Page 63 of Curvy Cabin Fever
MORGAN
The storm’s finally over, thank fuck.
For the first time in days, there’s no howling wind, no sleet rattling the windows, no snow falling thick and fast like we’re buried under the sky itself. It sure looks pretty, though.
It’s quiet out there, making everything in the cabin much louder—the kind that makes you notice things you’d rather ignore. Like the faint moans echoing through the walls an hour ago. The way the damn bed was sliding over the floor. The way Aria screamed Rhett’s name like she’d waited her whole life to say it like that.
I don’t know how to feel. Am I jealous?Yep, I sure fucking am.
What I would do to have Rhett in bed withme…but he wouldn’t—because his fucking father taught him it was wrong to ‘lie with another man.’
Fuck his father.
I could make Rhett happier thananywoman could.
I pause, tilting my head as I think of the curvy goddess in bed with him.
Okay, maybe notanywoman. Becauseshemakes all of us pretty damn happy. My dick twitches in my pants at the thought of havingbothof them, and I groan, scrubbing my face like it will erase the image.
What an image, though. Rhett naked, my lips wrapped around his dick as I fuck Aria hard… Her cries filling the room as her pussy milks my dick.
Except it’s him and her at the minute. A man and a woman, how itshouldbe.
Bull-fucking-shit.
I’ve got eggs on the pan but I haven’t stopped grinding my damn teeth since they started going at it.
And I don’t know if it’s jealousy, frustration, or something worse.
I think I’m falling forher, and I fell for him a long time ago—and now they’re falling for each other? Or is it just sex?
Fuck.
I flip the eggs with more force than necessary, watching the yellow yolks wobble dangerously close to breaking.
Just like me.
Something inside my chest feels sore, constricted, like I’m holding my breath underwater and the surface keeps getting further away. The sizzle of eggs in the pan should be comforting—domestic—normal. But nothing about this situation is normal, is it? Four strangers trapped in a cabin during the worst snowstorm in decades. Three men circling one woman like she has always been ours.
And me?
I’m caught in between two of them. Her. Him. Both are impossible to resist.
Damien walks into the kitchen and snorts as he catches the scowl on my face. “Careful. You’ll break your jaw grinding it like that.”
I flip the eggs. “Did you hear them?”
He pours himself a coffee. “Hard not to. Cabin’s not exactly soundproof.”
“She’s loud,” I remark, mostly to myself. “Louder with him.”
Damien leans against the counter, sipping his coffee. “Are you jealous? And if so, who of?”
I don’t answer. The truth is lodged somewhere in my throat, too big to swallow back down, too dangerous to spit out.
He says nothing. It’s one reason we get along. Despite his intimidating exterior, Damien’s got this quiet understanding about him. He watches things, observes, then processes silently. Not like Rhett, who’s all fire and impulse and raw need. Not like me either—the one who tries to smooth every edge with a joke or a smile.
I slide eggs onto a plate, wondering if Aria likes them over-easy or scrambled.
