"You taste better than honey," he rasps, his eyes black with lust. "You taste like mine."
I sit on the counter with my legs locked around his waist. The heavy flannel of his shirt is bunched between us, a thick barrier of wool and warmth. My breath comes in shallow, wrecked gasps.
My body is a live wire. I’m throbbing. I’m aching. I’m desperately empty.
Outside, the wind screams against the timber walls, piling the snow higher with every feral gust.
I’m trapped with a beast.
And somehow, I never want to be saved.
4
LOGAN
The wind howls, a feral beast trying to claw through the timber walls, but the only storm I care about is the one currently wrapped around my waist.
I have Savannah pinned against the granite counter. My flannel shirt is bunched between us, the thick fabric the only thing separating her heat from my jeans. Her legs are locked tight around my waist, the weight of her anchored to me.
Every time she hitches her breath, I feel the friction of the heavy plaid against my hips. It’s a tease I’m barely surviving.
She thinks this is a temporary delay. She thinks she’s going to wait for a plow and drive back to her life of Wi-Fi and city streets.
She’s wrong.
I don't lean back. I don't give her an inch. I press closer until her breasts are crushed against my chest. I’m barely keeping the beast leashed. Looking at her like this—disheveled, kiss-bruised, and wearing nothing but my clothes—is enough to make me lose my goddamn mind.
"Is it letting up?" she breathes against my lips. She tries to look toward the frosted window, but she’s trapped between the counter and my chest.
I don't even look at the glass. I know this mountain better than I know the back of my own hand.
"No. The wind's picked up. It's drifting heavy against the door. We aren't going anywhere, Savannah."
Her name rolls off my tongue, sweet and foreign in a mouth used to cursing. Her pulse flutters at her throat. I’m a big man. I’m covered in ink that screams violence, and I’m looking at her like a wolf looks at a wounded deer. But underneath her fear, a spark matches the fire roaring in the hearth.
"My car..." she begins, her voice trembling as she looks at the white abyss outside.
"Is a memory," I growl, tightening my grip on her waist until she gasps. "Forget the rental. It’s a crushed tin can buried under my mountain. I’m the only thing you need to focus on surviving."
"I have a schedule, Logan. People waiting for content. I was supposed to be in..." She trails off, looking lost. The reality of her situation is finally sinking in.
"You were supposed to be here," I tell her. I tighten my grip on her waist, holding her high against the granite.
I want to wrap her up. Shield her. I want to bury myself so deep inside her she forgets every other man who has ever looked at her.
"You didn't finish your breakfast," I rumble, glancing at the cold plate on the table behind me.
"I'm full," she whispers, tilting her head back to look at me. Her throat is exposed. Pale, delicate skin pulsing with the rapid rhythm of her heart.
"You need the calories. It’s cold. And I plan on keeping you warm."
A flush stains her cheeks pink. She knows. On some primal level, she knows exactly what I’m saying.
Last night, when I held her in the dark and felt the heat of her skin, she understood. I feel how she’s vibrating now. I feel the barrier she’s kept up against the world starting to crumble.
She’s untouched. Pure. And she landed in the lap of the devil.
I reach out, my hand large and calloused, scarred from fights, from working on bikes, from breaking things that needed breaking. I brush my knuckles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, like silk heated by the sun. She flinches, then leans into the touch.
