I smile, but my stomach twists. Not because I’m naive to the necessities of self-sufficiency or think he couldn’t do it. God knows Scott’s always had that capable edge to anything he does. But the thought of him out there for hours, tracking something down, while I’m stuck in here alone, draws the nightmares back into focus.
I glance down at my half-eaten pancakes. Suddenly, no longer in the mood for their sweet, fluffy goodness.
He stands and starts clearing plates, the chair scraping against the wood floor. I force myself to move, grabbing the syrup bottle and wiping down the counter, needing something to do with my hands. Something to keep my mind busy. Every now and then, I catch him watching me. It’s never for long, but long enough that my skin prickles with awareness.
When he brushes past me to rinse his plate, his arm grazesmine. Just an innocent graze, but it lights the slow burn in my belly all over again.
This can’t keep happening. I really should have focused on my needy body in the shower this morning. Maybe then I wouldn’t keep getting turned on by the graze of a pinky or quick glance.
He turns off the faucet and shakes water from his hands. “I’ll shower, then head out for that firewood.”
I nod, suddenly unable to trust my voice. My heart beats louder than it should, and I’m nervous he can hear it.
He disappears down the hall, leaving me and my lustful thoughts alone.
What the hell is happening to me?
This is Scott. The same Scott who helped my dad move me into my freshman dorm. Who once made me laugh so hard that root beer shot out of my nose. He knows how I take my coffee or that I insist on watching the same movies anytime we’re here at the cabin.
But this morning? This morning, I felt like prey under his unrelenting gaze. He didn’t make it obvious, but there was no denying it either.
This magnetic chemistry between us dances in the pauses of our conversation, in the heat behind his eyes, in the way he moves just close enough to feel like a dare.
And I feel it too. God, I feel it.
The water starts up down the hall. The rush of his shower echoes faintly through the cabin. I imagine him there, bare and steaming, water sluicing down the muscles of his back. I press my thighs together instinctively and immediately hate that I do.
This is bad.
I sweep my hands through my hair and let out a shakybreath. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, grounding me in something real. I busy myself and pour another warm cup to keep my hands full, pretending I don’t feel the pulse at the base of my throat pounding like a drum before I even take a swallow.
I need to get a grip.
EIGHT
SCOTT
It’s cold as hell out here. Colder than it should be for this time of year, even with this much snow. It’s not just winter cold, but bitter and unnatural. The kind of chill that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you're wearing or how much you’re moving about. Something about it feels wrong.
The sky’s that colorless shade of gray that flattens the landscape, leeching warmth and life from everything it touches. Even the snow doesn’t sparkle. It just lies there in silent drifts, muting the sounds of nature.
I crunch through it, boots breaking through the frozen crust as I make my way around the cabin toward the shop out back. The trees crowd closer here. Only twenty or so feet out. The space beneath them is dark, intensified by their branches sagging under the weight of fresh snow, blocking a way in or out.
The stacked firewood inside the shop is still dry, thank God. It’s the only thing keeping us from snapping, from tipping over the edge of whatever this weird tension isbetween survival and something carnal. Something neither of us wants to name, and both of us can’t seem to ignore.
I move the snow shovel from its spot in the corner and prop it up beside the door so that I won’t forget it on the way back. Might as well clear a path while I’m out here. If the generator acts up again, I’ll want a clear line to it. Besides, the labor helps. Gives my hands something to do, something besides fixating onher.
The scent of her shampoo still clings to my skin. That exotic clean mix of something floral and citrus that doesn't belong out here in the middle of nowhere. But it fits her usual bubbly personality perfectly. The notes infiltrate my senses, just as they did last night when I woke up and found her body pressed up to mine. The feeling of her head on my chest, and the warmth of her steady breaths as they ghosted across my collarbone, stayed with me all through breakfast.
I couldn’t even look at her without wanting to drag her back to the room or throw her down on the kitchen island and finally get a taste of what’s hidden between her legs.
My cock ached through every bite of pancake, every stolen glance across the kitchen. It wasn’t right. It felt good, too good, and wrong all at once. I had to slip away, hole up in the bathroom like a damn teenage boy just to get myself under control. I jerked off with my teeth clenched, trying not to picture her the whole time. I failed.
It’s pathetic. I’m a grown fucking man, more than twice her age, and yet that little fact keeps slipping my mind when I look at her.
I can’t sleep with her again. Ishouldn’thave last night. Maybe if I hadn’t, I’d have the ability to walk right now without a limp from my cock being uncomfortably stiff in my jeans.
But the moment she curled into me like I was something safe? I was lost. She doesn’t even realize the power she holds.
