Frost and Fervor

He stopped, his hand hovering in the air between us, his eyes searching my face. “How can I prove it to you?” he said, his voice rough with something I couldn’t name. “What do I have to do?”

I opened my eyes then, my gaze locking with his, and what I saw there stole the breath from my lungs. It wasn’t anger or contempt or any of the other emotions I’d come to associate with him. It was something else. Something softer. Something almost like desperation.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice a raw, needy whisper. “I just… I need time. I need… I need to think.”

He nodded, his hand falling back to his side, his eyes never leaving mine. “Take all the time you need,” he said, his voice soft, reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Aren’t you?” I said, my voice a little bitter, a little resigned. “As soon as the storm breaks, as soon as the roads are clear… we’ll both be going back to our lives. Back to the campaign. Back to… back to hating each other.”

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on mine, his jaw tight. “Do we have to?” he said at last, his voice a little rough, a little raw. “Do we have to go back to that?”

I stared at him, speechless, my mind reeling. I’d known Cormac Byrne for years, had faced off against him in countless battles, had hated him with a passion that bordered on obsession. But in that moment, I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. Not as my rival, not as my enemy, but as a man. A man who was offering me a chance at something different. Something more.

“I don’t know,” I said at last, my voice a little shaky, a little uncertain. “I just… I don’t know.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “Think about it,” he said, his voice soft, insistent. “Just… think about it. For me.”

I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, too lost in the feel of him, the heat of him, the sheer overwhelming maleness of him. My hands found their way to his chest, skating over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the smooth, hot skin that seemed to burn under my touch.

“Briar,” he growled, his voice guttural, almost animal. “God, Briar.”

I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, too lost in the feel of him, the heat of him, the sheer overwhelming maleness of him. My hands found their way under his shirt, skating over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the smooth, hot skin that seemed to burn under my touch.

He shuddered, his breath hot against my neck, his hands sliding down my sides, over my hips, pulling me flush against him. I could feel him, rigid and eager, against my belly, and it sent a surge of pure, unadulterated lust through me.

We fumbled our way across the room, shedding clothes as we went, leaving a trail of sweaters and shirts and jeans in our wake. By the time we reached the bed, we were down to skin and scars and the last tattered remains of our self-control.

He laid me down on the lumpy mattress, his body covering mine, his weight a welcome anchor in a world that seemed to be spinning out of control. His hands were everywhere, tracing the lines of my collarbone, cupping my breasts, skimming down my sides to grip my hips, his touch leaving fire in its wake.

I locked my legs around his waist, arching up into him, my hands knotting in his hair, yanking him down into another blistering kiss. He groaned into my mouth, his hips rolling against mine, the friction sending sparks of pleasure skittering across my skin.

“Please,” I gasped, breaking the kiss, my voice a raw, needy whisper. “Cormac, please.”

He didn’t answer, just reached between us, his hand finding me hot and ready, his fingers sliding inside me with an ease that made me moan. I felt him tremble above me, his breath hitching in his throat as he felt my slickness, my desperation for him.

“Briar,” he breathed, his voice rough with wanting. “You’re so… God, you’re perfect.”

I shook my head, my eyes fluttering closed, my body trembling on the edge of something vast and terrifying. “No,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m not. I’m… I’m a mess. I’m broken. I’m—”

He cut me off with a kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, his fingers working me inside, driving me higher, faster. “You’re perfect,” he said again, his voice a low, insistent growl. “You’re everything.”

I didn’t get a chance to argue, because in the next moment he was sliding into me, filling me, stretching me, his body joining with mine in a way that felt both utterly alien and completely, devastatingly right.

We moved together like we’d been doing it for years, like we were made for this, for each other. It was rough and raw and primal, all teeth and tongues and desperate, grasping hands. It was everything I hadn’t known I needed, everything I’d been missing without even realizing it.

He set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against mine, his hands pinning mine above my head, his mouth claiming mine in kiss after brutal, branding kiss. I met him stroke for stroke, my body rising to meet his, my nails raking down his back, my teeth sinking into his shoulder as the pressure built inside me, coiling tighter and tighter until I thought I would break apart from the sheer force of it.

And then, suddenly, I did, my body shattering around his, waves of pleasure crashing over me, through me, stealing my breath and my voice and my very sense of self. I cried out his name, my head thrown back, my body bowing up off the mattress as the world exploded into light and color behind my eyes.

He followed me over the edge a moment later, his body shuddering against mine, his breath hot and harsh in my ear as he spilled himself inside me, filling me with his heat, his essence, his very life.

For a long moment, we lay there, tangled together, sweat-slicked and panting, the only sound in the room the crackle of the fire and the slowing beat of our hearts. And as the last aftershocks of pleasure faded, as the world slowly righted itself around us, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

I had crossed a line, and there was no going back. Not now. Not ever.

We didn’t talk about what had happened between us, about the line we’d crossed and what it meant for the future. We didn’t discuss the phone call or the campaign or the thousand other things that stretched between us, silent but observed. We just… breathed. Existed in the space we’d created, in the warmth of each other’s skin.

For a long while, we lay there in silence, our bodies still joined, our breaths mingling in the quiet dark. Cormac’s hand traced lazy patterns on my skin, his touch light and soothing, a counterpoint to the intensity of what we’d just shared. I watched him through half-lidded eyes, marveling at the way the firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips. He looked younger like this, softer, his guard down in a way I’d never seen before.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the stillness, and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, unexpected and unwelcome.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice a little sharper than I intended. “Don’t say things like that.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes searching my face. “Why not?” he said, his voice a little rough, a little raw. “It’s the truth.”

I shook my head, looking away, my throat constricting. “It’s… not necessary,” I said, my voice a little strained. “We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to pretend.”

He was silent for a long moment, his hand stilling on my skin. “Pretend what?” he said at last, his voice carefully neutral.

I sighed, rolling onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. “Pretend that this is something it’s not,” I said, my voice low beneath the wind outside. “Something more than it is.”

He shifted beside me, his weight dipping the mattress. “And what is it, exactly?” he said, his voice a little harder now, a little more guarded. “What are we doing here, Briar?”

I closed my eyes, a sudden, visceral ache blooming in my chest. "I don’t know," I said, my voice hushed beneath the crackling fire. “I don’t… I don’t have an answer for that.”