And then there’s that damn cologne ad. Same vibe—sultry, sinful—but this time he was leaning against a fence like temptation itself. The way those jeans hugged his body showing the definition beneath them, well, I swear I’ve memorized the shape of him through denim.
I move again, trying to subtly press my thighs together, but it only makes things worse. This is torture. Actual torture. If I were alone, I’d have already given in and slipped my hand beneath the waistband of my panties and chased a little relief. But he’srightthere. Two feet away. Close enough to touch.
My pulse hammers, wild and reckless, and a flush creeps up my neck. What kind of sick cosmic joke is this? Why am I thinking about touching myself while Sam Stone lounges beside me like some sinfully unaware Adonis? God help me. If he so much as looks at me right now, I might combust.
I sigh, which sounds loud in the quietness of the room. It’s the kind of quiet that amplifies everything. Just like the creak of the bed as we shift. The gusts of wind outside. The hum of the generator barely audible through the walls. All of it.
I lie on my side, facing the wall, wrapped in the blanket he gave me, eyes wide open in the dark. My heart won’t stop its low, steady drumbeat. Too aware of him just behind me.
We haven’t spoken since the lights went out. He hasn’t moved. Neither have I.
Until I feel it.
Faint, hesitant fingertips brushing against my arm. Not suggestive. Not bold. Just checking. Like he’s reaching out before he changes his mind.
His hand lingers there for a breath.
“Charlotte,” he murmurs.
The sound of my name in his voice almost undoes me. I swallow hard.
“Yeah?”
“You’re shivering.”
I hadn’t realized I was.
He shifts closer. Just a little. The heat of his body cuts through the chill in an instant, radiating through the space between us.
“Come here,” he whispers.
I hesitate, but only for a second. Then I shift back, slow and cautious, until my spine meets the solid warmth of his chest. His arm moves around me, light but certain, settling at my waist. No pressure. No expectations. Just there.
I exhale shakily, the kind of breath you don’t know you’ve been holding until it’s gone.
“This okay?” he asks, voice rough and close to my ear.
I nod. “Yeah.”
His hold tightens just slightly. Protective. Gentle. Nothing more.
But everything in me feels like it’s been rewired by the way he touches me.
I close my eyes.
Sleep doesn’t come quickly, but when it does, I fall into it with his heartbeat at my back and his warmth seeping into me.
7
I wake slowly.
The first thing I register is warmth. Not just from the blankets or the lingering fire in the hearth, but fromhim. Solid behind me.
His arm is still draped around my waist, our bodies curved together like we were built to fit this way. One of his legs is tangled with mine, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I don’t move. Not at first.
Because it feels too good.
