Page 88 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

There are a handful of mountain restaurants up on the ridge, smoke curling from chimneys and low beams glowing through the windows.

We prop our skis outside, flick snow from our jackets and step into the warm hush.

A fire snaps in the hearth, heat edges into my fingers and my toes finally begin to feel again.

We shrug off gloves and hats. A waitress takes our orders and, before long, plates arrive.

For a little while the conversation is ordinary, easy.

After the meal we pull our jackets tight, shrug back into boots and click our skis into place.

Dusk is already draining the light from the ridge as we gather our poles and move toward the lip of the run.

Adelaide narrows her eyes at Isaak. “One last run?” she asks, smirking. “I might let you win this time, wouldn’t want to bruise your pride too badly.”

She snaps her board into place and pushes off.

Isaak rolls his eyes, shoots us a look, and says, “As if I haven’t been lettingherwin all day.” He pushes off and follows her line. We fall in behind them.

We return the skis, and by the time we reach the car park the sky has already gone dark.

Adelaide argues with Isaak, his voice cuts across the lot, flat and final. “A deal’s a deal. You’re driving with me. Don’t argue, viper.”

She says nothing and slides into the car as he holds the door open.

I cross to the other vehicle. Hunter opens the passenger door and Piper slips into the front seat. Arlo holds the rear doorfor me and I slide in, I take the back, and he follows. Hunter takes the wheel.

The drive back is quiet, just the low thrum of the engine and a soft radio the only sounds.

Back at the chalet everyone drifts to their rooms to shower and change into something more comfortable.

I make straight for mine, aware of Arlo a pace behind. In the bathroom I peel off my layers and step under the hot spray, letting the water cascade over my skin.

A presence settles at my back, Arlo’s heat pressing in, his hand finding my hip as he draws close.

I feel the firm pressure of his arousal against me, and his hand comes to rest at my throat in a decidedly possessive grasp.

He lowers his head, and his lips brush the column of my neck.

While one hand remains at my throat, the other finds its way to my slick, wet core, his fingers tracing slow circles that draw a soft moan from my lips.

His grip on my neck tightens slightly as he growls, “Hands on the wall.”

Complying, I brace myself just before he drives into me with a single, forceful thrust.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice ragged, “you feel so good. I could get lost in this pussy and never find the way out.”

Lost in a haze of pure sensation, I succumb to the bliss as he moves with unrestrained fervour, until we are both left breathless and spent, trembling in the aftermath.

He kisses me once more, soft and absurdly gentle, then reaches for the shampoo and begins to wash my hair.

I say nothing, I simply let his hands move over me. He’s so careful it hurts.

We rinse, I step out of the shower and let him finish. I pad into the wardrobe and pull on lounge trousers, a fitted knit and thick socks.

At the vanity I dab on moisturiser and towel my hair dry. I reach for the brush and, by the time my hand closes around it, he’s there behind me.

When I look up our eyes meet in the mirror.