And I know he wants me.
The water warms gradually, chasing the chill from my bones, and before I realize it, I’m leaning into the heat of the water. My eyes slide shut, and my breath slows as I let my hand slide over my skin, between my legs. I touch myself slowly, experimentally, asI close my eyes to the memory of Holt’s rough hands on me, the way he touched me like he was trying to memorize the feel of me.
But my own touch is hollow now. My body knows the difference, and it knows that this isn’t what I want anymore.
I want Holt.
With a frustrated sigh, I pull my hand away and laugh under my breath. “Well,” I murmur, “that’s new.”
But that’s when it hits me.
It’s not just aboutthat.
Although I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big part of things.
But it’s more than that.
More than just the curiosity and rebellion of seeing how hard I can push him.
It’s the way he looked at me right before he walked away, like he waschoosingnot to take more instead of notwantingto.
That matters.
I turn the water off before my thoughts drift somewhere way too dangerous. I wrap myself in a thick towel, my skin flushed and warm as I step back into the bedroom. My eyes land on my journal still on the nightstand where I left it earlier.
I dress quickly and run a comb throughmy hair before taking my journal out to the living room, where the fire is still burning in the hearth.
I wrap myself in a blanket and sink into the couch.
After rereading the words I wrote earlier, I scribble down my new, even more confused thoughts and try to capture the memory of the kiss we’d shared.
Normally, when I journal, it helps me sort out my thoughts and see things with more clarity, but now, I’m more confused than ever.
Because whatever had happened out there with Holt—that line we’d just crossed?
It wasn’t an accident.
I’d stepped over it on purpose.
And now that I knew what it felt like to be in his arms, wanted by the man I’d been dreaming about my whole life?—
I wasn’t about to pretend I didn’t know exactly what I was doing.
Or where this was heading.
And I had no intention of stopping.
Holt
I split the last log with a bit more force than necessary. It cracks clean down the middle, the sound sharp in the cold, quiet air.
But it does nothing to quiet the noise in my head. None of the dozens of logs I’ve already split have done anything to settle me down the way the rhythmic task usually does.
I stack it anyway.
Then another and another.
My shoulders burn, my muscles aching with the effort.
