His hand still trembled against her jaw, that fine vibration she could feel all the way down her spine. He was waiting—she could see it in the set of his mouth, the way his breath held. Waiting for her to say the words that would end this. This is wrong. My sister. Go back to your room.
She didn't say them.
Instead her fingers found his chest, the worn flannel warm from his body. His heart thudded beneath her palm, fast and uneven. She pressed harder, feeling it, and his breath came out in a shudder that was almost a word. Almost her name.
"Harper." He said it anyway. Low. Broken. Like it cost him something.
She let her hand slide lower, tracing the buttons, the ridges of his ribs beneath the fabric. His hand left her jaw and found her hip, fingers curling into the wool of her sweater like he needed something to hold onto. She stepped back, one step, and her thighs hit the edge of the mattress. The bed frame groaned.
His eyes went dark.
"Tell me," she said, her voice barely there. "Tell me you're going to marry her."
He didn't answer. His jaw tightened. His hand on her hip pulled her closer instead, and the heat of him through the layers made her knees weak. She could feel him—his chest against hers, his belt buckle against her stomach, the shape of him hard and waiting.
She pulled him down with her.
The bed creaked as they fell, the cold air rushing in where his heat had been, and then nothing was cold anymore. His weight settled over her, his thighs between hers, his hands finding her waist, her ribs, the curve of her hip. He looked down at her, and in the moonlight she could see the war in his face—the man who wanted to be good, and the man who was out of road.
"I should stop," he said. But his hand slid under her sweater, palm flat against her stomach, and she felt the calluses scrape her skin.
"You won't." She said it like a fact, not a challenge. Her fingers found the back of his neck, pulling him down until his forehead touched hers, their breath mixing in the cold air between.
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. Like a man who had been holding something back for fifteen years and had finally let go of the rope. His mouth claimed hers, and she tasted the edge of it—regret and hunger and something that felt like surrender. Her hands found his shoulders, his back, the wool of his flannel bunching under her fingers as she pulled him closer, deeper, until there was nothing left between them but the weight of what they were about to do.
His hand stopped at her hip. Not sliding higher, not pulling the sweater up—just there, his fingers pressed into the wool, his palm a brand against her skin through the layers. A question.
She felt it in the way his breathing changed, in the slight withdrawal of his mouth from hers. He pulled back an inch, enough to see her face in the silver light, and his jaw was tight, his eyes dark and asking.
Is this what you want? Are you sure?
Harper could have said anything. Could have pushed his hand away, could have whispered stop and watched him leave. But instead she held his gaze and pressed her hips up, just slightly, into the weight of his palm. An answer he couldn't mistake.
His breath left him in a rush. His forehead dropped to hers, and she felt the tremor run through his shoulders, through the arm braced beside her head. "Harper." Her name again, barely a sound, and she knew he wasn't asking her to stop him anymore. He was surrendering.
She let her fingers trace up the back of his neck, into his hair, the gray at his temples rough against her fingertips. He leaned into her touch like a man starved for it, and she felt the last of his resistance dissolve—not in a decision, but in a giving-up. A letting-go.
His hand moved. Not up, not under—but down, finding the hem of her sweater, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of her waist. She shivered. The cold air met her stomach as he pushed the fabric up, an inch, two inches, until his palm was flat against her ribs, his thumb tracing the bone there like he was memorizing her.
She pulled his mouth back to hers. This time it was slower, deeper, a kiss that tasted less like hunger and more like grief—like mourning something they'd already lost by choosing it. She felt his thumb press against her ribs, a question again, and she arched into it, offering.
His hand slid higher, palm skimming her breast through her bra, and she gasped against his mouth. He stopped immediately, waiting, and she felt the cold air on her skin where his hand had been. The question again. Always the question.
She took his wrist and pressed his hand back where it was, held it there, her fingers laced through his. In the moonlight, his eyes were unreadable, but his hand trembled against her chest, and she felt the war still raging in him—and watched him lose it, willingly, for her.
Her fingers found the top button of his flannel. The plastic was cold against her fingertips, but his skin beneath was warm—she could feel the heat radiating through the thin gap where the fabric parted. She worked the button free, and his breath caught, a sharp intake that she felt against her cheek.
She didn't rush. The next button came slower, her knuckles brushing the bare skin of his chest as the fabric fell open. She felt the tremor run through him, not from cold—the woodstove had filled the room with dry heat, and sweat slicked his skin where the flannel had clung. She pushed the fabric aside, revealing the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, the dark hair that spread across his chest.
He wasn't moving. He barely seemed to breathe. His hand remained where she'd placed it, pressed against her breast through the thin cotton of her bra, and she could feel the fine vibration in his fingers—a hesitation that had nothing to do with wanting and everything to do with the weight of the line they were crossing.
She undid the third button. The fourth. The flannel hung open now, and she slid her hand inside, palm flat against his chest. His heart hammered against her palm, fast and uneven, and she felt the hair coarse under her fingers, the ridges of scar tissue near his shoulder—a burn mark, old, from some job he'd never told her about. She traced it with her thumb, and he shuddered.
"Harper." His voice cracked. "We don't have to—"
"I know." She pressed her palm harder, feeling his ribs expand with each breath. "I want to."
She watched his face in the moonlight—the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes searched hers for something she couldn't name. She didn't look away. She let her fingers trace up his chest, across his shoulder, pushing the flannel off his arms. He shifted, letting it fall, and for a moment they were just skin against the cold air, the wool blanket rough beneath them.
She sat up slightly, enough to shrug off her sweater, pulling it over her head in one motion. The cold hit her bare arms, her stomach, and she shivered. His hand found her waist immediately, pulling her back down, and the heat of him was everywhere—his chest against hers, his thighs between her legs, his mouth finding her throat in the dark.
He kissed her neck, slow and deliberate, and she felt his beard rough against her skin, his lips tracing a line from her jaw to her collarbone. She arched into him, her fingers tangled in his hair, and she felt his hand slide down her back, finding the clasp of her bra.
He stopped. His thumb pressed against the metal, and she felt the question in the pressure—not a demand, not a rush, but a fragile, desperate asking. She didn't answer with words. She reached behind her back and unhooked it herself, letting it fall between them.