She buckled his heart in place without even trying. And they drove off into the dark, toward warmth, toward sleep, toward whatever conversation came next.
The Gallatin River Lodge greeted them in hushed tones. Midnight had settled over the land like a down comforter, soft, heavy, still. The faint rustle of pine outside, the slow creak of the wooden front door as they entered. Inside, golden sconces along the walls glowed dimly, casting amber pools of light that flickered against exposed beams and stone hearths.
They walked through the quiet lobby side by side, fingers brushing but not linked, both too full for words. A few guests still lingered in the lounge—two couples playing cards, someone reading under a plaid blanket, a trio of friends quietly laughing into steaming mugs. No one looked up. Everyone was in their own bubble of peace. The kind of peace you didn't dare disturb.
Olivia didn't speak until they reached their suite. She slipped off her coat, dropped her phone onto the corner table, and toed off her shoes with a tired breath.
"I'm going to shower," she said quietly, voice frayed at the edges.
Grayson just nodded, a slow curve of understanding in his expression. "I'll be right here."
The bathroom was dim and elegant, all slate and soft lighting, the kind of space designed to make a person exhale. Olivia moved toward the vanity, fingers brushing over the toiletries lined neatly in a tray: honey and lemongrass shampoo, a pale glass bottle of lotion, and a small, round soap wrapped in linen paper. Everything smelled faintly herbal, clean, and expensive.
Steam rose behind her as she turned the shower handle. Water gushed from the hydromassage head in steady pulses, warming the air around it. She peeled off her blouse, her slacks, each movement slower than the last. The exhaustion wasn't just physical; it was emotional, cellular, as if it had woven into her bones.
When she stepped into the shower and slid the door shut, the first bead of hot water hit the back of her neck, and she let her head tip forward. Heat rolled over her like a balm. She closed her eyes and let her arms hang limp at her sides.
She knew she needed to talk. Knew the words had been hovering in her chest for days—about Boston, about Paul, about how terrifying it was to need someone the way she needed Grayson. But standing here, surrounded by steam and solitude, it didn't feel urgent anymore. Not because it wasn't important. But because he never rushed her. That was one of the things she loved most. With Grayson, silence never meant distance.
She stayed like that, still, letting the water drum across her shoulders until she heard the soft slide of the shower door behind her. She tensed on instinct. Then… hands. Familiar hands. Warm and sure, gliding across her waist. She exhaled. Relaxed.
Grayson stepped in behind her without a word, his body pressing close, his chin resting gently against the top of her wet hair. The water splashed over both of them now, cascading down their shoulders, their backs, pooling around their feet.
They didn't move. Not for a long moment. Then slowly, Grayson's hands slid away. He reached for the soap dispenser, pumping the honey-and-lemongrass body wash into his palm. A loofah appeared from behind her, and she felt the first gentle stroke along her back. Then another, firmer this time, over her shoulder blades. He was slow and methodical, scrubbing away the night, the tension, the remnants of everything she didn't say.
She moaned softly when he dug his thumbs into the knots beside her spine, her head falling forward again. He washed down her arms, her waist, her thighs, every touch a kind of permission. You're safe. You're loved. You can fall apart if you need to.
When his fingers moved to her scalp, threading into her hair with shampoo, her knees nearly buckled. She melted. He massaged her head with reverence, rinsing each strand with care, and when the water stopped, she wasn't even sure who turned it off.
The next thing she knew, Grayson was wrapping a thick white towel around her. He lifted another and began gently drying her hair, first patting, then slowly combing through it with his fingers, careful not to tug. She stood there, quiet and pliant, her eyes half-closed as he tended to her like she was the most natural thing in the world to take care of.
He carried her to the bed, guided her to sit, then unscrewed the cap of the lotion bottle. The scent bloomed—vanilla and something floral, maybe jasmine. He warmed it in his hands, then began rubbing it into her shoulders, her arms, her legs. His touch was softer now, more grounding than sensual, though it made her breath hitch all the same.
Olivia didn't say a word. She didn't need to. Olivia's body responded to his touch. She curled instinctively into the space he made for her beneath the covers, into the warmth of his chest and the cradle of his arms. He kissed the back of her neck, slow and steady.
She snuggled back, eyes finally fluttering shut. And just before sleep took her, in the kind of haze that blurred the line between dreams and truth, she whispered, "I love you."
Morning crept in softly.
The curtains had been drawn only halfway, letting the first amber light of dawn spill lazily across the stone floors and onto the edge of the bed. Olivia stirred but didn't open her eyes, not yet. She was warm, swaddled in layers of crisp white sheets and the thick, downy comforter, but more than that, she was held.
Grayson's arm was slung around her waist, palm resting against the curve of her belly. His chest pressed flush to her back, the rise and fall of his breathing syncing with hers. His breath ghosted warm over her neck in a rhythm so steady, she could count time by it.
She didn't want to move. The world was out there somewhere, Montana chill, work stress, unanswered questions—but here in this cocoon of warmth, of cinnamon-cedar shampoo and honeyed lemongrass soap still faint on her skin, there was nothing but peace.
Her mind drifted to the night before his hands, his care, the way he'd washed her like she was breakable and sacred all at once. She still couldn't find the words for how it made her feel. Worshiped? No. That wasn't the right word.
Known. That was it.
Grayson shifted slightly behind her, nuzzling into the curve where her neck met her shoulder. "You're awake," he murmured, his voice raspy with sleep.
"So are you," she whispered back.
"Barely."
She smiled and turned her face toward him just enough to see his eyes, still heavy-lidded, barely open but watching her with that same quiet awe that made her heart squeeze.
"You murmured something last night," he said softly.
"I did? Did you catch it?" she asked, a hint of surprise coloring her voice.
He pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder, his lips grazing her skin tenderly. "Every single word," he replied, a warmth in his tone, "and I've been yearning to hear it said to my face for a long, long time."
She paused, the silence stretching between them like the delicate tension of a held breath. Her fingers traced slow, lazy circles over the back of his hand, which rested comfortably against her waist. The moment felt crystallized in time, like a snow globe poised on the brink of a gentle shake, each flake suspended in anticipation.
"I meant it," she finally said, her voice steady and sincere.
"I know," he whispered, his voice filled with quiet understanding.
His voice was calm. Solid. She'd expected a reply, maybe even a return of the phrase, but instead, he gave her something better: certainty.
She rolled slowly onto her back, and he shifted with her, propping himself on one elbow. His other hand pushed back her hair gently, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, and for a long beat, neither of them spoke.
Then, Olivia's stomach growled.
Grayson laughed, low and full. "I was just about to say something romantic, and you ruined it."
"I'm a realist," she said, grinning up at him. "And a hungry one."
He leaned down, brushing his lips over hers, slow and unrushed. "I'll allow it. But only because you said you love me."
"I did," she said. "Which means now you have to feed me."
"That's the rule?"
"It's a strong suggestion."
He rolled out of bed, tugging on his joggers and the long-sleeve Henley he'd tossed on a chair the night before. "Stay in bed. I'll bring you something."
"You don't even know what I want."
"You want coffee, something with carbs, and to not lift a finger until at least noon."
She blinked at him, impressed. "Okay. Who told you?"
"Little fox, I'm observant. And invested."
He bent down and kissed her again, quick and warm, then padded barefoot out of the suite.
Olivia lay back against the pillows, grinning up at the ceiling.
Loved. Known. Cared for. For the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like too much to ask for all three. It felt like her new normal.
Grayson, on a mission to seek out that divine elixir known as coffee and the comforting allure of carbs, ventured into the morning, leaving Olivia nestled in bed. She lay there, still smiling and reflecting on the unexpected turn of events that had brought her to this moment. Though a flicker of worry about the future danced in her mind, she relished the present, savoring the warmth of his presence as she drifted back into slumber.
She was once more awakened, this time by an aroma that enveloped her senses.
Olivia shifted beneath the covers, her body still aching from the previous day's labors. Sleep clung to her like a persistent shroud, thick and unyielding, until that aroma, rich, roasted, and earthy, pierced through the haze with precision.
Coffee.
Her eyelids fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the gentle morning light. Grayson had returned.
He stood at the foot of the bed, a tray balanced deftly in his hands, the gentle Montana morning light streaming in from behind, casting a golden halo around him.
Yes, as if he'd been dispatched to deliver salvation itself. Still wearing his soft gray joggers and a fitted Henley that hugged his chest and arms in a way that was undeniably appealing. His hair was slightly tousled, with the ends still damp, as if he had run wet fingers through it on his way back from the lobby.
He smiled down at her—slow and crooked and devastating.
"I brought offerings," he said.
Olivia pushed up onto her elbows, the comforter sliding down to her waist. She was still bare underneath, but her modesty had long since been melted by the weight of their trust. "You're dangerously good at this."
Grayson set the tray on the bed in front of her, settling it across her lap.
There was a small arrangement of fruit—raspberries, blackberries, cantaloupe—along with flaky pastries, thick slices of toast, and a pat of butter melting in a ceramic dish. Her gaze lingered on the silver carafe of coffee, already half-poured into a white mug.
She took a sip. And moaned.
Not a polite hum of approval but a low, satisfied, utterly carnal sound of pleasure.
Grayson froze.
His brows lifted first, then slowly pulled into a frown. Not angry—something more primal. His jaw tightened as he looked down at her, eyes fixed on her lips.
She glanced up, confused.
"What?" she asked, mug still poised between her palms.
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned, walked to the small desk by the window, and set down his own cup of coffee with surgical precision. Then he returned to the bed, lifted her tray carefully from her lap, pastries and all, and placed it next to his.
"Hey," she said with a small laugh, "I wasn't finished with that."
"I know," he said, voice low.
He took her coffee mug from her hands.
"Grayson," she whined, "I had like two sips. Give it back."
He leaned down, one hand bracing himself on the mattress beside her head. His voice was a gravelled whisper now, roughened by control slipping through his fingers. "Little Fox…"
She blinked up at him, playful and breathless.
"…I am not what many would call a patient man. And when you moan into a coffee cup like that, it pushes me to the kind of edge I don't want to be on. Not without you under me."
Her lips parted. "I… I'm sorry?" she offered, voice pitched high with both humor and heat.
"I love to hear you moan," he murmured, eyes dropping to her mouth. "But I need to be the one who makes it escape your lips."
And then he kissed her.
Not sweet. Not soft. But hungry and possessive. His mouth crashed into hers like he'd been starving and she was the only meal that would ever satisfy him. He tasted of coffee, mint, and something uniquely him—something familiar and addictive.
She moaned again, this time into him.
And it broke him completely.
He climbed onto the bed, pushing the tray further out of reach, the soft creak of the mattress grounding them both. The morning light had shifted now, climbing higher across the sky, flooding the suite in a golden hue. It cast shadows over the duvet, warmed the wood floors, and made her skin glow like it had been painted by sunlight.
"I should be mad," she murmured, fingers grazing his forearm as he hovered over her.
"You will be," he whispered, "but not yet."
His mouth captured hers again, and this time it wasn't just a kiss it was a claiming. He tasted like coffee and the edge of restraint. His hand moved instinctively to the crook of her neck, his thumb stroking slowly, anchoring her as he leaned in deeper.
His mouth captured hers again, and this time it wasn't just a kiss, it was a claiming. He tasted like coffee and the edge of restraint. His hand moved instinctively to the crook of her neck, his thumb stroking slowly, anchoring her as he leaned in deeper.
She moaned again helplessly, hopelessly, and Grayson responded like a man lit from the inside. His kiss deepened, teeth grazing, tongue teasing, until she melted into the mattress beneath him.
His other hand glided over her body, relearning the skin he'd missed, her ribs, the swell of her breast, the pebbled hardness of her nipple as he rolled it between his fingers. She arched into him, breath hitching, back bowing.
"Grayson…"
He kissed her again to quiet the cry, his mouth moving to her neck, then lower. "I need to feel every sound you make, Little Fox. I need to taste what I've missed." His voice was gravelly and hot.
His mouth traveled over to her breasts, his hands gently cupping and squeezing each one with a tender yet firm touch. His tongue danced like a skilled conductor, orchestrating a symphony of ecstasy on her skin. Olivia was overwhelmed by waves of pleasure; her nipples were so taut and sensitized that the electric sensation seemed to radiate down to her very core.
He gently caressed her skin, his touch both tender and insistent, and her body responded with an eager hunger. Every fiber of her being yearned for more of his touch, a longing that had lingered in his absence. It was as if he instinctively sensed the craving coursing through her, and he answered it with a deliberate grace. His hand glided smoothly down her body, tracing a path toward her thighs. With a gentle yet persuasive motion, he parted them, and she willingly opened up to him, inviting him closer.
Grayson's lips retraced their path, pressing deeply against Olivia's as his hand began a languid descent down her quivering abdomen. His fingers brushed against her slick, heated center, already awakened and yearning. He explored her folds with a tender touch, and when he parted them, grazing her clit, her body arched sharply, electrified by his singular touch. It was as if a lightning bolt surged through her, igniting every nerve ending.
Releasing her from his kiss, he leaned in, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. "Little Fox," he whispered, his voice a low, primal growl. "I love how your body responds to me." Olivia gasped, her breath hitching with a whispered, "God." Grayson's fingers circled her clit, slow and deliberate, before one slid inside her, drawing out a keening moan from deep within her.
Olivia's body was already slick with need, and Grayson growled softly in her ear, "You're so wet for me. I missed this so much. I missed you so much." His finger moved in and out of her, while his thumb rubbed her clit, slow and steady. "Still so tight," he whispered, his teeth gently grazing the curve of her shoulder. "So wet. You missed me, too, didn't you?"
"Yes," she breathed, her voice a mere whisper. "Yes...Grayson, I—". A second finger joined the first, stretching her, filling her perfectly. Her legs fell open wider, inviting him in without reservation. He shifted his thumb to her clit, rubbing in slow, relentless circles until her thighs trembled with anticipation.
Grayson watched her intently, memorizing every second, every arch of her hips, every flutter of her lashes. This time, louder than the moans already escaping her, he smiled. "Little fox... Still not loud enough," he murmured, adding a third finger. Her mouth dropped open, a gasp of pleasure and surprise. "Oh, my—".
Olivia's moan echoed off the high ceiling, and Grayson smirked against her skin, his breath hot at her temple. "That's better." With a kiss to her thigh, he withdrew his fingers, licking them slowly as her breath came in jagged waves. Her pulse thudded visibly in her neck, a testament to the storm of desire raging within her.
Then he slid off the bed, and Olivia's breath caught again. She watched hypnotized as he stripped off his shirt, then his pants, his body as golden and honed as she remembered. Broad shoulders, lean hips, the fine trail of hair leading down…
He stepped between her thighs and gently dragged her to the edge of the bed. And then he dropped to his knees.
Her heart momentarily halted, as if caught in the grip of an unseen force. He didn't hurry, nor did he utter a single word. Instead, his gaze was unwavering, intensely focused—examining her very essence, the curve of her thighs, her breathless anticipation shimmering in the air.
Olivia's mind spun in a chaotic dance of thoughts, expecting him to act with haste. Yet, contrary to her expectations, he lowered himself slowly, kneeling before her with deliberate intent, his eyes tracing over parts of her that she herself seldom acknowledged. As a wave of self-consciousness began to wash over her, she instinctively moved her hand toward her center, a feeble attempt to conceal herself. But with a gentle flick of his wrist, he brushed her hand aside.
She squirmed, a reflexive reaction to the vulnerability of the moment.
When she attempted once more to shield herself, his hand was there, firm yet gentle, capturing hers, holding it in a silent promise of understanding and acceptance.
"Don't," he said, voice low and reverent. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And this—" he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, "—this belongs to me."
She barely had time to process the words before he kissed her again, this time on her folds. Just a kiss. No tongue, no rush. And it was the most sensual, intimate thing she had ever felt.
Her body thrummed like a taut wire, every nerve ending sparking with anticipation. Then, his tongue slid through her folds, a slow, deliberate glide, until it circled her clit, igniting a humming sensation that radiated out from that single, intimate touch. Her body, a landscape of goosebumps and shivers, couldn't decipher its own responses. It trembled at the precipice of what was to come. A gasp escaped her, fingers clutching the sheets behind her like a lifeline.
Grayson continued his sensual torture, licking, teasing, alternating between languid flicks and soft puffs of breath. Occasionally, he'd slip his thumb back to her clit, pressing firmly, while his tongue dipped inside her, stroking her velvety depths. On the precipice of euphoria and ecstasy, Olivia floated in a haze of sensation, her body a tingling, electric mess of igniting nerves. She was coming undone, unraveling like a spool of silk. "I...can't..Oh.. I'm.. Grayson." was all that tumbled from her lips when he finally ceased his teasing and began to feast on her in earnest.
"Yes, you can," he murmured between strokes, his voice a low, primal growl. "You're almost there." Wrapping her legs around his shoulders, he pressed a fierce kiss to her inner thigh before consuming her, his mouth and fingers plunging deep within her, relentless and merciless. She grasped his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, and he growled, diving deeper into her core.
Olivia's hips rocked, her body a writhing, undulating wave. She could feel it building, her body tensing, coiling like a spring. Grayson's fingers moved faster, feeling her walls tighten around them. She cried out, her legs trembling as she locked them over his shoulders, her body a taut bowstring. He grabbed her hips, anchoring her to him, dragging her over the edge into the abyss of ecstasy.
"Oh my God...Grayson—"
Her fingers tightened in his hair, her head tipped back, and her body bucked with the force of her release. She came hard, clenching around nothing, moaning into the echo of the room as the tremors ripped through her, a storm surge of sensation. He didn't stop until her body couldn't take it anymore—until she whimpered from oversensitivity and collapsed against the pillows, a boneless, sated mess.
Grayson rose to his feet, licking his lips, eyes dark with hunger.
"You think we're done?" he said, his voice rough.
Olivia blinked at him, dazed. "We're not?"
"No," he growled, crawling over her. "We're just getting started."
She panted, laughing breathlessly. "I'd hate to hear the great Mr. Steel needs a break."
His smile turned dangerous. "I'm not the one who'll need it."
"We'll just have to see," she countered, her voice raspy and wrecked.
He pushed into her in one deep, unrelenting stroke.
And Olivia stopped breathing.