As he reaches me, I stand to join him and his hand brushes mine. The silence between us is deafening as I analyze a million things in my own head. His fingers hook mine as he leans in to kiss me.
Just before his fingers reach me — and I know I wouldn’t stop him — a sharp knock breaks the spell. He exhales, drops my hand like it’s a hot coal, and crosses the room. I watch his shoulders move under his shirt as he answers the door, tips the delivery guy, and shuts the storm back out.
“Dinner’s here,” he says, voice rougher than it should be.
Jon spreads the food out while I hover uselessly, still warm from the almost-touch. Then he starts dragging blankets, sheets, and pillows from everywhere, piling them in front of the fireplace.
By the time he’s done, it’s not a fort, it’s a nest — a low, sprawling bed of fabric that smells faintly of detergent and cedar. He drops onto it, pats the spot next to him, and the gesture makes my stomach flip.
I sink down opposite him, cross-legged, taking the warm carton he hands me. Garlic and tomato and firewood fill the room. Outside, the snow is a silent curtain; inside, it’s just us and the crackle of logs.
We talk between bites of lasagna, trading stories about the drive up, laughing about the tow-truck driver and his “you two look married already” comment. Each time Jon laughs, his eyes crease at the corners and he tilts closer, like the fire is pulling him — or me — inward.
It’s one of the best nights I’ve ever had. No phones. No interruptions. No one to watch or whisper. Just him and me, and a hearth big enough for secrets.
I set the empty container aside, fingers trembling.Stop fighting,my mind whispers.You’ve been fighting this since the moment you saw him.
I glance up. He’s leaning back on one elbow, shirt collar open, firelight playing off the line of his throat. The heat between us feels thicker than the air.
“How do you think tomorrow’s meeting will go?” I manage, mostly to keep my hands from wandering. I gather the leftovers into neat stacks on the low table, busywork to stop myself from crossing the blanket.
Jon shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “No. Not tonight. No spreadsheets, no numbers. Just this.” His voice drops a register. “Just us.”
And that’s all it takes.
I move before my brain can veto it. My hand slides behind his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and I pull him to me.
Our mouths crash together, hot and wet and hungry, the kiss rough enough to draw a groan from him. Firelight spills over our faces as his hand finds my hip and holds me there, not gentle but sure.
I’m the one who told him to be professional. I’m the one who swore I’d keep my distance. But sitting in this cabin, wrapped in heat and snow and his scent, I don’t want distance anymore.
9
ELIZABETH
The fire snaps and spits behind us, but it’s nothing compared to the crackle under my skin when his mouth claims mine. His lips are firm, commanding, and the way he tilts my head back makes me gasp before his tongue sweeps inside, slow and deliberate, tasting me like he has all night to learn my flavor.
His hand fists in my hair, tugging just enough to sting as he angles me closer. When he finally pulls back, I’m panting, chasing his mouth like I’ve forgotten how to breathe without him.
“You’re a fucking vision,” Jon murmurs, voice hoarse, thumb dragging along my bottom lip before dipping inside. I suck on the pad of his finger without thinking, and the groan that rumbles out of him makes my thighs clench.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I don’t look away this time. His eyes are burning, daring me to hide.
Buttons pop loose under my fingers as I work his shirt open, my pulse skittering when the fabric slides off broad shoulders and down sculpted arms. His chest is warm and hard beneath mypalms, salt-and-pepper hair dusting muscle that feels carved for my hands alone.
Instead of hesitating, he grips my wrists, presses them to the blankets, and kisses down my throat—rough, hungry kisses that leave me dizzy. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to ruin you like this?”
I moan, arching up, and he releases my hands only to shove my sweater over my head. My bra is a flimsy excuse for clothing, black lace stretched over nipples already pebbling in the cool air. His gaze locks there, dark and starving.
I fumble at the clasp, but he shakes his head, hooking one thick finger under the center and snapping it open himself. The bra slides away, and his mouth is on me before I can exhale—hot tongue flicking, teeth grazing, lips closing hard around a nipple.
My back bows off the blankets. “Jon…” My voice is high, desperate.
He cups both breasts, thumbs circling, squeezing, coaxing me until I’m slick between my thighs. Every stroke of his mouth drags a shiver down my spine, pooling low, making me grind against the hard bulge straining his pants.
“You’re trembling,” he growls against my skin, moving lower, kissing across my ribs and down my stomach. “You think I don’t feel how wet you are already?”
My nails rake his shoulders, hips bucking, and he pins me with a hand to my belly, eyes flicking up to catch mine. “Patience, Lizzy. You’ll get all of me—but you’re going to beg for it first.”
