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)
“Emma,” I whisper, sliding my finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
She swallows hard. Her lips are soft and parted, her eyes locked onto mine.
“Yes?”
“Does anyone really need to know?” My voice is barely a whisper now, my fingers grazing the side of her neck. Her pulse hammers beneath my touch.
She breathes, shallow and fast. “Know what?”
I lean closer, my mouth brushing against hers.
“That I was the one who did unspeakable things to you.”
Her gasp breaks in her throat. Her pupils blow wide, and there’s something wild and hungry in her eyes now.
Finally, she says it. Just a whisper. “Unspeakable things… like what?”
“Is that a dare?” I murmur into her ear.
She can’t stop the sound that slips from her lips, low and involuntary. My hand moves to her back, my fingers spanning the narrow line of her waist. I let the silence stretch until I can feel her squirming, her breath catching.
Then I lean in again, my voice low, velvet-wrapped steel. “Things that would make you unrecognizable to yourself. Things that would make you mine. Forever. And definitely unblocked.”
She shivers and lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a moan.
I draw back just enough to meet her eyes.
“No one needs to know,” I say again, this time heavy with promise. With threat. With the certainty of what I’d do before I let anyone take her from me.
She doesn’t move. Her breath comes in stutters. Her gaze flicks to my mouth.
I kiss her—once, softly. Just enough to pull her forward, to make her lean in for more. Then I kiss her again, and this time, I don’t hold back.
My hand slips beneath the threadbare sweater, fingers wide across the hot curve of her stomach. Her skin is on fire.
I want to burn with her.
She arches into me, shivering.
“Every kiss under the mistletoe,” I whisper against her lips, “belongs to me.”
I’ve hidden them everywhere. Dozens of them. Over every threshold, every door, every window. She has no idea what she owes me.
But she will.
I set it up this way. Carefully. So that with every step she takes in this cabin, she’ll have to pay for it. In kisses. In moans. In that sound she makes only for me.
Of course, I’ll make it worth her while.
She sits curled in that oversized chair now, a blanket around her shoulders, legs tucked beneath her like a girl who doesn’t know what she’s in for.
The fire crackles gently. The glow of it casts flickering shadows across her face. Across mine. The snow outside has finally stopped.
The sun hits the windows hard. I wonder how much of it will melt today. We got several feet yesterday, maybe more.
It’ll take days to thaw out.
Good. We need them.
Her eyes are heavy-lidded after everything we’ve done this morning. There’s a softness in her now, an openness I haven’t seen in too long. I’m still not used to how quiet it is here.
“No cell phone, no noise, no cars, no nothing,” she says quietly, like the silence might break if she speaks too loud.
She exhales and closes her eyes again, melting into it. I like it too. I kneel in front of her, balancing a wooden bowl of pasta in one hand, a spoon in the other.
“Hungry?”
Her eyes flutter open. “Yes,” she murmurs, catching sight of what I’m holding. Her eyes brighten when she sees the bowl—cream sauce, fresh spinach, ribboned pasta, still steaming.
“You like that it’s so quiet here?” I ask.
“I do,” she says softly, the words falling like a confession. A pause. “There’s so much noise at home.” She closes her eyes again and breathes out a tired sigh. “Even when no one was there.”
I understand. I know exactly what kind of noise she means.
“I think you’ve got another writing session this afternoon, don’t you?” I say gently. She cracks one eye open, warily. I give her a look.
“Yes,” she admits.
“Good. Then let’s get you fed.” I lift the spoon. “Open.”
She does—slowly, lips parting around the spoon with a hesitation that makes my chest ache. It’s almost shy, almost innocent. Maybe she hasn’t been spoon-fed since she was a baby. Maybe that’s why her reaction feels so tender, so unsure.
I watch her mouth a beat too long. Too closely. My thoughts turn filthy in an instant. Every spoonful I give her is slow and deliberate. I want her to understand what it feels like to be taken care of—then devoured.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“I like what I see,” I whisper back. “You know, I like the quiet too, Emma.”
“It suits you,” she replies, almost like she’s surprised to realize it. “You always loved those camping trips we took. You’d disappear into the woods for hours, hiking all alone. Getting up before everyone else did. Just you, a knife, and a stick of wood you’d somehow transform into something beautiful. Do you still do that?”