I should pull away. I should put the pillows back, draw the lines we both agreed on.
Instead, I tighten my hold.
Her body fits against mine like we were built for this. My hand rests against her stomach, her breath feathering against my forearm. She shifts once, settling back, and the movement drags her hips against mine.
I swear under my breath, low and rough.
Because now I’m wide awake. And she’s warm, soft, perfect—and completely off-limits.
Her breathing evens out again. I stare at the dying fire and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to survive the night.
Minutes crawl by, slow torture.
She moves again—small, unconscious—and my self-control shatters one crack at a time.
Her hair brushes my lips. I breathe her in. Vanilla. Sleep. Sin.
She whispers something again, maybe just a dream sound, but I can’t help it—I murmur, “Go back to sleep, sunshine.”
Her fingers find mine under the blanket, tangle just enough to ruin me.
My chest tightens, the kind of ache that feels too good to be safe. Because it’s not just desire clawing at me anymore—it’s something deeper. Something that feels a lot like need.
I close my eyes. Try to slow my breathing.
She shifts once more, pressing closer. My hand slides an inch lower on instinct, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.
She stills.
And for a heartbeat, I think she’s awake. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just breathes, slow and even, as if she trusts me completely.
I don’t deserve that.
I press my forehead against the back of her neck and whisper, “You’re killing me, Hart.”
Her only answer is a soft sigh, barely audible over the storm outside.
I stay awake the rest of the night, counting every second between her breaths.
Wondering how something this small—one woman, one night, one goddamn bed—could burn hotter than any fire I’ve ever fought.
And when dawn finally breaks through the window, pale light spilling over her skin, I know one thing for sure?—
This isn’t just some city girl snowed into my cabin anymore.
This is the one woman who’s gonna wreck me.
And maybe…I’ll let her.
Chapter 3
Noel
I’ve seen a lot of wet men in my life. Catalog shoots. Calendar auditions. One very regrettable spring break in Cabo.
But nothing—and I mean nothing— compares to a pissed-off mountain man wrapped in a towel, dripping water onto the warped hardwood floor of his hunting cabin first thing in the morning, while glaring at me like I just insulted his mother.
“Still staring?” Nash grunts, dragging a flannel shirt over those wide, wet shoulders.
