Page 10 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I snatch it back. “It’s a soup spoon, not a microscope slide.”

“Still. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

“Says the man who once left a protein shake bottle in his car for a week.”

He winces. “Low blow.”

“You brought it on yourself.”

He’s quiet for a second, then smiles like he can’t help it. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Put me in my place. Just when I start to think I’ve got the upper hand.”

I smirk, passing him the next plate. “You never had the upper hand.”

The cabin creaks softly around us, the old wood shifting as the temperature drops. The wind rustles outside, brushing through the trees. Inside, it’s warm. Still. Our hands keep bumping. Our eyes keep catching. By the time the last dish is on the rack, the air between us is full of things we aren’t saying.

“You want the first shower?” I ask.

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes lingering a second too long. “Only if you promise not to steal all the hot water.”

“No promises,” I say, and walk away before he can see me smile.

8

GRAYSON

She’s already awake when I reach for her. There’s no hesitation. No teasing smirk. Just the soft whiff of her breath and the way her fingers slide into my hair like they’ve been waiting. The room is still dark, dawn just a gray whisper at the window, but the heat between us is immediate, familiar, urgent.

I kiss her shoulder first, trailing a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her back. Her breath hitches. Her fingers thread tighter into my hair, pulling gently, like she needs more of me, closer, deeper, now. When I shift above her, she moves with me like it’s instinct. Her legs wrap around my waist, her body arching up to meet mine. Her skin is warm and bare beneath my hands, and when I slide my cock inside her juicy, wet pussy, her gasp cuts through the quiet morning like something holy.

We don’t speak, but everything is said. In the way I move inside her, slow at first, testing, teasing, until she rises to meet me with a quiet urgency that makes my control snap. Her nails rake lightly down my back. Her hips roll in time with mine. Her mouth finds mine, hungry, desperate, tasting like every fight we’ve had and every truce we’ve yet to make.

She moans against my lips, whispering my name, and I bury my face against her neck as we start to move faster, harder and deeper. My cock slides effortlessly in and out. The bed creaks beneath us. The world disappears. And when she finally shatters beneath me, I follow a moment later, because there’s no version of this where I let go without her. We collapse together, panting, sweat-slicked and tangled in the blankets, our bodies still pressed tight. I kiss her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth that’s trying to hold back a smile. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Because there’s nothing left to prove in this moment. Only everything we haven’t said, spoken in the way we moved, touched, gave ourselves over.

“Don’t fall in love with me all over again,” I murmur.

“Not a chance,” she smirks.

***

I wake before Margot. She’s curled on her side, tangled in the sheet, one arm draped across the pillow that’s supposed to be mine. Her hair’s a wild mess against the flannel, her face softer than I ever get to see during daylight hours. For a moment, I don’t move. I just watch her and try to pretend we’re not hiding out in a cabin in the middle of nowhere trying to stop our company from burning down.

She’s curled on her side, tangled in the sheet, one arm draped across the pillow that’s supposed to be mine. Her hair’s a wild mess against the flannel, her face softer than I ever get to see during daylight hours. For a moment, I don’t move. I just watch her and try to pretend we’re not hiding out in a cabin in the middle of nowhere trying to stop our company from burning down.

But then the floor creaks under my step and she stirs. I make coffee because that’s how we survive and by the time she shuffles into the kitchen, half awake and already annoyed by how small the space is, I’ve got two mugs ready.

She blinks at the counter. “Did the kitchen shrink overnight?”

“Nope,” I say, handing her a cup. “You’re just used to espresso machines and imported tile.”

She narrows her eyes over the rim of her mug. “And you’re used to living like a raccoon?”

I grin. “Raccoons don’t make coffee.”

We settle into a rhythm, if you can call it that. Every drawer sticks. The hot water heater wheezes like it’s dying. There’s one bathroom door, and it doesn’t lock properly. By midmorning, we’ve tripped over each other three times and argued over whether canned beans count as a real meal. When she burns her hand on the cast iron skillet and mutters a string of curses in a voice just shy of a growl, I hand her a cold pack from the mini-fridge and try not to laugh.

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