He hadn't slept at all. Every little sound from the guest room had kept him on edge. The whisper of sheets, her soft breathing, the way she'd murmured something around three AM that his enhanced hearing couldn't quite catch but made his wolf whine.
She looked good in his kitchen. Too good. Like she belonged there.
"Morning." She'd spotted him, offering a tentative smile that made his gut twist in ways he didn't want to examine too closely. "I made coffee. Hope that's okay."
She was still wearing yesterday's clothes—jeans and that green sweater that made her eyes even brighter. Her hair was damp from the shower. His shower. Christ, she'd used his soap. He could smell it on her from across the room.
"It's fine." His voice came out rougher than intended.
She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised at his tone, but didn't say anything. "How do you take it?"
"Black."
She poured two mugs, sliding one across the counter toward him. Their fingers didn't touch—she was careful about that—but he still felt the spark. That invisible pull that had been driving him insane since she'd walked into his garage Monday afternoon.
The same pull he'd felt a year ago when she came in for an oil change.
The same pull he'd been trying like hell to stay away from ever since, without much luck.
"The storm's really picked up," she said, glancing toward the window where snow continued to fall in big flakes. "The news is saying you were right. They've closed down the roads, and they probably won't open for a few days. Maybe longer." She watched him carefully over the rim of her cup as she sipped her coffee.
Trapped. He was utterly trapped here with a woman who turned his blood into gasoline. His wolf was no longer just pacing restlessly, it was prowling against the bars of his ribcage, scratching to get out, demanding he close the distance between them and act on the possessive urge roaring in his ears.
And that scent—her inherent cinnamon and vanilla sweetness mixing with the sharp pine and cedar of his own soap—hit him like a punch to the gut every time she shifted. He could smell the clean scent of her hair. It was intoxicating. And it was absolutely maddening.
Lex clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, forcing his gaze away from the damp tendrils of cinnamon hair curling against her breasts and down to the scarred wooden counter. He had to lock his knees to keep from moving toward her. He couldn't let her see this wildness. He couldn't let her see the raw hunger that was practically vibrating through his bones.
She was just sipping coffee, looking worried about the weather, totally unaware of the beast she was provoking just by existing in his space.
"I'll get your car fixed for you as soon as the roads clear," he managed. "The parts came in yesterday before the worst hit, but I didn't have time to get to it before we closed up."
"Thank you." She cupped her mug with both hands, steam rising between them. "And thanks again for letting me stay. I know this isn't... ideal."
Ideal? Having her here, in his sanctuary, the place he came specifically to get away from everyone and everything? Using his shower, drinking his coffee, driving his wolf to the edge of control? No. Not ideal. More like sweet torture designed specifically for him.
"How bad is the damage to your house?" He needed to focus on practical things. Not the way the dim morning light caught in her hair and played on her skin.
"I don't know. It looked bad." She sighed, adjusting Fred's position slightly. "Sometimes I think I should just give up on that old house and move into a rental."
He didn't know what to say, so he changed the subject. "There's cinnamon in the cupboard to your left. You said you like a little in your coffee."
She blinked, lowering her mug just an inch. "Out of all the things I said yesterday, you actually remembered that?"
He remembered everything. Every nervous laugh. Every time she'd played with her hair. The way her pulse had jumped when their fingers touched. His wolf had filed it all away like treasure.
His phone buzzed on the counter. Pack business, probably. He ignored it.
"Breakfast?" he asked, needing something to do with his hands that wasn't reaching for her.
"I can cook?—"
"I've got it."
He moved past her to the fridge, catching another lungful of her scent. His cock swelled and he held his breath until he got to the fridge.
It was going to be a very long few days.
He pulled out eggs and bacon, putting his cast iron skillet on the stove to heat, then started whipping up some pancakes. Jules perched on a barstool to watch, and he tried not to notice how perfectly she fit in his space.
