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 yet… my skin prickles under my sweater, this instinctive whisper running along my spine.
The heat in here is garbage. I’m going to have to start a fire before I freeze.
I scoop an armful of logs inside and drop them next to the fireplace. Outside, the snow is already erasing any tracks, if there were any, which is somehow worse.
Woman versus wood and fire.
There’s something about French press coffee and the scent of real burning wood that gets under my skin in the best way.
My family used to camp when I was a kid. I can still remember Owen showing me how to build a fire.
I swallow hard. No. I don’t want to think about Owen. Not here, not now. Not when my heart’s already cracked and bleeding, and I’m supposed to be writing a love story.
But the memory sneaks in anyway.
You’ve gotta start slow, right? His voice in my ear, in that Irish brogue. His strong, capable hands, stacking the kindling. He’d light the match and shield it with his palm before sliding it underneath.
Owen was kind of like my big brother… until he wasn’t.
I shake the memory off and go through every step he taught me until the fire is burning hot, the heat finally crawling back into my fingers.
I settle into the armchair, coffee in hand, and tell myself my goals are simple: survive this storm, heal my wrecked soul, and maybe—maybe—finish the book that’s been dragging me through this nightmare.
Piece of cake.
But the memory of Owen kindles something in me.
The truth is, I want more.
I want to feel chosen. I want to feel loved. I want to feel safe.
On my terms.
And preferably without dying alone in a cabin where firewood magically stacks itself and the fridge mysteriously refills.
But I remember. I stare at the first, and I bring it all back, piece by piece.
Us, by the fire.
Build an inferno, really. Owen’s low, steady voice right at my ear. I can still feel the vibration of it through his chest when he stood close behind me, his hands bracketing mine on the kindling. He smelled like smoke and pine sap, and the warmth of him at my back made my fingers clumsy.
Back then, I didn’t understand why my pulse jumped when his knuckles brushed mine. Why I’d hold my breath so long my lungs ached, just to feel that moment stretch.
Now I do.
I stare as the fire catches, and my skin feels too tight. The heat inside me has nothing to do with the flames.
Well. I’m alone. And I know myself well.
I’m a romance writer, goddammit, and romance writers need inspiration.
Maybe if I get in the mood, I can write again. Maybe I need to do what I do best—create a fictional scenario and let myself just go.
Maybe I need to rely on the only fantasy that’s sustained me for five fucking years.
That handwritten note back in the fridge… why does it remind me of Owen?
I poke the fire, satisfied with its warmth, before I sink back into the armchair, slide the coffee onto a coaster, and stare at the fire like it might swallow me whole.
But every crackle is him. Every shift of the wood is the ghost of his voice in my ear. My blood pulses. Why not give in to the fantasy one more time?
My thighs press together without thinking, seeking friction.
Maybe if I just… take the edge off, I can write. Clear my head. That’s all.
I tug the blanket over me, sliding lower in the chair. My hand drifts under my sweater, over the waistband of my baggy sweats, pausing when I realize my breathing’s already gone shallow. The storm howls outside, a low, hungry sound. I close my eyes.
It’s Owen’s hands in the memory now, not mine. His heat at my back, his voice a quiet command—slow, Emma. That’s a girl. His palm covers mine, guiding me lower, pressing until I gasp.
I bite my lip and let myself follow that imagined pressure. The tension uncoils, sharp and sweet, until I’m shivering—not from cold, but from the kind of warmth that sinks deep into your bones. I stroke myself, growing wetter and needier by the minute, my breath coming faster. And the closer I get to orgasm, the memories come faster and harder. Owen, hugging me. The almost kiss that never was. The longing in his eyes he tried to mask but couldn’t. Him, pinning me down after chasing me in a snowstorm, holding me down. His rough voice, reminding me to behave—the first man who ever showed me the appeal of strong, dominant alpha.
I imagine him touching me in a way that I knew even then would never be anything like other men. Owen wasn’t gentle. He’d pin me down and take.
His imaginary growl still in my ear, I send myself over the edge, my hips rising, my breath filling the cabin.