Chapter 9: Fire in the Snow

The Swiss Alps towered around us like ancient sentinels, their snow-draped peaks shimmering under a weak winter sun, jagged against a sky so blue it stung my eyes. I’d coaxed Coco out for a hike—my obsession with the outdoors pulling me like a tide—and she’d followed, her wild spirit matching mine step for step. The trail twisted through a forest of pine and fir, their branches sagging with fresh powder, the air biting with cold and the tang of resin. My boots sank into the snow, breath fogging in bursts, and Coco stayed close, her tanned face glowing pink beneath a wool hat, her silver-threaded mane spilling loose, catching flakes like stars.

“Fuck, it’s stunning,” she said, pausing to take in the view—valleys swathed in white, peaks slicing upward, a frozen kingdom stretching endless.

“Worth freezing for?” I asked, grinning, my freckled cheeks numb under the wind. She nodded, her gloved hand finding mine, and my chest tightened—nine months since that alley, and she was rooting herself deeper in me than I’d ever thought possible.

We trekked an hour, snow dusting our coats, the crunch underfoot a steady rhythm, until the lodge emerged—a chalet of weathered wood and stone, its steep roof iced over, a thin plume of smoke curling from the chimney into the crisp air.

Inside, the lobby welcomed us with warmth—log walls stained dark, a massive fireplace roaring, its glow dancing across leather armchairs, and a bar wafting the spiced scent of mulled wine.

“This beats Tokyo’s kink,” Coco teased, peeling off her coat, her green sweater clinging to her toned curves, her breasts pressing softly against the wool.

I smirked, memories of mirrored walls flashing, but this place felt different—cozier, closer.

Our room was a short climb upstairs, a sanctuary of rustic intimacy: a broad bed heaped with thick quilts, a bearskin rug sprawled before a small hearth where flames flickered, and a wide window framing the snowy peaks, now tinged pink by dusk.

Coco flopped onto the bed, kicking off her boots with a sigh. “Perfect,” she said, stretching, her sweater riding up to bare her taut belly, a sliver of tawny skin begging for my touch.

I knelt by the fire, coaxing it higher, the crackle filling the quiet, then joined her, pulling her into my arms.

“You’re warming up to me,” I said, half-teasing, but her eyes softened—something raw there.

“More than you know,” she murmured, her fingers tracing my jaw, lingering. “I trust you, Ginger—really trust you. And I’m falling ... so damn hard.” Her voice wavered, and my heart slammed—she was echoing me, nine months of chaos blooming into love.

“Coco,” I said, voice rough with it, “I’m already there. You’re it for me.”

I kissed her, slow and deep, her lips parting, tasting of mint and her own sweetness. The fire snapped, shadows playing across us as we shed layers—my shirt, her sweater—her golden skin a contrast to my freckled chest.

She straddled me, jeans still on, grinding soft and deliberate, and I groaned, hands gripping her hips.

“You’re trouble,” I said, grinning through the heat.

“Always,” she laughed, unbuttoning my pants, her breath catching as she freed my cock, hard and twitching, my red bush wild in the firelight.

“By the fire—warmer,” she purred, and we slid to the bearskin rug, shedding the rest—her jeans off, no panties, just that soft, downy triangle framing her beautiful pussy, wet and radiant in the glow.

“Play with me,” she said, lying back, spreading her legs wide, the heat of the flames kissing our skin.

I kissed her neck, her breasts—nipples crinkling under my tongue—down her belly, savoring her warmth, her scent rising, musky and sweet. I moved like a man hungry not just for her body, but for the truth inside it.

“Strip poker first,” I teased, grabbing a deck from the nightstand. We played, firelight flickering, stakes climbing—she lost her socks, I lost my boxers, her eyes glinting as my cock bobbed free, thick and flushed.