🔥 The Proposal Night 🔥

⚠️ Content Warning

This bonus scene contains explicit sexual content and is intended for readers 18+.

Contains: Explicit M/F content, oral sex (both giving and receiving), emotional intimacy, praise elements, multiple orgasms, and two people celebrating their engagement in the most thorough way possible.

This scene takes place immediately after the epilogue, the night Caleb proposes at Blackwood Lodge.

The Proposal Night

The ring caught firelight every time Lily moved her hand.

She couldn’t stop looking at it—the diamond throwing tiny constellations across the timber walls, the gold band warm against her skin, the weight of it both foreign and exactly right. She’d been engaged for approximately forty-five minutes, and she’d already developed the habit of touching the ring with her thumb, just to confirm it was real.

“You’re doing it again,” Caleb said.

They were still on the floor in front of the fire, the bourbon abandoned, the snow falling steadily outside. He was leaning back against the couch with her tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her upper arm.

“Doing what?”

“The thing where you touch the ring and look at it like it might disappear.”

“I’m not—” She caught herself doing it. Again. “Okay, maybe I am.”

“It’s not going anywhere.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Neither am I.”

The words settled into her chest like warmth spreading from a fire—not the sharp heat of desire, but something steadier. Something that felt like home.

“I know,” she said. And she did. A year ago, she wouldn’t have believed it. A year ago, she’d been so certain that everyone left, that love was temporary, that the safest thing was to never let anyone close enough to hurt her. Now she was wearing his mother’s ring and sitting in a cabin that smelled like woodsmoke and cedar and them, and the only thing she felt was certainty.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Always.”

“I thought about this. A lot. Over the past year.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “What it would be like if you proposed. Where we’d be. What you’d say.”

His mouth curved. “And did reality match the fantasy?”

“Better.” She turned in his arms, rising onto her knees so she was facing him. “In my fantasies, you never cried.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You absolutely cried.”

“There was moisture. It was a physiological response to—”

She kissed him to shut him up.

The kiss started soft—grateful, tender, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I love you and yes, a thousand times yes. But it didn’t stay soft. It couldn’t. Not with the fire crackling beside them and the snow falling outside and the ring on her finger and a year of memories between them, all the ways they’d learned each other’s bodies, all the ways they’d learned to stay.

Caleb’s hands slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She felt the controlled strength in his grip—the way he held her like she was precious and wanted her like she was necessary—and something hot and liquid pooled low in her belly.

“Caleb,” she breathed against his mouth.

“Hmm?”

“Take me to bed.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, the gray almost swallowed by black, and his breath was coming faster than it had been. “We have an air mattress this year. A real bed frame is eight hours away in Brooklyn.”

“Then take me to the air mattress.”

“That’s significantly less romantic.”

She laughed—she couldn’t help it—and the sound turned into a gasp when his mouth found her throat, pressing a kiss to the spot just below her ear that he’d discovered on their first night together and had been exploiting mercilessly ever since.

“I don’t need romantic,” she managed. “I need you.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” His teeth grazed her earlobe, and she shivered despite the fire. “I can give you both.”

“Caleb—”

“I just proposed to you.” His voice was a low rumble against her skin. “You said yes. I think that deserves a certain… level of attention.”

He pulled back and looked at her, and the expression on his face made her breath catch. It was the same way he’d looked at her by the fire a year ago, the first time he’d made love to her. Like she was a miracle. Like she was the answer to a question he’d been afraid to ask.

“Stand up,” he said.

She stood.

He rose in front of her—fluid, controlled, every movement deliberate—and took her hands in his. The ring pressed between their palms. His thumb traced over the band, feeling the shape of it against her finger.

“Do you know what I thought about,” he said quietly, “the first time I saw this ring? In my father’s attic?”

She shook her head.

“I thought about my mother wearing it. How small it looked on her hand at the end. How she’d spin it around her finger when she was thinking.” His eyes never left hers. “And I thought about you wearing it. How it would look against your skin. How I’d feel every time I saw it and knew—” His voice caught. “Knew you were mine. That you’d chosen to be mine.”

“I chose you a year ago,” she whispered.

“I know. But this is different.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the ring—a benediction, a vow. “This is permanent. This is forever. And I want to spend tonight showing you exactly what forever means to me.”

He led her to the air mattress they’d set up in the same spot the original mattress had been—in front of the fire, where the warmth was strongest, where they’d first confessed and first made love and first learned that staying was worth the risk.

“Sit,” he said.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, looking up at him. The fire painted him in gold and shadow, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the intensity in his eyes.

He knelt in front of her. Slowly. Deliberately. Not because he was proposing again, but because he was worshipping, and worship started on your knees.

His hands found the hem of her sweater—the cashmere one she’d worn for the drive up, soft and expensive, a gift from him last month. He drew it up and over her head, leaving her in just her bra—black lace, because some part of her had known tonight would be important.

“You planned this,” he said, tracing the edge of the lace.

“I hoped.”

“You knew.”

“I suspected.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “I like that you dressed for the occasion.”

“I like that you noticed.”

He reached behind her and unclasped the bra with practiced ease, sliding it down her arms and tossing it aside. The cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the warmth of his palms cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked against his touch.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lily.”

She’d heard him say it before—a hundred times over the past year, in bed and out of it, whispered and shouted and everything in between. But tonight it hit differently. Tonight she believed it with every fiber of her being.

“Your turn,” she said, reaching for his shirt.

He let her pull it over his head, revealing the body she’d memorized over twelve months of lazy Sunday mornings and late-night need. Broad chest, defined abs, the trail of dark hair that led below his waistband. She pressed her palm flat against his heart and felt it hammering beneath her touch.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“Desperate,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He eased her back onto the mattress, covering her body with his, and for a long moment they just lay there—skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, the fire crackling beside them and the snow whispering against the windows. She could feel him hard against her hip, could feel the tension in his muscles as he held himself back.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.” He kissed her—deep and slow and thorough. “Now let me show you how much.”

He worked his way down her body with devastating patience. Kisses to her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. His mouth closing over one nipple while his hand attended to the other, until she was arching off the mattress and gasping his name.

Lower. A trail of kisses down her stomach, his hands sliding her jeans and underwear down her legs, leaving her bare before him in the firelight.

“I thought about this,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hip. “Every day for three years, and then every day since. You. Here. Mine.”

He settled between her thighs, and she felt his breath against her—hot, teasing, promising. She was already wet, already aching, and he hadn’t even—

His mouth found her.

She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as his tongue traced patterns against her sensitive flesh. He knew her body now—knew exactly how to build her up, how to hold her at the edge, how to shatter her when he was ready.

“Caleb—” Her voice was already wrecked. “Please—”

“Not yet.” He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked gently, and she nearly came off the mattress. “I want to take my time. I want you to feel this tomorrow. Every time you look at that ring, I want you to remember tonight.”

He slid one finger inside her, then two, crooking them against the spot that made stars explode behind her eyes. His mouth never stopped working, tongue and lips and the occasional graze of teeth until she was trembling, shaking, balanced on the edge of something enormous.

“Come for me,” he murmured against her. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

She broke.

The orgasm crashed through her in waves—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, her whole body convulsing as he worked her through it. She was vaguely aware that she was making sounds, desperate sounds, sounds she’d never made with anyone else because no one else had ever made her feel this safe being this lost.

When she finally came back to herself, he was kissing his way back up her body, his mouth wet, his eyes dark with want.

“Okay?” he asked.

She laughed weakly. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

“What word would you use?”

“Engaged,” she said. “Very, very engaged.”

He grinned—that devastating grin she’d fallen for in a coat closet four years ago—and she pulled him down for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered against his mouth.

“I know.”

“Now, Caleb.”

“I know.” But he pulled back, stripping off the rest of his clothes, and she watched him with the particular pleasure of a woman who knew she got to see this for the rest of her life. He was hard—God, so hard—and when he settled between her thighs, she could feel the thick press of him against her entrance.

“Look at me,” he said.

She looked.

He pushed inside her—slow, deliberate, giving her time to adjust even though she was slick and ready and aching for him. The stretch was perfect, familiar and overwhelming all at once. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, until there was no space left between them, until she could feel him everywhere.

“There,” he breathed. “There you are.”

He started to move.

Not fast—not yet. Long, slow strokes that dragged against every sensitive nerve ending, that made her gasp and arch and wrap her legs around his waist. Her hands found his back, nails digging in as he rolled his hips, hitting that spot that made her see stars.

“You feel incredible,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of control. “Every time. Every single time, you feel like—”

“Like coming home,” she finished.

“Yeah.” He buried his face in her neck, his rhythm starting to fracture. “Exactly like that.”

She tilted her hips, changing the angle, and they both groaned. He was moving faster now, the controlled patience giving way to something rawer, more desperate. The slap of skin against skin, the creak of the mattress, the wet sounds of their joining—all of it underscored by the crackling fire and the whisper of snow.

“I’m close,” she gasped. “Caleb, I’m—”

“I know.” He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles as he thrust. “Come with me. I want to feel you.”

The second orgasm built differently than the first—slower, deeper, starting at her core and radiating outward. She felt it rising like a wave, felt him swelling inside her, felt the moment he lost control and drove into her with a groan that might have been her name.

They broke together.

Afterward, they lay tangled on the air mattress, breathing hard, hearts pounding in tandem. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the ceiling. Outside, the snow continued to fall.

“Worth the wait?” he asked eventually, his voice rough.

She held up her left hand, watching the ring catch the ember-light. “You have no idea.”

He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair. “One year down.”

“Forever to go.”

“Promise?”

She turned in his arms, looking at this man who had driven through a blizzard and built her a fire and held her through the darkest parts of her history. This man who had been so afraid of staying that he’d almost lost her, and who had spent the past year proving that he’d never run again.

“Promise,” she said.

Outside, the snow fell like a blessing. The fire crackled. And in a cabin in the mountains, two people who had spent their lives running finally, completely, perfectly stopped.

~ The End ~

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