I push the blanket aside, suddenly aware of how I must look—hair a mess, his huge t-shirt rumpled from sleep. But when he finally turns to face me, spatula in one massive hand, his eyes darken with something that makes my insides tighten.
"I hope you like pancakes," he says, setting a plate on the rustic wooden table. "Haven't cooked for anyone but myself in a long time."
"They look amazing." I pad over to the table, conscious of his gaze tracking my every movement. "Thank you...I don't even know your name."
He hesitates, like sharing this simple piece of information might wound him. "Thorne," he finally says.
"Thorne," I repeat, tasting the name on my tongue. It suits him—sharp and primal, like the man himself. "I'm Lila."
"I remember." His lips twitch, almost a smile. "Hard to forget."
I cut into the pancakes, suddenly starving. They're perfect—fluffy inside, crisp at the edges. I can't remember the last time someone cooked for me. John always expected me to do the cooking, even when I had deadlines for commissions.
Thorne pours coffee into a mug that looks tiny in his hands. He passes it to me, our fingers brushing. A zing of electricity shoots up my arm at the contact, and I jerk, splashing hot coffee onto my wrist and the table.
"Shit!" I grab for a napkin, embarrassed.
But Thorne is already there, taking my wrist in his hand. His touch is gentle, incongruous with his size. He leads me to the sink, turning on the cold water and holding my wrist under the stream. His body cages mine against the counter, his chest a wall of heat at my back.
"Doesn't look too bad," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. His thumb strokes softly over the reddened skin of mywrist, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with pain. "Good girl, staying still for me."
The praise hits me like a drug, immediate and potent. My nipples tighten, and heat pools between my legs. What the hell? I've never reacted this way to simple words before. But there's nothing simple about the way Thorne says them—like he's bestowing a gift, like he sees something in me worth praising.
He reaches around me for a kitchen towel, still not letting go of my wrist. His arms bracket me on either side, and I can feel the hard planes of his chest against my back. My breath comes faster.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "Do you…have you lived up here long?"
He releases me, stepping back, and I feel the loss of his heat immediately. "Long enough," he says, turning away. The shutters come down in his eyes, and I know I've hit a nerve.
I follow him back to the table, determined to know more about this man. "It must get lonely."
He gives me a long look, those pale eyes seeming to see straight through me. "Used to it," he says finally. Then, after a pause: "Until now."
Something shifts in the air between us, a tension that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was, and I'm just now recognizing it for what it is. Want.Need.
We finish breakfast in charged silence. I help him clear the dishes, hyperaware of his proximity in the small kitchen space. When his arm brushes mine, it feels deliberate.
After, he builds up the fire while I hover awkwardly, not sure what to do with myself. Without warning, he sits in the large armchair by the hearth and pulls me down onto his lap. I land with an undignified squeak, my ass nestled against his thighs, my back to his chest.
"Five years," he says, his arms encircling my waist. "Five years I've been alone up here. Not speaking. Not living. Just existing."
I hold perfectly still, afraid that if I move, he'll stop talking. Stop touching. His hands are warm and heavy on my stomach, anchoring me to him.
"Why?" I whisper.
His chest expands against my back as he takes a deep breath. "Lost my family. Fire. My fault."
The pain in those four short words makes my eyes sting with tears. I want to turn, to see his face, but his arms tighten, keeping me in place.
"But now you're here." His voice drops lower, a rumble I feel in my bones. "Brought the storm with you. Brought something else too."
His hands move then, sliding up until they cup my breasts through my shirt. My breath catches in my throat.
"So perfect," he murmurs, thumbs brushing over my nipples. "Little girl made just for me."
I should be offended by the term. I'm twenty-two, not some child. But the way he says it—possessive, reverent—makes me melt instead. Makes me arch into his touch like a cat seeking affection.
"That's it," he encourages as I press my breasts more firmly into his hands. "Such a good girl."
