Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
And I do. God, I do.
I try to remind myself that he’s still off limits. That there’s no future here. That this is reckless, stupid, doomed.
But I stop… I stop thinking.
Because this little cabin? It feels like an escape. A portal. Like we’ve stepped into a snow-globe world where everything else falls away.
I glance over my shoulder at the window. The snow’s rising—drifted up the door now. We're not going anywhere.
"Let me remind you," he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
"Of what?" I breathe, barely able to get it out.
"What it’s like to be wanted."
And I think: What it’s like to not feel alone. Rejected. Broken. What it’s like when the man who haunted your teenage dreams—and kept showing up in every fantasy since—finally says fuck it and comes for you.
"Do it," I dare him, my voice a whisper of need.
His eyes go storm-cloud dark, blazing.
And then his mouth crashes into mine.
There’s no hesitation, no soft build-up. Just heat. Teeth. Tongue. He kisses me like he’s been waiting for years for permission. His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I gasp.
I’m wet, instantly. My breasts are heavy and aching. This… this is so much better than my own hand, than my quiet, sad little fantasies.
And then his tongue slides in—possessive, hungry—the way he’s always looked at me, like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. My thighs tighten around him as he shifts, grinding up into me.
I feel him through his jeans—thick, hot, straining. And god, I want him.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I don’t care. It’s too late.
The snow keeps falling, soft and relentless, sealing us in like the universe itself is conspiring.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His gaze drags over my face like he’s memorizing me, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
And it makes me feel—fuck—it makes me feel good… wanted, sexy, precious.
"You have no idea," he murmurs, his voice wrecked and hoarse.
God, that voice. That accent. How many nights have I imagined this? Me—needy, straddling him, with nowhere to run.
My breath hitches. "Owen."
He slides a finger beneath my chin, tipping my face to his. His eyes are darker now. Hungry.
"Don’t speak until I give you permission."
Then his mouth finds mine again, slower this time. More deliberate, consuming. His hands are everywhere.
Back when I knew him, he was bossy. Dominant. And I hated it. I loved it. I craved it. And now—this is why.
Because I knew—knew—he was someone who would take, not ask. And I wanted that.
I wanted to let go. To stop thinking. To stop controlling every goddamn thing and just be. To let my mind go blank under his hands.
Those hands skim down my back, fisting the hem of my ratty old sweater, tugging it up inch by inch. I lift my arms, surrendering. He drags it over my head and tosses it aside, baring me to the firelight.
Just a soft lace bra now. My cheeks flame. I feel so… exposed, not just my skin—but all the aching, ugly places inside me.
I start to speak… to say something stupid.
He growls. "No. What did I tell you?"
His hands clamp down on my hips, dragging me harder against him. And I stop thinking altogether.
“You feel. You let go. No more thinking tonight. You gave me a job—so let me fucking do it.”
And I did, didn’t I?
I gave him a job—unblock me. Lovely.
No need to dig through the past. We’re right here—like we never left, like nothing and no one ever kept us apart. And I feel it again, that sharp, electric thrill I haven't felt since I was a horny teenager.
The rush of being wanted… of wanting him.
I shudder, helpless, as he leans in, pressing a kiss to my throat. Then lower to my collarbone, then the tops of my breasts.
His stubble scrapes the sensitive skin, and my nipples harden instantly.
“You’re going to come for me, Emma,” he says, his voice thick with heat. “And you're going to do it before I even fuck you.”
Oh fuck. Oh Jesus. Oh fucking hell.
My body tightens at the promise. He shifts and lays me back on the couch without breaking eye contact. His hands slide under the waistband of my sweats, teasing.
I grab his wrist without thinking. “Wait—”
His brow lowers, then touches mine, soothing.
“Emma,” he whispers. “Do I need to punish you for talking when I asked you not to?”
I shake my head, biting my lip.
“Let me in,” he whispers, and I do.
I let him.
His fingers slip inside first—hot and slick—and a low groan breaks from his chest. “Jesus. Fucking hell. You’re soaked already.”
I cry out, my hips jerking when his thumb circles my clit with slow, devastating pressure. He doesn't give me what I think I want. He gives me what I need.
He works me with precision—every twitch, every gasp. His eyes never leave my face.