Page 21 of Screwed by the Minotaur in Hallow’s Cove (Hallow’s Cove #6)

The warm, easy hush of the moment stretched and shimmered, until it was so taut I could feel the tension vibrating under my skin.

Every time Rick shifted, the truck bed rocked, and every time his arm tightened around me, a corresponding spark jumped inside my chest. I sipped the last of my hot chocolate, not realizing until it was gone how badly I wanted my hands free.

He set his mug aside and I heard the faint click of ceramic on metal, the sound oddly loud in the hush.

I felt him looking at me, but I didn’t turn—I just kept watching the sky, pretending I didn’t notice the way his fingers had started tracing little circles on my shoulder, or how his thigh pressed against mine with more and more certainty.

I waited for him to make the first move—half because I wanted to see how long he could hold out, and half because I liked the anticipation.

The tension built, a sweet ache, until finally his hand slid up the side of my neck, thumb under my jaw, tilting my chin toward him.

There was no rush to the kiss, just a gentle press of lips, slow and searching, as if he was trying to memorize the taste of me under the stars.

I melted into him, letting the pressure of his mouth draw out every last shred of resistance.

My hands found his chest, splaying over the heat of his skin beneath the button-up, feeling the steady thrum of his heart.

He cradled my cheek, his other arm winding around my waist, and for a long moment we did nothing but kiss—deeper, then softer, like we could breathe the night air in and out of each other.

I didn’t remember lying down, but there we were, side by side in the sea of blankets, his hand gentle at my hip, his lips lingering again and again on my mouth.

I’d had sex with him before—but this was different.

There was no rush, no frantic need to prove we were alive or to suffocate grief with sensation.

There was only his hand drifting, slow and warm, from my waist to my ribs; only the way he nuzzled into the hollow behind my ear, breathing me in like I was the first breath after drowning.

His fingers trailed under the hem of my dress, tentative, asking permission with every inch.

I shivered, not from cold but from the fragile, electric certainty that he wanted me—every part, every scar, even the parts that had nothing to do with sex at all.

I let my head tip back, exposing my throat, surrendering to the flutter of his mouth, the way every brush of his hand made me feel sharper, more alive.

The air was cool on my thighs when his hand slid higher, but I was already burning, every inch of exposed skin prickling where his fingers traced.

He went slow, agonizingly so, thumb stroking tender crescents at the hem of my underwear, knuckles feathering the skin above my knee.

When he finally—finally—let his hand slip up and over, I gasped, hips arching into the touch.

He stilled, eyes searching mine in the lantern glow. “Okay?” he whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the night.

I nodded, too breathless for words. “Better than okay.” And it was. There was no friction in this, no pain, just a hot, slow unraveling, like every nerve in my body came awake under his hands.

He kissed me again, slower this time—mouth coaxing, savoring, not just taking.

My breath tangled in my throat as his fingers slid beneath the thin band of my underwear, finding me already wet and wanting.

He touched me like he had all night, all weekend, all the time in the world.

I moaned softly, because it was too good to hold in, and he shushed me with the sweetest kiss, his thumb circling until I was trembling against the blanket.

I reached for the buttons on his shirt, managing to fumble them open one by one.

His body was solid and warm against the chill, and when I touched him, he shuddered like it was the first time.

His hand never stopped moving, never stopped drawing soft, breathless sounds out of me, even when I pressed my mouth to his shoulder and bit down, needing something to hold the world together.

He tugged my underwear off slowly and left them tangled around one ankle before pulling my dress over my head.

He pressed me onto my back, bracing his arms to either side of my head.

The cool air hit, goosebumps chasing up my arms, but he was there, kissing each one in turn, mouth warm and reverent.

He kissed my collarbones, the dip above my heart, the small scar near my ribs from when I’d fallen out of a tree at age six.

It felt like each kiss was a wordless promise: I see you, I want you, I’m not going anywhere.

He took his time. There was no hurry, no need to rush toward the finish line.

The night was endless, the valley below us a secret, and for once I didn’t care if there were monsters or ghosts or gods watching from the dark.

Let them. I had him, and he had me, not just in the way of hands and mouths and bodies, but in the slow, deliberate claiming of hearts.

I wanted it to last forever. I wanted to remember this, not as the night I let go of my grief, but the night I finally decided I had a future worth wanting.

He moved over me, big and careful, the weight of his body a perfect shelter.

When he finally pressed into me, it was slow, so slow, the stretch and ache of him as much comfort as pleasure.

We fit together, bodies aligning in a way that made me think of matched puzzle pieces, the kind you find in the bottom of a box after searching for years.

I wrapped myself around his hips and held him there, grinding up against every inch, and he groaned into my neck, the sound so needy and desperate that it almost made me cry.

He didn’t fuck me—he made love to me, and I almost hated the cliché of it, but that’s what it was—something slow and deliberate, something that built and built until my body was shaking, not from what he did to me but from what it meant to be chosen by him, all of him, every broken and bruised part.

He ground into me with a patience that bordered on torture, pausing every so often to check my face, my breath, the whisper of my name on my lips.

Between thrusts, he kissed me everywhere—forehead, cheekbone, jaw, even the soft place behind my ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice thick with wonder, and it hit me harder than anything else that night.

I pulled him down, mouthing the words don’t stop against his throat, not just meaning the movement but the moment, not wanting him to let go even when my own body started to tremble and collapse.

I came soft and slow, wave after wave, clinging to his shoulders like I might go under if I let go.

He held me through it, not moving, just breathing hard, sweat slicking his skin where our bodies met.

When he finally came, it was with a low, stunned grunt, his face buried in the crook of my neck, hands clamped at my hips like I was the only thing that kept him tethered to the world.

I felt the shudder go through him, the throb and flood of him inside me, and I was hit with this unaccountable joy—like maybe the universe hadn’t made a mistake after all, putting us here, together, under this free country sky.

Afterward, we just lay there, his body draped half over mine like a living, breathing security blanket.

The air cooled quickly, prickling sweat on my skin, but I didn’t care.

I pulled him closer, arms locked around his back, and listened to the frantic thunder of his heart gradually slow, the way his breath caught and hitched every time I stroked his hair or traced the arch of his horns.

My own heart was steady, grounded, not frantic for the first time in months.

When he finally slid off me, it was gentle, almost apologetic, like he was sorry to let the night back in.

He pulled my dress back over my head, then wrestled his own shirt on without buttoning it, and we lay there, side by side, sharing a half-packet of cookies and the rest of the hot chocolate.

I’d never felt so completely seen, or so thoroughly wrecked.

Eventually, the night got too cold, even for us. I shivered, pulling the blankets up, and Rick sat up, stretching with a wince. “C’mon,” he said, patting my knee and helping me up. “Let’s get you home.”

I blinked, still half-lost in the afterglow, then realized he was already hopping off the tailgate, reaching back to gather up mugs and wrappers and the little lantern.

There was a note of finality in the way he moved, not cold, but—gentle.

Like he wanted to wrap the night up without shattering whatever spell we’d put ourselves under.

I followed him into the cab, the warmth inside a shock after the chill outside. He started the engine, then paused, resting his hands lightly on the wheel. “That was… fuck, Lea. I don’t have words for it.”

My cheeks flared, and I buried my nose in my shoulder, not wanting to make it a big thing, even though it was.

“Yeah,” I said, and it sounded thin, so I tried again.

“Me too. I don’t think I ever—I mean, I never—did it like this,” I finished, feeling a little embarrassed by the nakedness of the thought. “With anyone.”

Rick reached over, squeezing my hand tight, his thumb tracing little nervous lines along the bones.

He didn’t say anything else until we pulled up to my apartment. The street was empty, and the only sound was the click of the cooling engine. He cut the lights and turned to me, his face half-shadow in the cab.

“I had a plan for tonight,” he said, voice soft but steady. “Thought I’d take you home after, like, a proper date. Walk you to your door and leave you wanting more, like a gentleman.”

I grinned, a little sleepy, a little delirious from the rush of the night. “You mean you weren’t going to try and seduce me in the truck bed?”

He snorted, but there was a flicker of seriousness in his eyes.

“No, I wasn’t. I mean, I wanted to, but that wasn’t the point.

” He let out a slow breath, collecting his words.

“I wanted to show you that you’re worth more than just a quick fuck and a night on a mattress.

I wanted to do it right. I wanted to… I don’t know.

Prove I could be the kind of guy you’d want to keep around. ”

He let the words hang, not looking at me, but the way his hand clenched the steering wheel gave away everything he was trying not to say.

I wanted to tell him that I’d never met anyone like him.

That he was already the standard by which I would judge every other man for the rest of my life, and all of them would fall short.

But I didn’t know how to put that into words that weren’t embarrassing or too much or, worst of all, so honest that saying them might make him disappear.

So I settled for the simplest thing: “You already did.”

I leaned over the battered center console, slipped my fingers around the back of his neck, and kissed him, slow and deep and with all the certainty I didn’t know I had until it was unlocked by his stubborn, messy, beautiful devotion.

When I pulled away, he was grinning, a little dazed, like he’d just discovered a new law of physics.

He squeezed my thigh, just above the knee, and let the silence fill up between us until it felt as peaceful as the cold night beyond the windshield.

I wanted to stay there, soaking up the warmth and the hush and the way he looked at me like we were the only two creatures on Earth.

But there was a point, with every good night, where you had to open your door and trust the world would still be waiting in the morning.

I slid out of the truck, shivering as my feet hit the cold earth. He followed, not giving me a chance to protest, to the door, hand warm at the small of my back the whole way. At the threshold, neither of us moved.

He reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and said, “Text me when you wake up?” Like it wasn’t a given, like it was the most fragile hope in the world.

I found his hand and squeezed it. “I will.” After everything, it seemed stupid and impossible to want more, to trust that wanting more wouldn’t ruin all the good built up in the last few hours. But the words didn’t scare me this time. I wanted to text him. I wanted to tell him everything.

He kissed my forehead, a quick, almost embarrassed brush, then stepped back and walked to the truck. He waited at the curb until he saw my lights come on inside.

I leaned my head against the door after it closed, listening to the slow beat of my own heart, the way the walls echoed back the contentment I’d managed to borrow from the stars.

Hours later, wrapped in my own blankets, I lay awake and replayed every second of the night again and again, like a favorite song.

There was a new ache inside me, but it wasn’t loneliness—not exactly.

It was the kind of ache you get when something you never thought you’d have was suddenly, miraculously, yours.