heat of his scalp beneath her palm. He didn't move. Neither did she. The cabin creaked around them, a log settling somewhere in the walls, and she heard the wind press against the glass like it wanted in.

His jaw tightened. She watched it happen — the muscle jumping beneath the stubble, the way his teeth came together like he was holding something back. He was still between her thighs, his weight braced on his forearms, and she felt the shift of him as he settled lower, his chest brushing her skin. The dead man's shirt had fallen open around her, bunched at her ribs, and she felt the rough wool of the bedroll scratching her bare shoulder blades.

She should say something. Should break the silence before it swallowed her whole. But her voice was gone, lost somewhere in the last wave that had torn through her, and all she could do was look at him. His mouth was slick, his lips swollen, and she saw the firelight catch on the wetness there. She had done that. She had made him look like that — hungry and patient and utterly certain of what he wanted.

His hand moved. Not far — just from her hip to her thigh, his scarred thumb tracing a slow arc over the sensitive skin there. She felt the calluses scrape against her, a rough drag that made her shiver. He watched her reaction, his winter-blue eyes tracking the tremor that ran through her, and she saw something flicker in them. Not hunger. Something quieter. Something that looked almost like satisfaction.

The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The sound broke the spell, and she felt herself blink, the world rushing back in. The cold draft at her back. The heat of him between her thighs. The smell of wood smoke and sweat and the salt of her own skin on his mouth. She was caught in all of it, drowning in it, and she didn't want to be saved.

"Cole." His name came out rough, scraped raw. She didn't know what she was asking for. She just knew she needed to say it, to feel it on her tongue. His eyes didn't leave hers. His thumb kept moving, slow and deliberate, tracing the same arc over and over until she felt herself sinking into the rhythm of it. The next wave was still building somewhere deep in her belly, patient as him, waiting.