Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Jesus Christ.
The hem hits high on her thighs. The neckline hangs low enough that I see the hint of skin, collarbone to cleavage. She’s a damn fever dream standing in my cabin, smiling like she doesn’t know she’s burning the place down.
“It’s comfy,” she says, tugging the hem. “Smells like pine and danger.”
I choke out a laugh. “You smell like trouble.”
She grins. “Guess we’re even then.”
I turn down the bed, forcing my hands to move slow, controlled. “You get the left.”
She eyes the bed, then the couch. “You sure?”
“Take the bed, Hart.”
Her chin tilts. “Fine. But I’m building a wall.”
She grabs pillows—four, maybe five—and stacks them down the center of the mattress like she’s dividing property lines.
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “You think that’s gonna stop anything?”
“From what?” she teases. “You rolling over in your sleep and attacking me with a power tool?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
She slides under the blankets, the rustle of sheets sounding far dirtier than it should. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got an imagination.”
“Maybe.” She rolls onto her side, eyes glinting in the firelight. “But I think you like me.”
“Like you?” I walk to the bed, plant my hands on the headboard, lean in close enough for her to smell the woodsmoke on my skin. “You talk too much. You leave glitter everywhere. You nearly burned my kitchen down making cocoa an hour ago.”
Her smile grows. “That wasn’t a no.”
“Go to sleep, Hart.”
She sighs, long and dramatic, like she’s doing it just to get under my skin. “Goodnight, mountain man.”
I grunt, slide under the covers on my side, keeping the pillow wall intact. The fire snaps low. The storm outside howls, wrapping the cabin in a steady hum.
Minutes stretch. Maybe hours.
But I don’t sleep.
Because she’s here, breathing slow on the other side of that stupid pillow barrier, her warmth leaking across the divide. Every time she shifts, the sheet moves, whispering against skin. Every inhale smells faintly of vanilla and smoke and something else—something that makes my chest ache.
I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, every muscle strung taut.
I’ve been alone for a long damn time. Liked it that way. No noise, no clutter, no distractions. But this woman—this loud, messy, brilliant little storm—has turned my quiet into something I can’t stand anymore.
And for the first time, I wonder if I even want the silence back.
Hours later, I hear her sigh. The soft sound of her shivering.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
I turn over. The fire’s burned down to embers. She’s curled tight, shoulders shaking under the blanket.
Screw the pillow wall.
I push it aside and slide closer, careful but not careful enough. The second my arm wraps around her, she melts into me—instinctive, perfect. Her back presses to my chest, her hair brushes my jaw. Heat blooms between us, slow and dangerous.
She sighs, whispering something that sounds like my name before going still.
I should pull away. I should put the pillows back, draw the lines we both agreed on.
Instead, I tighten my hold.
Her body fits against mine like we were built for this. My hand rests against her stomach, her breath feathering against my forearm. She shifts once, settling back, and the movement drags her hips against mine.
I swear under my breath, low and rough.
Because now I’m wide awake. And she’s warm, soft, perfect—and completely off-limits.
Her breathing evens out again. I stare at the dying fire and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to survive the night.
Minutes crawl by, slow torture.
She moves again—small, unconscious—and my self-control shatters one crack at a time.
Her hair brushes my lips. I breathe her in. Vanilla. Sleep. Sin.
She whispers something again, maybe just a dream sound, but I can’t help it—I murmur, “Go back to sleep, sunshine.”
Her fingers find mine under the blanket, tangle just enough to ruin me.
My chest tightens, the kind of ache that feels too good to be safe. Because it’s not just desire clawing at me anymore—it’s something deeper. Something that feels a lot like need.
I close my eyes. Try to slow my breathing.
She shifts once more, pressing closer. My hand slides an inch lower on instinct, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.
She stills.
And for a heartbeat, I think she’s awake. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just breathes, slow and even, as if she trusts me completely.
I don’t deserve that.
I press my forehead against the back of her neck and whisper, “You’re killing me, Hart.”
Her only answer is a soft sigh, barely audible over the storm outside.
I stay awake the rest of the night, counting every second between her breaths.
Wondering how something this small—one woman, one night, one goddamn bed—could burn hotter than any fire I’ve ever fought.
And when dawn finally breaks through the window, pale light spilling over her skin, I know one thing for sure—