Page 104 of What Remains

A quiet, broken sound left her throat—half sigh, half sob. Her fingers threaded into his dark hair and held him there, grounding herself in the wet heat of his tongue and the gentle pull of his lips as he drew her deeper into the only place either of them still knew as safe.

They undressed each other without hurry and without words. Only small sounds filled the room—the soft rasp of fabric, the quiet catch of breath, the faint creak of the bedframe as they shifted. Her hands found the open waistband of his jeans, fingers slipping inside to ease the denim down over his hips. He lifted just enough to help her, the heavy fabric sliding past the hard muscle of his thighs until he could kick it free. Beneath, he wore nothing. The sight of him—already thick and flushed, the amber light tracing every ridge and vein—tightened her throat. She drew one fingertip along his length, slow and reverent, before he caught her wrist and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her pulse.

His hands returned to her. He eased the cotton down her hips, over her thighs, past her knees, until it slipped from her ankles and dropped, forgotten, to the floor. Her underwear followed, drawn down with the same unhurried care. Every slide of fabric, every inch of newly bared skin, carried intention, as though they were memorizing the exact shape, weight, and warmth of this night before it could be taken from them. When she lay completely bare, he paused, simply looking at her—eyes dark, expression open and raw—before his hands settled at her waist.

He lifted her with easy strength and laid her back against the sheets, the cotton cool against her skin for only a moment before the heat of his body followed. He came down over her, bracing his weight on his forearms so he settled against her without crushing her. Skin to skin. The full length of his chest against her breasts, the hard plane of his stomach against hers, the heavy press of his cock along the soft inside of her thigh. Heartbeat to heartbeat. His pulse thrummed strong and steady where their bodies met, and her own raced to answer it.

He lowered his head and kissed her throat first—open-mouthed, lingering, tasting the salt of her skin and the flutter beneath it. Then the hollow between her collarbones, where his tongue rested a moment, learning the shallow dip. He moved lower, lips brushing the upper curve of her breast before finding the soft underside, kissing there too, slow and thorough. The skin just above her navel received the same devotion: a warm press of lips, a quiet breath that made her stomach tighten. Lower still. He eased her thighs apart with gentle hands, settled his shoulders between them, and looked up the length of her body once—meeting her eyes—before lowering his mouth to her.

At the first touch of his tongue, she arched, a sharp, involuntary curve of her spine that pressed her closer. One hand fisted in the sheets; the other stayed buried in his hair, fingers tightening as that first slow stroke dragged through her wetness. He took his time, no rush, no urgency beyond the need to know every fold, every sensitive place that made her tremble. Long, devastating strokes of his tongue, flat and deliberate, were followed by the softer focus of the tip circling, teasing. He learned her all over again—the way her breath stuttered when he sealed his mouth over her and sucked gently, the way her thighs began to shake under his patient, rhythmic attention to her clit. Pleasure built in thick, heavy waves, each cresting higher until it finally broke. She came like that, quiet and intense, her whole body tightening around him—his mouth, his hands holding her open. The orgasm moved through her in long, slow pulses—her thighs still trembling against his shoulders, her hips still rocking in small, helpless increments, chasing the last of it even as it ebbed. When it finally released her, she lay open and undone, slick and swollen, utterly spent.

He rose over her again, the shift of his weight drawing a soft sound from the mattress. The amber light caught the sweat gathering along his collarbones and the dark concentration in his eyes as he looked down at her. She reached between them without hesitation, fingers closing around the hard, hot length of him. She guided him to her entrance, still slick from his mouth, and tilted her hips to meet him as he pressed forward. Both of them exhaled hard—almost together—as he sank in, inch by thick inch, until he settled to the hilt. Familiar and still overwhelming, the fullness of him pressed against every sensitive place inside her. A fine tremor ran through his arms where he braced above her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. They stayed locked together, bodies flush, the only motion the shared rise and fall of their breathing. Foreheads pressed. Eyes open. At this distance, she could see every detail of his face—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadows his lashes cast, the open, almost pained tenderness in his gaze. The weight of him, the heat of him, the deep pulse of him buried inside her—these were the only things that felt entirely true. Her hands settled on his upper arms; his thumbs brushed once along the outer curves of her breasts, as if confirming she remained real.

Then he began to move.

There was no frantic rush, no desperate scramble toward release. The rhythm he found was deep, steady, and almost reverent—long, controlled strokes that withdrew nearly all the way before sliding home again with deliberate care. Each thrust quietly declared, "I know you. I have always known you." The drag of him against her sensitive walls sent slow waves of heat through her belly and thighs. Josie wrapped her legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, meeting every thrust with a soft roll of her hips. Her hands traced the broad plane of his back, mapping the shift of muscle beneath warm skin, the powerful lines of his shoulders as he held himself above her, and the familiar dip at the base of his spine she had always loved to press her fingers into. She found the faint ridges of old scars, the marks years of hard work had left on him, and traced each one as if to memorize its exact shape.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, warm and silent, sliding into her hair. She didn't try to stop them. He saw them at once—his gaze never leaving hers—and lowered his head to kiss them away, his lips brushing the wet tracks along her temples. He did it without breaking pace, without looking away.

"Josie," he whispered once, the single word cracked open with everything they weren't saying—grief and hunger with nowhere left to go. Her name left his mouth rough, almost broken, as if its shape in the dark remained the only truth he still trusted.

She answered by pulling him closer, her arms tightening around his back, her legs drawing him in until no space remained between them. Their bodies sealed together, skin slick with shared heat, every shift of muscle and breath passing directly from one to the other. The pleasure built slowly and heavily, a deep coiling pressure gathering low in her belly, climbing with every deliberate roll of his hips. Each thrust dragged against the most sensitive places inside her, the thick slide of him filling her completely, claiming her in the only way either of them still could. The rhythm remained measured, almost solemn, yet the intensity kept rising—wave after thickening wave—until the edges of the room began to blur.

Her second release tore through her without warning. A low, shattered sound, half sob, half cry, pulled from her throat. Her body clenched hard around him in rhythmic pulses, gripping and fluttering, and the force of it dragged him over the edge with her. He buried his face against the side of her neck, open mouth pressed to her skin, and groaned her name again—deeper this time, almost lost—as he spilled inside her. His hips stuttered through long, pulsing waves, each one pressing him impossibly deeper, flooding her with heat. His arms locked around her with fierce strength, holding her tightly, trying to keep the morning from coming, to keep the world from reclaiming them, to keep this single night from ending.

They stayed like that a long time after, still joined, trembling through slow aftershocks. Neither spoke. They simply breathed against each other's skin—his face tucked into the curve of her neck, her cheek resting against his temple. His weight anchored her, a shelter she already missed even while it still covered her. Her fingers traced lazy, aimless patterns between his shoulder blades, following the damp line of his spine, learning his exact topography by heart. Outside, the night stayed quiet, only the distant rustle of leaves. Inside, only the soft, uneven breathing of two people who knew exactly what they were losing and had chosen, for one more night, to pretend they didn't.

Eventually, he slipped free and rolled to his side, drawing her with him. She lay tucked against his chest, one of his legs thrown over both of hers, his weight a familiar anchor. Pressing her mouth to the center of his sternum, she closed her eyes. They wouldn't say goodbye; the word was too small for this. Only the heat of his skin against hers and the steady, mortal beat of his heart under her cheek remained, a rhythm she knew the coming dawn would steal.

Chapter 25

Long Goodbyes

The morning dawned, crisp and painfully beautiful.

Fresh snow glittered across the ranch, its surface undisturbed save for the tracks running between the barn and the farmhouse. The mountains stood brilliant against a cloudless sky—the kind of morning Josie's father would have declared perfect for drinking coffee by the fire.

"If we find one more crate, you're going to insist it fits," Cara said, shoving another duffel into the back of the Beast.

Jay just grinned. "And I'll be right."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You are impossible."

"And yet, here we are."

Jay watched her instead of answering.

"What?"

"You've got hay in your hair."

"I do not."

"You definitely do."

She reached up instinctively. "Where?"