"Ruby, you don't have to—"
"I know." I get his jeans open, and he springs free, thick and hard and already leaking. "I want to."
I wrap my hand around the base of him, and he's hot and heavy in my palm, bigger than I expected. The gruff mountain man who barely speaks, who lives alone in the woods, who saved my life—and he's falling apart just from my touch.
I lean forward, dragging my tongue along his length, tasting salt and want. He makes a sound like he's been punched, his hand fisting in my hair.
"Fuck."
I take him into my mouth, as much as I can manage, and his hips jerk. One hand braces against the wall, the other tightens in my hair—not forcing, just holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
I work him slowly at first, getting used to the weight and stretch of him, then faster as I find my rhythm. His thighs are trembling against my shoulders, all that hard muscle shaking, and I look up at him through my lashes.
He's staring down at me like I'm destroying him. Eyes dark and wild, jaw clenched, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His thumb brushes my cheek, almost reverent, and the tenderness mixed with the raw hunger on his face makes heat coil tight in my belly again.
"Ruby," he groans, voice wrecked. "I'm close, you should—"
I don't pull back. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, and he comes with a curse and my name. I swallow, working him through it, until he's pulling me up with shaking hands.
We stand there, both breathing hard. He tucks himself back into his jeans with fumbling fingers, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Okay," I say, trying to sound casual, unaffected. "Good. Now that's out of our system. We can just... move on. Focus on getting me to Dawson Creek."
"Right." He clears his throat, not quite meeting my eyes. "Just tension. Natural response to close quarters."
"Exactly."
"Now we've...addressedit. We can be practical."
"Yes. Let’s be adults about this," I agree.
"Five days, then you're gone. No point complicating things."
"No point at all."
We're both lying, and we both know it, but neither of us is brave enough to say so.
He turns toward the kitchen, putting distance between us, and I escape to the bathroom.
I close the door and lean against it, my knees sore from the hard floor, still tasting him. My hands are shaking.
That didn't get anything out of my system. If anything, I want him more now. Want to know what it would feel like to have all of him, to fall asleep next to him, to wake up and do this all over again.
Five days.
I splash cold water on my face and try to believe our own lies.
four
Mayson
Threedayspassina strange mixture of domestic comfort and electric tension. Ruby works on improvements during the day—she's built a better early-warning system with tripwires and bells, reorganized my entire supply cache, and made a dozen small changes that prove she wasn't just talk about her logistics background.
At night, we sit by the fire, not quite touching, both very aware of what almost happened.
"Tell me about the fire scar," she says on the third evening, gesturing out the window to the blackened trees visible in the moonlight.
I stiffen. "What about it?"
