That small movement undoes me.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she breathes.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to eat me."
My thumb traces the line of her lower lip, dragging it down just enough to see the wet shine inside her mouth. "Eating is survival, Savannah. This?" I lean down, bringing my face inches from hers, inhaling the scent of her—jasmine, sleep, and woman. "This is hunger."
A tremor racks her, the vibration traveling from her skin into my hand. "You barely know me."
"I know enough."
"You know my name. You know I drive a shitty rental car."
"I know you taste like honey," I grate out. "I know you'll make little high-pitched noises when you come. I know you’ve never had a man inside you."
Her pupils pin. "Logan..."
"And I know you’re not scared of me. Not really."
I straighten up, needing distance before I do something reckless, like taking her right there on the granite. I walk past her, toward the living area where the massive stone fireplace dominates the wall. The logs pop and hiss. The heat rolls off them in waves.
"I should be," she says. Her voice is shaking but holding firm. I hear the soft thud of her bare feet hitting the floorboards as she slides off the counter.
I turn to face her. She stands by the kitchen island, clutching the edges of my shirt like a shield.
"I do." Whatever falls on this peak belongs to the Gunnars. That’s the law. The police down in Pine Valley don’t run these heights. I do.
"And people?" she challenges. She takes a small, brave step toward me. "Do people belong to you too?"
"Only the ones I claim."
The cabin air grows heavy, charged with static electricity. It’s the same feeling right before a thunderstorm breaks, or right before a fight starts in the bar. The calm before the violence.
Savannah takes another step. Brave. Or maybe she just feels the tether pulling her toward me, the same invisible chain that snapped around my chest the second I saw her in town.
"And have you?" she asks. Her voice is barely a whisper. "Claimed me?"
I stare at her. I let the silence stretch. My eyes roam over her body, stripping away the flannel shirt in my mind. I visualize the curves I held last night in the dark. The lush swell of her breasts. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hips begging for my hands.
"Come here," I command.
She hesitates. Then she obeys.
She walks toward me, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. She stops when her toes hit the edge of the rug, a foot away from me.
"Closer."
She steps in until the tips of her breasts brush my bare chest. The heat radiating off her skin is a physical pull. I can feel the friction of the flannel against my ink as she cranes her neck back to look me in the eye.
The scent of her arousal hits me now. It’s a sharp, sweet spike cutting through the woodsmoke.
"You asked if I claimed you," I murmur, reaching out to wrap my hand around the back of her neck. My fingers tangle in her hair, holding her steady. "If I hadn't, you’d be at the lodge right now, surrounded by tourists and sipping cocoa. Instead, you’re here. In my house. Wearing my clothes. Smelling like me."
Her lips part. "You kidnapped me?"
"I rescued you," I correct, tightening my grip just enough to tilt her head back further. "But I didn't do it to be a hero, Savannah. I’m not a good man. I don't do charity."
