Phoenix went out this morning to check the road. He came back shaking his head, stomping snow off his boots, but his expression wasn't as grim as before.
"Another day or two," he said. "Maybe less if the temperature rises."
Another day or two. That's all we have left.
Today was supposed to be day seven. The day I was supposed to leave, go back to my life, pretend none of this ever happened.
Neither of us mentions it.
We move around the cabin like two magnets trying not to touch. Every time I pass him, I feel the pull. Every accidental brush of fingers sends electricity crackling up my arm. The air between us is thick, charged, suffocating in the best and worst possible way.
I'm avoiding him. After last night, after everything I said and felt and let him see, I need distance and space to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
But the cabin is too small for distance. And Phoenix has never been good at giving me space.
By evening, I can't take it anymore. I need something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the way he's watching me from across the room. I dig through the pantry and find pasta, a jar of sauce, some dried herbs.
I'm standing at the stove, stirring the sauce, when I feel him behind me.
He doesn't touch me. Doesn't say anything. Just stands there, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His breath stirs the hair at the back of my neck.
I freeze, spatula suspended over the pot.
"Phoenix..."
"Turn around."
His voice is low, commanding, brooking no argument. My heart slams against my ribs. I should ignore him. Should keep stirring, keep pretending I'm not affected.
Instead, I turn around.
He's right there. Inches away. So close I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the slight part of his lips, the tension coiled in every line of his body. He's looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour.
I kiss him first.
I just grab the front of his shirt and drag his mouth down to mine, kissing him like I'm angry, like I'm desperate, like I'm trying to consume him before he consumes me.
He lets me. For a moment. Then his hands come up to grip my face, taking control, slowing me down.
"I don’t think we should do this today,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Okay.”
He pulls back. His eyes search my face, dark and intense.
"But I can't stop wanting you." The admission tears out of me, raw and honest. "God help me, I can't stop."
"Then ask for it."
I blink. “What?"
"You heard me." Something shifts in his expression, something predatory creeping in around the edges. "That first night, you begged me. Remember? You swore you wouldn't, and then you did.”
My cheeks flush. I remember thinking I'd never give him that satisfaction, and then falling apart completely under his hands.
"If you want this, you need to ask,” he demands.
I should tell him to go to hell. I should walk away with my dignity intact. But my body is aching for him, has been aching all day, and the truth is I'm tired of fighting.
