Chapter 1: Fires in the Frost
The icy grip of a Big Bear Lake winter clamped down outside our cozy cabin, the thermometer barely scraping 20 degrees on this frigid Presidents Day Weekend. Snowflakes danced like ghostly whispers against the window, but inside, wrapped in the warmth of our bed, I, Kristen Blanchard, felt nothing but the heat of my husband John’s tattooed, battle-hardened body against mine. We’d escaped San Diego for a rare, unburdened weekend—no articles to chase for the Union Tribune, no taiko drumming gigs, no thrash metal shows for John’s band, and a light work week for his ironworker hands. Just us, the slopes, and now, this moment, tangled in sheets, indulging in our guilty pleasure: a true crime documentary flickering on the TV.
The screen showed a silver-haired femme fatale confessing to offing her husband for insurance money, her cold eyes glinting with calculated malice. John’s gravelly Cajun drawl cut through the tension. ‘Damn, darlin’, reckon she practiced that sob story in the mirror? Bet she cried crocodile tears at the funeral.’
I snorted, nudging his ribs with my elbow. ‘You’re awful. She probably did. Had the eulogy written before the body was cold.’
He grinned, those hazel eyes of his sparking with mischief. ‘Speakin’ of cold, you’re my own kinda dangerous, ain’t ya? My fierce cougar, four years my senior, ready to pounce.’
I arched a brow, lips curling into a smirk. ‘Oh, please, soldier boy. I’m barely older, and last I checked, this cougar’s got you pinned. Or are those Marine muscles just for show?’
John’s laugh rumbled deep, vibrating against my chest. ‘Pinned, huh? Careful, chère, I might just let ya think you’ve got the upper hand.’
‘Let me?’ I shot back, voice dripping with challenge. Before he could sling another snarky comeback, I silenced him with a kiss, my lips claiming his with a hunger that had been simmering all day. He kissed me back, fierce and unyielding, his calloused hands sliding up my back, pulling me closer.
In a swift motion, I rolled on top of him, straddling his hips, my thighs clamping around his waist as the documentary droned on, forgotten. Our kisses deepened, a battle of tongues and teeth, each of us refusing to yield. My fingers tangled in his dark hair as I broke away to trail my lips down his jaw, nipping at the scruff on his neck. ‘You talk a big game, John,’ I purred against his skin, ‘but I’m about to show you who’s really in charge.’
His hands gripped my hips, a low growl escaping him. ‘Bring it, Kristen. I’m all yours to command.’
The heat between us was electric, a wildfire ready to consume. My hands tugged at his shirt, peeling it off to reveal the inked canvas of his chest, scars and stories etched into his skin from Iraq and beyond. I kissed my way down, tasting the salt of him, my lips lingering on his stomach as his breath hitched. With a wicked grin, I hooked my fingers into his boxers, yanking them down to free the beast within—his thick, uncut cock, already hard and straining for me. My mouth watered at the sight, and I didn’t hesitate, leaning down to drag my tongue along his shaft, savoring his sharp intake of breath. ‘Fuck, Kristen,’ he groaned, and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.
But this was just the beginning. The night was ours, and I was determined to make every second burn.
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