“Not probably,” he says, stretching behind me, muscles rippling under the sheet. “Definitely.”
I swallow, nerves and something warmer tangling in my stomach. “So, it looks like I’m stuck here.”
He smirks, still half-asleep. “Damn. What a tragedy. I guess I’ll have to get creative with ways to keep you entertained. I know you’ll be bored not working.”
I swat at him, but he catches my wrist, laughing as he tugs me back against him.
The warmth is addicting.
Dangerously addicting.
I could spend the whole day right here in this bed.
But the thought makes something tighten under my ribs. I shouldn’t get comfortable. I shouldn’t want this as much as I do.
Tony rolls to his back and looks at the ceiling, listening to the storm.
“We’re not going anywhere for a while,” he says. “Two days at least.”
Two days.
With him.
My pulse jumps, equal parts excitement and panic. The kind of trapped feeling that isn’t really trapped, more like cornered by my own thoughts.
“Coffee?” he offers, sitting up. “I’m a tea guy, sweet and iced, but I can make coffee.”
I nod, letting the blankets slide around me as he climbs out of bed—completely unselfconscious, moving like a man who knows his body, knows he’s being watched, knows I’m going to look even when I pretend not to.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.
“See something you like? My peach is perfect. And my eggplant is better than any emoji!”
My cheeks burn. “You’re impossible.”
He grins, cocky and warm, then disappears into the kitchen.
The cabin smells like coffee and woodsmoke, and the storm sounds like it’s ripping through the forest. I wrap myself in one of his flannels and pad barefoot into the kitchen where he stands beside the stove, tattoos flexing on his biceps as he pours coffee into a mug for me and makes himself a glass of sweet tea he apparently made at some point in time and had in the fridge.
“You take it black,” he says without turning around.
I blink. “How did you know that?”
“You strike me as the type.” He hands me a mug. “Someone who doesn’t pretend things are sweeter than they are. And you have small containers of creamer options in powder form, lasts longer, and an avid creamer person would stock it in big bottles.”
The comment lands deeper than he probably meant it to. When was the last time anyone paid attention to the small details concerning me? When has anyone ever cared to look at how I prefer anything?
I blow on the coffee, letting the warmth seep into my hands. “Thanks.”
He nods toward the window. “Whiteout’s gonna last a while.”
“Yeah.” I look out. “It’s bad.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me in that way he does—like he’s not just looking at me but looking through the walls I keep trying to hold together. I’ve never been around any man who literally makes coffee completely naked and holds a conversation like this is normal. I keep looking at his cock and remembering the feel of it stretching me. No toy will ever hit the spots he found inside me. I’m ruined.
“You okay being stuck here?” he asks taking me out of my dirty thoughts.
I nod slowly. “It’s better than being stuck in my car.”
