Either it wasn’t morning yet, or the storm hadn’t broken. The wind snarled outside, quieter than it had been earlier, but it still snaked around the house in violent gusts. Slipping out of bed, he dragged his boxers off the floor, slipped into them, and headed out into the main part of the house. The fire still glowed and Steele sat on the couch, curled up under one blanket. He stopped dead in the doorway. She wore his shirt. She’d wrapped herself in his scent. His throat went dry, wishing like hell she’d ditch the blanket so he could see those pale, long legs. She had a coffee mug clasped in both hands, the sweet smell of cocoa thick in the living room—she obviously liked hers with more chocolate than he’d put in on that first day—and she stared into the fire. Her hip-length hair still hung loose, draped out over the arm of the couch and Hexe ached to run his hands through it. To wrap it around his fist and tug her head back for another kiss. He’d never get enough of her.
