And she’s right. We are.
But I wouldn’t trade this wreckage for anything.
CHAPTER 8
Ally
If this is what damnation feels like, I’m in no rush to repent.
I wake up in bed, warm all the way through, wrapped in heat that isn’t just the thick duvet or the heavy log cabin air. It’s Nate. Solid, sleeping Nate, under the sheets this time; one arm under my neck, the other across my waist, our legs tangled like we’ve been doing this for years instead of one very, very reckless night.
For a few seconds, I don’t remember where I am. Just the comforting weight of him, the slow rise and fall of his chest against my back, and the sore, pleasant ache between my thighs. I’d imagined Nate Woodruff was a well hung man in my illicit fantasies; my imagination fell short of reality, especially when it came to girth. I didn’t realizethatlevel of thickness existed…
And then I get my bearings: Montana. Mac’s cabin. Blizzard.
I lie very still, listening to his breathing, trying to decide if panicking is the appropriate reaction.
It should be. This is complicated as fuck.
But what I actually feel is… peaceful. Ruined as a regency maiden, but peaceful.
And not just because the old saying aboutgetting over one person by getting under anotherseems to be true, though Josh and the whole nonsense of our shallow relationship is nothing to me anymore.
But because… this isNate.
The boy I crushed on. The man I couldn’t brush off. The one person who makes me feel alive whenever I see him.
His hand tightens slightly on my stomach, pulling me closer in his sleep. I feel him hard against the curve of my ass and swallow the horniest sound I’ve made in many a year. “Nate,” I whisper.
He lets out a low, sleepy hum against my hair. “Mmm?”
“We have to get up at some point,” I murmur.
“No, we don’t,” he says, voice gravelly. “Civilization is gone. Cabin life now. New rules.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “New rules, huh?”
“Yeah.” He nuzzles the back of my neck like nothing could be more natural. “Rule one: no alarms. Rule two: no pants. Rule three…”
His hand slides lower, fingers brushing the top of my thigh under the duvet, and my entire body lights up.
“Careful,” I say, even as I arch into his touch.
“Rule three,” he continues, mouth curving against my skin, “we talk about what last night was. Before we decide whether there’s a rule four.”
That sobers me.
Nate feels it; I can tell by the way he stills, giving me room to move if I want it. I roll onto my back, the duvet slipping to my ribs, our noses a breath apart on the pillow.
He studies my face. “Morning,” he says softly.
“Morning.”
His hair is a mess, falling into one eye. His ink is on display, covering one arm and edging over his chest; idly, I wonder how they manage to conceal it so well for his half-naked thirst trap scenes onCochise County. There’s stubble on his face inching closer to being a full blown beard, and the rasp felt delicious on my inner thighs. My cheeks heat at the memory.
He drags in a breath. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” I say honestly. “In a good way.”
