Page 18 of His Lost Mate

Jonah turned to the fire, his bare chest catching the warmth as he rubbed his hands together. “It’s cold out there.”

“No kidding,” she murmured, pulling the blankets tighter around her shoulders. “Anything out there?”

“Quiet,” he replied, his tone clipped. “Too quiet, maybe.”

Phoebe didn’t respond, but Jonah could feel her looking at him, a tangible weight that sent a flicker of heat racing down his spine. He remained facing the fire, willing himself to focus on the glow of the embers and not the woman behind him. But her presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore.

He turned to warm his back, his sharp gaze meeting hers. She was sitting upright now, the blanket pooled around her waist. At some point she had removed her bra. He glanced toward the fireplace where it, her flight suit and her parka were hung. The snow leopard inside him growled when it spotted her panties as well and he scented her arousal. Her hair was tousled, her expression soft but intent, and the firelight cast a golden glow across her sun-kissed skin.

Jonah’s breath hitched as Phoebe lifted the edge of the blanket, her eyes locking onto his with a quiet, unmistakable invitation.

“Phoebe,” he said, his voice low, strained.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice carrying an edge of vulnerability that made his chest tighten. “Don’t overthink it. Just come here. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

Jonah’s hands clenched at his sides, his instincts warring with reason. Every muscle in his body roared for him to close the distance, to take what she was offering—take what was his. But the part of him that had lived in solitude, that had spent years avoiding connection, held him back.

“This isn’t the time,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe it’s exactly the time,” Phoebe countered, her gaze unwavering. “We don’t know what’s coming next. Can’t we just—” She hesitated, her voice softening. “Can’t we just stop fighting?”

Jonah took a step closer, his pulse pounding as the tension in the room thickened. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, his voice rough.

Phoebe’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Maybe not. But I know I’m tired of being alone.”

Her words struck a chord he hadn’t realized was there, and Jonah’s restraint snapped like a taut wire. He crossed the room in two long strides, the fire casting flickering shadows across his bare chest as he loomed over her.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he growled, his voice low and raw.

“Then show me,” Phoebe whispered, her breath hitching as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

Jonah’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin as he leaned down, his body thrumming with a need thateclipsed everything else. For the first time in years, the fear, the danger, the constant fight for survival—all of it faded into the background.

There was only her.

He stared at her. This was not going to happen. He shook his head.

“Don’t be stupid, Jonah. You need to warm up.”

She had a point, and she was right. Sure, she was. And just because I get into that nice warm bed with my fated mate does not mean we’re going to end up having sex. Sure, it doesn’t. We’re in this isolated cabin, with dangerous people tracking us. This is possibly the worst time to have sex with Phoebe. That is logical. The only problem is neither my throbbing cock nor my inner snow leopard is feeling a need for logic. The need to have sex with Phoebe is far more compelling, not to mention far more preferable.

The wind howled outside, and their survival was not guaranteed. Yet in this moment, the storm inside him demanded to be heard above all else.

“Damn you, Phoebe,” he muttered, though the heat in his voice had turned from its usual surliness to something more dangerous. He peeled his clothes away as if they were nothing more than tissue paper, revealing skin that tingled wherever air touched it.

“Let’s focus on survival, shall we?” His voice was low and steady, but he could feel the thrum of his pulse as he joined her in bed.

Phoebe laid back, trailing her fingers down his chest. As she parted her legs, she was the very essence of temptation, and Jonah knew he was no saint.

Phoebe’s hand reached up, drawing her finger down the center of his torso. Jonah grasped her hand, bringing it up before she could get much lower than his waist. From the very first touch, the way she did so made his skin sing in a way that evoked a pleasure so sharp that it felt like it pierced straight through to his soul.

His fingers, calloused and unyielding, danced across her flesh, pinching her pebbled nipples into sharp points, making her gasp in the small space between their mouths.

“That’s it, kitten, show me how you purr,” he rumbled at her, watching the way she shivered at the sound of his voice, his breath caressing the hollow of her throat as his mouth followed the path his fingers had blazed. His lips wrapped around one of her nipples and sucked it between them, suckling with a strong rhythm as his hand snaked its way down her naked body. Each touch—either with lips or fingers—was like a stroke of velvet against her heated skin, making her tremble.

He tried to fight it, the pull of her, the way his body responded, but it was like trying to stop the rising storm outside with his bare hands. Every touch was a spark, every sigh a promise of something darker, something deeper. In the safety of the cabin, with the fury of the storm as their soundtrack, Phoebe and Jonah danced on the edge of something Phoebe had no ability to comprehend.

But right then, with his hands charting a map of arousal throughout her body, none of it mattered. He had come alive in a way he hadn’t been in… well, forever. It was raw, it was primal, it was terrifying, and it was completely addictive.

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