“Come closer,” he said, gesturing to the spot right in front of the hearth. “You need to warm up.”
The firelight danced across the cabin walls, creating shifting shadows that made the space feel alive. I scooted forward on the dusty floor, drawn to the growing warmth like a marshmallow to a s’more.
Sitting in front of the fire, the heat thawed my frozen limbs one painful prickle at a time. I hadn’t realized just how cold I’d been until I snuggled up next to the flames. Making sure the blanket would not slip off my shoulders, I held my hands out toward the fire,feeling sensation return to my numb fingers in waves of pins and needles.
“Better?”
I nodded, letting out a soft sigh as the warmth spread through my body. I was grateful for fire, shelter, and the mountain man who knew how to provide both.
“Okay, my turn.”
When I looked over my shoulder, Noah twirled his finger, motioning for me to turn back around. “You know the drill.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the crackling fire, listening to the rustle of wet fabric behind me. Each sound made my heart race a little faster, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor, the wet slap of clothes being laid out, the whisper of fabric against skin. My imagination filled in the visuals with far too much enthusiasm.
A flash of lightning illuminated the cabin’s grimy window, and there in its reflection, I caught sight of Noah’s bare back, all lean muscle and sharp angles sculpted by years of whatever mountainy things mountain men do.
All the air whooshed out of my lungs, and the horde of butterflies returned.
I should have looked away, should have focused on the fire or closed my eyes or done literally anything else. But I couldn’t tear my gaze from that window.
The storm cast another electric flash across the glass. Noah turned slightly, giving me a glimpse of his torso, a roadmap of scars and stories I found myself desperate to know. My fingers itched to trace his lines, to learn their history.
A sharp ripping sound broke my trance. Noah yanked one of the dusty curtains from the window, tearing it in two swift motions. He wrapped half around his waist, the fabric settling low on his hips like the world’s most tantalizing loincloth.
“Coast is clear,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.
I turned, trying to school my expression into something innocent, but my eyes betrayed me, traveling across the planes of his chest, following the cut lines of muscle down to where the makeshift curtain-towel rode dangerously low on his hips. A droplet of water traced the same path my eyes took.
“Feel better?” Swallowing a gasp, I bit my lip hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood.
“How do I look?” His tone was playful, but the effect was deadly serious.
“You know what they say. Only real men wear skirts.”
“Who says that?”
“Probably someone at one of those Scottish Highlands games festivals.”
“We have those,” said Noah. “Every spring.”
“Let me guess, you do the one where they throw boulders.”
“Caber toss, actually.”
“Even better.”
If I thought his reflection was hypnotizing, the full frontal view was a thousand times worse. Or better, depending on one’s commitment to suppressing lustful thoughts. Years of mountain living had carved his body into something that belonged on the cover ofGrumpy Mountain Man Review. Evil thoughts of evil deeds peppered the cavewoman part of my brain. The damp chill of the cabin was completely consumed by the inferno in my nether regions.
“Better lay out our clothes by the fire so they can dry out.”
“Mm-hmm.” I snuck quick peeks as Noah arranged and rearranged articles of clothing around the perimeter of the fire for optimal drying. I was so distracted I forgot all about my red lacy thong. My heart stopped when he picked up the thin strand of fabric. Definitely not outdoor-adventure appropriate.He held it between two fingers as if it were a snake poised to strike.
“Don’t ask,” I said, pulling the wool blanket tighter over my chest. My cheeks burned, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the fire. My nipples were as hard as calcified rock, poking out against the thick wool like little stalactites in a cave.
“I don’t even want to know.” Noah placed it carefully on the edge of a broken chair, as far from himself as possible.
The fire popped and crackled, drawing our attention back to the now roaring flames. Noah stood up, surveying his handiwork of neatly arranged clothing. His reflection caught in the window, and he froze. Those broad shoulders tensed, and I knew exactly what he’d realized. That same window had given me quite a show earlier. Our eyes met in the reflection, and both of us knew exactly what the other was thinking.
