A man who, by all logical measures, should terrify me. With his size and what he seems capable of. Instead, I feel safer in his remote cabin than I have in years of carefully planned existence. I know, without a doubt, I'm about to have the most restful sleep I've had in … maybe ever.
The realization sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the mountain cold and everything to do with what it means about my life.
I curl deeper into his quilts, surrounded by the scent of pine and Wyatt Stone, wondering how I'll ever go back to normal after tomorrow.
2
WYATT
I'm staring at my bedroom door like a goddamn stalker. Standing here in the dark hallway while she sleeps on the other side. My knuckles hover inches from the wood, but I can't bring myself to knock. What the hell would I even say?
Hey, I know you just met me and I'm a stranger who lives like a hermit in the mountains, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about kissing you since I found you lost in the woods.
Jesus. I drop my hand and back away. The floor creaks under my weight, and I freeze, listening for any sound that might indicate I've woken her. Nothing. Just the gentle crackling of the dying fire and my own ragged breathing.
I need to get a grip. This isn't me. I don't do this—standing outside doors, fantasizing about women I barely know. I don't do any of this.
But ever since I found her earlier, slumped by the tree, something's been different. I remember the moment I first saw her through the trees. The flash of blonde hair catching sunlight.The sound of her frustrated cursing that carried through the still mountain air.
I should have announced myself from a distance. That would have been the right thing to do. But I stood there, watching her for longer than I care to admit, taking in the curve of her hips, the determined set of her jaw as she consulted her useless phone.
When I finally approached and she turned, those green eyes wide with fear then relief, my stomach did a weird little flip, an explosion of sensations unexpectedly tearing through me. And then she smiled—a brief, brilliant thing before she remembered to be afraid again.
I'd been half-hard the entire walk back to the cabin, had to readjust myself when she wasn't looking. Pathetic. Five years without meaningful human contact and I'm acting like a teenager because a pretty woman smiled at me.
To be fair to her, she's not just pretty. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Sleep. Give her space. Be a gentleman.
But I don't sleep. Not really. Just lie there on my couch that's way too small and uncomfortable for me, thinking about her in my bed, wrapped in my quilts, wearing my clothes.
Ah, fuck.
I stalk to the bathroom and shut the door with more force than necessary. The small space feels even smaller tonight, closing in around me as I brace my hands against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My cock strains against my sweatpants, has been in this state on and off since she walked into my life. I shove my pants and boxers down and take myself in hand, knowing this is the only way I'll get any sleep tonight.
I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over. Emma, pushing open the bedroom door, finding me on the couch. Those eyes darkening as she takes me in. Dropping to her knees, looking up at me as she takes me in her mouth.
"Fuck," I hiss, stroking harder, faster.
I imagine her soft curves pressed against me, how small she'd feel in my hands. The sounds she might make if I touched her just right and explored every inch with my hands and mouth and tongue. The way her blonde hair would look spread across my pillow.
It doesn't take long. The release hits me like a punch to the gut, and I muffle a groan against my forearm as I spill my load. The relief is immediate but short-lived, replaced almost instantly by a hollow feeling in my chest.
Shit. I have never felt as pathetic as I do now. All because of a slip of a girl who I have no business staring at.
I clean up, avoiding my reflection, and return to the couch. Sleep comes eventually, but it's fitful and unsatisfying.
Morning bringsa commotion that pulls me from unconsciousness. I'm on my feet before I'm fully awake, instinct driving me toward the sound coming from the kitchen.
What I find stops me cold.
Emma stands at my counter, hair sleep-tousled, wearing nothing but my flannel shirt that falls to mid-thigh and a pair of my boxers underneath. She's humming softly, moving around my kitchen like she belongs there.
But that's not what has me frozen in place. It's Cain and Abel, my perpetually battling cats, two strays that followed me all over town three years ago, sitting side by side on the counter watching her every move. Peaceful. Almost attentive.
"What the hell?" I say, my head still foggy with sleep. "They never do that."
