Here. With me.
"Take them off," I growl. My voice is rougher than I intend, like gravel grinding in a mixer. I don't apologize for it. I don't apologize for anything.
She wraps her arms around herself, her blue lips parting. "What?"
"Your clothes, Savannah. They're freezing to your skin. Hypothermia isn't a joke up here on the peak. You strip, or I cut them off you."
I step away from the door, my boots thudding heavy against the floorboards. The cabin is freezing, the air biting, but I don't feel the cold. I run hot. Always have. It’s a furnace in my blood that’s been waiting for fuel, and looking at her—wet, trembling, and staring at me with those wide, doe eyes—is like throwing gasoline on an open flame.
She hesitates, her fingers fumbling with the hem of her soaked sweater. Her hands shake too badly to work the fabric.
"I... I can't feel my fingers," she stammers, her voice barely a whisper over the wind howling around the eaves.
I close the distance between us. I loom over her, blocking out the dim light from the frosted window. The height difference is ridiculous. If I wanted to, I could snap her in half. The thought should horrify me, but instead, it wakes up the dark, possessive beast that lives in the cellar of my soul. I want to surround her. Envelop her. Keep her.
"Let me."
I don't wait for permission. I reach out, my large, calloused hands covering hers. Her skin is ice cold, shocking against my heat. I brush her hands away and grip the bottom of her sweater. I lift it.
She gasps, a sharp intake of breath that punches me right in the gut, but she raises her arms. I peel the wet wool up and over her head, tossing the sodden garment into the corner.
Underneath, she’s wearing a thermal shirt that clings to her curves like a second skin, outlining the heavy swell of her breasts. My jaw tightens until it aches. She’s lush. Soft in all the places I’m hard. A travel blogger from the city, stumbling into a predator’s den.
"Pants," I order, dropping to one knee.
My hands go to the button of her jeans. She flinches, her thighs locking together, but I don't stop. I pop the button and drag the zipper down. The sound scrapes loud in the quiet cabin. I grip her hips—my thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her waistband—and tug the denim down.
She has to hold onto my shoulders for balance as she steps out of the stiff, freezing material. My face is level with her stomach. Through the thin cotton of her panties, I can smell her. Not just the rain and the cold, but her. A sweet, fresh jasmine with a hint of sweet honey lingering on her skin hits my olfactory senses like a drug. It triggers a biological imperative so strong I almost groan.
Mine.
The word slams into my brain. A verdict.
I stand up, leaving her in just her panties and that tight thermal. "Sit by the hearth. Don't move."
I turn my back on her before I do something reckless, like throw her onto the bearskin rug and ravage her before she’s even warm.
My leather cut is already draped over the chair where I’d tossed it, the Broken Halos patch heavy and familiar in the firelight.
The logs I’d lit moments ago are already roaring, the heat beginning to bleed into the room and fight back the chill.
I reach for the buttons of my heavy flannel. I strip it off, then yank my t-shirt over my head in one fluid motion. I toss the flannel at her. It hits her square in the chest. I stand there bare-chested.
The heat from the fire makes the ink on my skin gleam.
"Are you... are you going to put a shirt on?" she asks. Her eyes are glued to the tattoos traversing my chest and arms.
"Put it on," I growl. "You’re shaking the floorboards."
She scrambles into the shirt. It swallows her whole. The sleeves hang past her hands, and the hem hits her mid-thigh. Seeing her in my clothes does something twisty to my gut. It looks right. It looks like a claim.
She stares at the ink, at the scars—knifed lines from bar fights, burn marks from the forge, road rash from spills on the asphalt.
"No," I say, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. I crack the seal and take a swig, relishing the burn, then hand it to her. "Drink."
She takes it tentatively, tipping the bottle back. She coughs as the amber liquid hits her throat, her face flushing pink. "God, that's strong."
"It'll warm your blood." I take the bottle back and take another pull, placing my lips exactly where hers were. A primitive kiss.
