"Are you?"
He hesitates, and I see it—the crack in his control, the flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face.
"No," he admits, his voice low and rough.
I stand slowly, the blanket falling away, and take a step toward him. Then another. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He doesn't move. Just watches me, his jaw tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself.
I stop just in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, and look up at him.
He reaches out and cups the side of my face, his palm rough and warm against my cheek. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and I feel the touch all the way down to my toes.
"This is a bad idea," he murmurs.
"Probably."
"You don't know me."
His eyes search mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation. He won't find it.
I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
He goes still for half a heartbeat, then he's kissing me back, hard, one hand sliding into my hair, the other wrapping around my waist and pulling me flush against him. His beard brushes against my face, softer than I expected, and his mouth is hot and demanding.
I gasp against his mouth, my hands finding his chest, solid muscle, warm skin, the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my palm. His chest is firm and broad, and I feel the coarse hair beneath my fingertips.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, claiming, and I melt against him, my fingers curling into his shoulders. The muscles there are like stone beneath my hands.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my lips.
"Wendy," he says, his voice rough and strained. "If we do this—"
"I want to."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He searches my face one more time, his thumb stroking my cheek, then nods and takes my hand, leading me toward his room.
The space is small and dim, lit only by the faint glow from the main room. The bed is unmade, the blankets tangled, and the air smells faintly of woodsmoke.
He turns to face me, his hands settling on my hips, and I reach up to touch his beard, my fingers threading through the thick, soft hair. It's even softer than I thought, flecked with gray that catches the light.
"You're gorgeous," he says quietly, his voice low and sincere.
I laugh, breathless. "I'm a mess."
"No." His hands slide up my sides, slow and deliberate, his palms warm through the fabric of my sweater. "You're beautiful."
I pull him closer, my hands exploring the broad expanse of his back, the hard planes of his shoulders. His skin is warm and slightly damp, and I can feel the muscles shifting beneath my touch. He's so big, so solid.
His hands find the hem of my sweater and pause. "Can I?"
"Yes."
He pulls it off slowly, carefully, then the cardigan beneath it, and I'm left in just my bra and jeans. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, but his hands are warm as they trace the curve of my waist, my hips, the softness of my stomach.
