Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
The warmth is addicting.
Dangerously addicting.
I could spend the whole day right here in this bed.
But the thought makes something tighten under my ribs. I shouldn’t get comfortable. I shouldn’t want this as much as I do.
Tony rolls to his back and looks at the ceiling, listening to the storm.
“We’re not going anywhere for a while,” he says. “Two days at least.”
Two days.
With him.
My pulse jumps, equal parts excitement and panic. The kind of trapped feeling that isn’t really trapped, more like cornered by my own thoughts.
“Coffee?” he offers, sitting up. “I’m a tea guy, sweet and iced, but I can make coffee.”
I nod, letting the blankets slide around me as he climbs out of bed—completely unselfconscious, moving like a man who knows his body, knows he’s being watched, knows I’m going to look even when I pretend not to.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.
“See something you like? My peach is perfect. And my eggplant is better than any emoji!”
My cheeks burn. “You’re impossible.”
He grins, cocky and warm, then disappears into the kitchen.
The cabin smells like coffee and woodsmoke, and the storm sounds like it’s ripping through the forest. I wrap myself in one of his flannels and pad barefoot into the kitchen where he stands beside the stove, tattoos flexing on his biceps as he pours coffee into a mug for me and makes himself a glass of sweet tea he apparently made at some point in time and had in the fridge.
“You take it black,” he says without turning around.
I blink. “How did you know that?”
“You strike me as the type.” He hands me a mug. “Someone who doesn’t pretend things are sweeter than they are. And you have small containers of creamer options in powder form, lasts longer, and an avid creamer person would stock it in big bottles.”
The comment lands deeper than he probably meant it to. When was the last time anyone paid attention to the small details concerning me? When has anyone ever cared to look at how I prefer anything?
I blow on the coffee, letting the warmth seep into my hands. “Thanks.”
He nods toward the window. “Whiteout’s gonna last a while.”
“Yeah.” I look out. “It’s bad.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me in that way he does—like he’s not just looking at me but looking through the walls I keep trying to hold together. I’ve never been around any man who literally makes coffee completely naked and holds a conversation like this is normal. I keep looking at his cock and remembering the feel of it stretching me. No toy will ever hit the spots he found inside me. I’m ruined.
“You okay being stuck here?” he asks taking me out of my dirty thoughts.
I nod slowly. “It’s better than being stuck in my car.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Tony goes still.
It’s too late to take it back.
He sets his glass of tea down reading me like a book. “Holley.”
“It’s fine,” I reply quickly. “I’ve been fine. I can handle it.”
“Holley.”
His tone deepens. Serious. Grounded. Not a question, not a command—just a tether pulling me back to honesty.
I swallow hard. “I live in the car sometimes.”
His jaw flexes. “Sometimes?”
“It’s complicated. If the cabin is booked, I sleep in my car. It’s not permanent. Just until I dig myself out of the hole my divorce left me in.”
His eyes search mine, far too perceptive.
I let out a breath. “It’s not that bad.”
“And the heat?” he asks quietly.
I look away, throat tight. “I don’t use it unless I have to so I don’t inhale fumes from the car.”
Tony’s hand curls into a fist on the counter. “Jesus, Holley.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“The hell it isn’t,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re freezing at night, sleeping in a damn car, and you think that’s not my problem when I’m the reason you’re doin’ that because I’m stayin’ here?”
I brace myself for pity. But he offers none.
Just anger—not at me, but for me. Protective in a way no one has been in years.
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug. “I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated.”
His expression softens. “I don’t do obligated.”
I meet his gaze.
There’s something there—something fierce and warm and unfamiliar.
It scares me.
It comforts me.
Both at once.
By afternoon, the storm only worsens. The power flickers twice, then steadies. We camp out in the living room, fire crackling, blankets piled around us.
“Tell me about Salemburg,” I inquire, curled at the far end of the couch. “You mentioned it once.”
He stretches out, long legs brushing mine. “Small town. Not much to it besides good people and too many bars. Club handles shit though, it’s safe, and it’s home.”
“Club as in motorcycle club? Is that what your vest is about? The one that says Stud on it?”
He gives a small nod, eyes flickering with something between nostalgia and trouble. “Yeah. Bikers. Brotherhood. Bar fights. Long rides. Good times. Hellions, baby. Road name is Stud. Hellions original and one of my closest friends gave me the nickname and it stuck.”