This is insane. I've known him for less than twenty-four hours. But if he came back and told me we're stuck for the whole winter here together, all I would feel is relief.
Chapter Four
BEAU
She's going to be the death of me. Clara's curled in the corner of my couch, photographing the way the firelight plays through the whiskey in my glass. The camera clicks softly, and she bites her lip in concentration, completely unaware that she's the most beautiful thing in this cabin.
“The light's perfect,” she says, shifting closer to get a better angle. Her knee brushes my thigh, and I have to grip my glass tighter to keep from reaching for her.
I'm losing my mind. This morning I walked in on her playing with Comet in the living room, bent into some position that made her ass look incredible in my flannel pants. During the night, she migrated toward me in her sleep again, as if I was her personal heater. I had to pretend I didn't spend hours savoring the weight of her luscious curvy body wrapped around me.
I’ve shovelled snow around the cabin and fixed a problem with the generator. Clara insisted on making lunch, a warming beef and potato stew that was delicious. To my surprise, she pickedDie Hardto watch, claiming it was the only Christmas movie she liked.
“Can I photograph you?” she asks suddenly, lowering the camera.
“Why?”
"Because you're..." she pauses, color rising in her cheeks. “The composition. You and the firelight and the storm outside.”
“I don't photograph well.” I take another sip of whiskey, trying to ignore how her eyes track the movement of my throat when I swallow.
“I doubt that.” She raises the camera, and I hear the shutter click. “See? Perfect.”
She shows me the screen, and I barely recognize myself.
“You're good at this,” I say roughly.
“It's easy when the subject is…” She trails off, blushing harder.
The power flickers again. We've been losing it on and off all day, the generator struggling to keep up with the ice building up on everything.
“How’s your ankle?” I say instead. It's an excuse to touch her, and we both know it.
“It's better.” But she extends her leg anyway, letting me take her foot in my lap.
I run my thumb along the arch of her foot, and she makes a small sound that goes straight to my cock.
“Tickles?”
“No... that feels good.”
I continue massaging her foot, telling myself I'm checking for injury while really I'm memorizing the feel of her skin, the way her breath catches when I hit the right spot. She's watching me with those ice-blue eyes gone dark, and the air between us is charged.
“Beau?”
“Yeah?”
“I took some photos of your carvings. The reindeer is incredible. How long have you been doing it?”
“Since I was a kid. I like having something to do with my hands while trying to focus.” I place her foot gently on the ground, and she surprises me by reaching for my hand, lacing our fingers together.
Her breath catches. “I like being close to you. This is crazy. I don't do this. I don't fall for strangers.”
“Me neither.”
“But you're not really a stranger anymore, are you?” She reaches up with her free hand, traces the edge of my beard. The touch is electric.
I catch her hand, press it flat against my chest where my heart is pounding. “You feel that? That's what you do to me. Every time you walk into a room. When you smile. Every fucking time you say my name.”
