We clear dinner in synchronized silence. Comfortable now in ways we weren't this morning. The awkwardness has faded, replaced by something more dangerous—familiarity.
But physical attraction hasn't dimmed. If anything, the connection makes it worse. Makes me notice how his shoulders move when he washes dishes. How his hands look soapy andcapable. How his voice rumbles when he makes small comments about cabin maintenance.
By the time we retreat to separate areas—him to check equipment, me to the bedroom—I'm wound tight with need. Aching. Wet. Conscious of him moving through the cabin like I'm tracking prey instead of avoiding temptation.
I lie in bed fully clothed. Listen to him moving in the main room. Hear him checking locks. Testing the radio I repaired. Normal evening routine that sounds anything but normal when every sound makes me imagine him out there, thinking about me, wanting me the way I want him.
Sleep is impossible. My body thrums with memory. With need that won't be denied no matter how many logical reasons my brain lists for keeping space between us.
I hear him moving. Restless. Pacing. Unable to settle the same way I can't settle.
He can't sleep either. He's out there fighting the same battle I'm fighting in here. Both of us maintaining separation that feels more like torture than safety.
I stare at the ceiling. Listen to him move. Feel the pull between us like physical force.
Tomorrow we'll act normal again. Maintain boundaries. Keep professional space.
But lying here in his bed, my body still tender from his claiming, listening to him pace beyond that door—I press my thighs together and bite my lip. My hand slides down my stomach. Stops at the waistband of my jeans.
His footsteps pause. Like he knows. Like he can feel me lying here, aching for him, fighting the urge to walk through that door and finish what we started.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Charged.
Then his footsteps resume. Moving away from the bedroom. Toward the far side of the cabin.
I exhale slowly. Close my eyes. Try not to imagine what would happen if I stopped fighting this. If I walked out there right now and let him see exactly how much I want him.
My fingers curl into the sheets. My pulse pounds in my throat. Between my legs.
The storm rages outside. Inside, something else builds. Patient. Inevitable.
Waiting.
6
MAGNUS
Sleep is a luxury I can't afford. Haven't managed more than an hour at a stretch since I took her against the wall. My body remembers everything—the taste of her mouth, the sounds she made when she came, how perfectly she fit around my cock. My brain keeps replaying the moment she surrendered, when control shattered and she gave me everything I demanded.
I tell myself it was adrenaline. Survival instinct. Chemical reaction to near-death experience. Standard biological response to extreme stress.
My body knows I'm lying.
Dawn breaks gray and sullen through windows showing nothing but white. Storm's been raging with no break. Visibility down to nothing. Temperature dropping steadily. We're sealed in tight while the world outside tries to kill anything stupid enough to venture into it.
Perfect conditions for staying inside. Staying close. Staying aware of every breath she takes in the next room.
I've checked the generator twice already. Inventoried supplies that don't need inventorying. Cleaned weapons that arealready clean. Busywork. Anything to keep my hands occupied and my mind off the woman sleeping in my bed.
Coffee brews while I monitor weather reports on the radio. Low pressure system stalled over the region. No movement predicted for at least another day. Maybe longer. Air traffic grounded. Roads impassable. Anyone who needs rescue is out of luck until conditions improve.
Which means anyone hunting us can't reach us either. Storm's providing cover even as it's trapping us together in increasingly tight quarters.
I hear her moving before I see her. Footsteps in the bedroom. Sounds of her waking. She emerges minutes later, hair sleep-mussed, still wearing my flannel shirt from yesterday. Doesn't look at me directly but she knows I'm watching. Can tell by the way her shoulders tense, how she moves through the space like she's tracking my position without acknowledging it.
"Coffee's fresh." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Thanks." She pours carefully. Adds cream with precise movements. Scientists and their measured approach to everything. Controlled. Methodical. But there was nothing controlled or methodical about the way she came on my cock.
