Page 8 of Whiteout

“Yeah.” Sinjin sniggered from the stove, his back to her. “Can’t handle roughing it, princess?”

“Sorry, I’m just not a squat-in-the-woods kind of girl.”

“Guess I won’t be taking you camping then.”

As if.

He turned around to face her. “This place is pretty much only used for hunting and fishing. We’re off-grid here.” Taking a step closer, Sinjin angled his head and reached for a strand of her wet hair. He rubbed it between his fingers. “But you’re safe now.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Am I?

“I’m going to bring some more wood in.” He let her hair go. “Can’t let that fire die out.”

The bathroom was small. A frosted window its only source of light. With most of the space taken up by an old cast-iron tub, there was barely enough room to turn around. Breanna peeled her wet jeans down her thighs, the flesh beneath the denim cold and clammy. She loathed pulling them back up again. At the sink, water ran from the faucet. She washed her hands in liquid ice, wishing for a toothbrush. A tube of Crest sat beside a bottle of soap. She used her finger.

Sinjin was stacking wood beside the hearth when Breanna came out of the bathroom, the wood floor rough beneath her bare feet. She sat on a rocking chair in front of the fire, fingers combing through her tangled hair to dry it.

“I checked the cabinets,” he said, without looking at her. “We’ve got canned soup, oatmeal, coffee, powdered creamer, and sugar.”

“No fava beans and a nice chianti to go with it?”

He turned around, his brow raised.

“Silence of the Lambs,” she explained. “Never mind.”

“Sorry, no.”

“Well, that’s good.” Breanna snorted out a laugh. “I don’t have to worry about being eaten for dinner.”

Flames reflected in his whiskey eyes, his lips rising to a smirk. He winked. “There’s always dessert.”

Turning back to the fire, Sinjin unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on a chair. The Henley he wore beneath it followed. His skin was golden in the flickering light, each chiseled muscle defined.

The distinct sound of a buckle unlatching interrupted her ogling. The button popped on his jeans. “What are you doing?”

Lowering his zipper, Sinjin turned around. “Getting out of these wet clothes,” he replied. Then, stripping off his pants, he kicked them over to the chair. “And I suggest you do the same before you catch pneumonia.”

Working a tangle from her hair, Breanna looked away, but not before she stole a glimpse of that part of him. Good God, she’d never been so wrong. “That’s not how you get pneumonia.”

Comfortable in his nudity, he continued to stand there. And with a body like that, why wouldn’t he be? Staring into the fire, she could feel his eyes on her.

“You’re shivering.” His voice came closer. “Jesus, if you don’t take those fucking clothes off, I’ll have no choice but to do it for you.”

And he was bold enough to mean it. Breanna knew Sinjin was right, though. She’d never feel warm in these clothes, soaked to her skin. Keeping her back to him, she slowly got up from the rocking chair, and trembling, she removed the sodden garments.

He came up to her from behind. Wrapping her naked body in a blanket, his fingers lingered at her breasts, sweeping over her nipples. Breanna sucked in a breath. Electricity sparking at the back of her neck, goosebumps sheeted her skin, and not because she was cold.

Holy fucking hell.

“Get in bed,” he ordered, leaving her standing there to go to the kitchen. “I’m going to make us some of that soup.”

Compelled to comply, Breanna turned back the thick goose-down comforter and burrowed into the soft mattress. She watched him at the stove. Ass high and taut, he stood with his legs slightly apart, enough to see his balls and that more than impressive appendage hanging in the space between them.

I sure wouldn’t have to ask him to go deeper with that thing.

“Chicken noodle or beef barley?”

“Beef.” Most definitely. Biting her lip, she giggled to herself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck in here?”

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