The fire had burned low, embers collapsing in the hearth with a soft sigh. The cabin had gone quiet an hour ago—Marcus's last laugh fading up the stairs, Chloe's door clicking shut, Ruth's murmured goodnight carrying through the pine walls like a benediction. Now there was only the wind against the frosted glass and the sound of Eclipse's breathing, measured and deliberate, as she stood at the foot of the bed.
Luca sat on the edge of the mattress, still in his pajama pants—the dark green flannel that matched hers, the ones she'd bought for him three Christmases ago without asking, just left them folded on his side of the closet. He'd worn them every holiday since. She noticed. She noticed everything.
Her glasses had fogged from the warmth of the room, the fire, the heat radiating off his body across the space between them. She pushed them up her nose with one finger, and the gesture—so ordinary, so her—made something in his chest tighten.
"You've been looking at me all day," she said. Not an accusation. A fact, laid out between them like a hand played face-up.
Luca's mouth curved. Just slightly. "You were wearing these."
"They're pajamas, Luca."
"They're my pajamas. On you. In my kitchen. With your sisters watching and your mother humming hymns and those glasses fogging up every time you opened the oven." He stood, slow, the mattress shifting under his weight. "You have no idea what you looked like."
Eclipse tilted her head. The firelight caught the curve of her throat, the soft shadow between her breasts where the v-neck of her top dipped low. "Tell me."
He crossed the distance in two steps. His hands found her waist, thumbs pressing into the flare of her hips through the flannel, and he pulled her against him. She came willingly, her palms flat against his chest, the heat of her seeping through the thin fabric.
"Like you were daring me," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Like you knew exactly what you were doing."
"I always know what I'm doing."
"I know." He dipped his head, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "That's what drives me insane."
Her breath caught—a tiny hitch, barely audible, but he felt it against his chest. He dragged his hands down her sides, over the curve of her waist, settling on the swell of her ass. He squeezed, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and she arched into him, her head falling back.
"Been thinking about this all day," he muttered against her throat. "Watching you bend over to check the turkey. Every time you reached for a pan. That little hum you make when you taste-test the frosting."
"The cranberry sauce," she said, breathless. "You were watching me taste the cranberry sauce."
"I was watching your ass in those pajama pants and trying to remember how to breathe."
Eclipse laughed—low, warm, the sound that had undone him the first night they met. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and in the firelight, her glasses caught the glow, hiding her expression for a moment before she pushed them up again.
"Take them off," she said.
Luca's brows rose.
"The glasses," she clarified, though her hands were already at the waistband of his pajama pants. "I want to see you clearly."
He reached up, slow, and slid the frames from her face. Folded them. Set them on the nightstand. And when he turned back, her brown eyes were dark and soft and fixed on him with an intensity that made his cock twitch behind the flannel.
"Better," she whispered, and kissed him.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was the kiss of a woman who had spent the day surrounded by family, stealing glances, brushing past him in the kitchen, letting her hand linger on his lower back when no one was looking. It was the kiss of hours of restraint finally breaking. Her tongue found his, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, and she pulled him down toward the bed.
They landed in a tangle of limbs and flannel, the quilt rough against Luca's back, Eclipse's weight settling over him like she belonged there. She straddled his hips, her thighs gripping his waist, and the heat of her pressed against his cock through two layers of pajama pants made him groan into her mouth.
"Fuck, Eclipse."
"Language," she murmured, but she was smiling, and she rolled her hips against him, a slow grinding circle that made his hands fly to her ass.
He held her there, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, guiding her rhythm as she rocked against him. The flannel of her top had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone, the slope of her breast. He wanted to bite her there. He wanted to taste every inch of skin she was offering.
Instead, he let his hands wander—up her sides, under the hem of her top, palming the weight of her breasts through her bra. She was so soft, so warm, and she moaned when his thumb found her nipple, circling through the lace.
"Off," she said, pulling at his shirt. "Take it off."
He sat up just enough to let her strip him, the flannel hitting the floor, and then she was on him again, skin to skin, her breasts pressed against his chest as she kissed him deep and wet and hungry. He could feel her nipples through the lace of her bra, hard against his sternum, and the thought of her—his wife, his Eclipse, spread over him in a cabin full of her sleeping family—made him ache.
She reached between them, her fingers finding the waistband of his pajama pants, and pushed them down his hips. He lifted to help her, and then she was kneeling over him, her own pajama bottoms gone, her panties a scrap of black lace that did nothing to hide the dark curl of hair beneath.
Luca's mouth went dry.
She was wet. He could see it through the lace, a damp stain spreading at the apex of her thighs, and the sight of her—ready for him, wanting him—made his cock throb against his stomach.
"Eclipse." His voice was rough. "Come here."
She crawled up his body, her thighs brushing his ribs, her cunt hovering over his mouth. He didn't wait. He grabbed her hips and pulled her down, his tongue finding her through the lace, tasting the sweet salt of her arousal.
She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Luca—"
He didn't answer. He hooked the lace aside with one thumb and buried his face in her, licking from her entrance to her clit in one long, deliberate stroke. She shuddered above him, her thighs tightening around his ears, and he did it again, slower, savoring the way she tasted, the way she moaned, the way her hips began to rock against his mouth.
He could have stayed there forever—her wet and warm on his tongue, her breath catching in her throat, the fire crackling low and the wind pressing against the glass. But she pulled away after a long minute, breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark.
"I need you inside me," she said. Not a request. A demand.
Luca's hands found her waist as she positioned herself over him, her cunt brushing the head of his cock, and they both froze. The heat of her, the promise of her, the slickness of her readiness—it was almost too much.
"Look at me," he said.
She did. Her brown eyes met his, and in the firelight, there was no teasing, no games. Just her, open and wanting and his.
He pushed up into her.
The sound she made—a broken gasp, a moan, his name falling from her lips—was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. She sank onto him slowly, taking him inch by inch, her inner walls clenching around the stretch of him, and when she was fully seated, her hips flush against his, they both just breathed.
"Fuck," she whispered. "You're so deep."
He couldn't speak. His hands found her ass, gripping the soft flesh as she began to move—a slow, deliberate grind that made his vision blur at the edges. She rode him like she had all the time in the world, her hips rolling in a rhythm she controlled, her head falling back as she took what she needed.
Her ass jiggled with every undulation of her hips. He watched it—the way the flesh rippled, the way her cheeks spread around his thighs, the way she looked from above with her top slipping down her arms and her bra still hooked, the black lace contrasting with the brown of her skin. She was glorious. She was everything.
"You feel so good," she breathed, and she ground down, harder, deeper, and he groaned, his hands tightening on her hips, helpless beneath her.
She knew it. He could see it in the curve of her smile, the way she bit her lip as she rode him, the way she slowed just to watch him squirm. She knew exactly what she did to him, and she was reveling in it.
"You like this," she said, not a question. "You like watching me take what I want."
"Eclipse." His voice was a warning, but it came out strangled.
"I know, baby." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her lips at his ear. "I like it too."
He flipped her.
The move was fast, practiced, and she gasped as her back hit the quilt, his weight pressing her into the mattress. He pulled out just long enough to position himself, and then he was inside her again, deeper now, the angle different, and her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, Luca—"
He thrust. Hard. The headboard knocked against the log wall, a rhythmic thud that echoed in the quiet room, and he didn't care who heard. He couldn't care. Not when she was beneath him, her glasses off, her eyes half-closed, her mouth open in a perfect O of pleasure.
Her ass jiggled with every thrust. He watched it—the way the flesh rippled against his thighs, the way her body took him, the way she moaned his name with each impact.
"Look at me," he said, echoing her command from earlier.
She opened her eyes. Met his gaze.
"You're mine," he said, thrusting deeper. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Luca." Her voice broke on his name. "I'm yours."
He lowered his head, his forehead pressing against hers, their breath mingling in the space between. He thrust slower now, deeper, each movement deliberate, and her hands came up to frame his face, her thumbs tracing the line of his jaw.
"I love you," she whispered. "I love you so much it scares me."
He couldn't answer. The words were lodged in his throat, too big, too real. So he kissed her instead—deep and slow and full of everything he couldn't say—and he kept moving inside her, kept feeling her clench around him, kept watching her face as she came apart beneath him.
Her orgasm hit her without warning. Her back arched, her cry swallowed by his mouth, and her cunt tightened around him in waves that made his own release inevitable. He followed her over the edge, his body shuddering, his face buried in her neck, her name a broken prayer against her skin.
They lay still, tangled and damp and breathing hard. The fire had burned down to ash, the room cooling, and somewhere beyond the frosted glass, a branch creaked under the weight of snow.
Eclipse's hand found his, her fingers threading through his. She was warm and soft against him, her heartbeat slowing, her breath evening out.
"We should probably go to sleep," she murmured.
Luca pressed a kiss to her hair. "Probably."
Neither of them moved.
After a long moment, she shifted, lifting her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft, sated, but there was something else there—a glint, a knowing, a question she hadn't asked yet.
"You know," she said, her voice casual, "I had a whole plan for tonight. Candles. Music. A slow, romantic thing that would have been very tasteful."
Luca snorted. "Tasteful."
"Very tasteful," she insisted. "I was going to be demure."
"You just rode me into next week, and you're telling me about a plan for demure."
She laughed, the sound bright and real in the quiet room. "Plans change."
He pulled her closer, his arm tightening around her waist. "I like your new plan better."
"Me too." She settled against him, her cheek on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. "But Luca?"
"Yeah."
"Tomorrow's Christmas. My whole family is going to be here. My mother is going to make us play charades, and Chloe is going to ask you inappropriate questions, and Marcus is going to clap your back hard enough to leave a bruise."
"I know."
"And you're still going to look at me the way you do."
It wasn't a question. He answered anyway. "Every day."
She was quiet for a long moment, her hand stilling on his chest. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, stripped of the teasing.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you."
Luca's throat tightened. He turned his head, pressing his lips to her forehead, and held them there.
"You don't have to deserve me," he said. "You just have to stay."
She looked up at him, her brown eyes catching the last embers of the fire. And then she smiled—that slow, warm smile that had undone him from the very first time he saw it.
"I'm not going anywhere, baby."
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window in its frame. The cabin settled around them, a susurrus of wood settling and snow shifting and the long, deep silence of the mountain night.
Eclipse's glasses sat on the nightstand, the firelight glinting off the lenses. His flannel lay crumpled on the floor. The quilt was tangled around their legs, and the headboard had left a fresh mark in the log wall.
Luca looked at the mark—the dent, the evidence—and felt something settle in his chest. He had spent his whole life taking what he wanted. But this—her, this cabin, this Christmas with her family, this bruised spot in the pine where the headboard had testified to their hunger—this was the only thing he'd ever wanted that he hadn't had to take.
She had given it to him. Freely. Willingly. With her glasses fogged and her pajamas slipping and her hands in his hair.
He closed his eyes, her weight warm against his side, and let the quiet hold them. Tomorrow would be chaos. Tomorrow would be charades and questions and her mother's knowing smile. But tonight, she was his, and he was hers, and the fire had burned down to ash, and the snow kept falling.