Page 13 of Snowed-in With The Mountain Man
"Cold," she announces, climbing onto a kitchen chair. "And dark."
Stella slides off the counter, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kisses. "The storm knocked out the power, baby. But the generator is keeping us warm enough."
I turn away, taking deep breaths to calm my racing heart and aching body. "I'll get the fire going stronger," I manage, voice rougher than normal. "That'll warm things up."
In the great room, I kneel before the hearth, adding logs to the banked embers from last night. Behind me, I hearStella preparing breakfast for Chellie, their voices a domestic soundtrack that feels both foreign and right.
Outside, the blizzard shows no signs of abating. Snow piles against the windows, nearly reaching the bottom sill on the north side of the cabin. The world beyond my property has vanished, replaced by endless swirling white. We're completely isolated, cut off from everything but each other.
The thought should be unsettling. Instead, it fills me with a strange peace.
By the time I have the fire roaring, Stella has managed to make oatmeal on the camping stove I keep for emergencies. Chellie sits at the table, spooning it into her mouth with surprising neatness for a two year old.
"What do we do today?" Stella asks, passing me a bowl. "Without power?"
"Board games. Books. Building a blanket fort." I smile at Chellie who perks up at the last suggestion. "We've got enough to keep us entertained."
"Fort!" Chellie declares, suddenly fully awake. "Big fort for Sparkle too!"
"Sparkle needs to stay in his bowl," Stella corrects gently. "But we can build the fort nearby so he can see it."
The morning passes in domestic contentment, the three of us constructing an elaborate fort using every spare blanket and chair in the cabin. Chellie directs the operation with surprising authority, demanding specific architectural features that have Stella and me exchanging amused glances over her head.
Throughout it all, I remain acutely aware of Stella. The curve of her neck as she bends to adjust a blanket. The flash of skin when her sweater rides up. The way she catches me looking and doesn't look away.
The kiss lingers between us, unfinished business we both know will be addressed the moment we're alone again.
When Chellie finally settles for her afternoon nap, exhausted from fort construction and the excitement of the storm, Stella and I find ourselves alone in the kitchen. I'm washing the lunch dishes in water heated on the camping stove when I feel her presence behind me.
"Need help?" she asks, voice closer than I expected.
I turn to find her inches away, eyes dark with intent. "Stella."
"You keep saying my name like that." Her hand rises to my chest again. "Like a warning."
"Maybe it is." I set down the dish towel, needing her to understand. "I want you. More than I've ever wanted anyone. But I need to know this isn't just gratitude or convenience or cabin fever."
"Is that what you think?" She steps closer, eliminating the space between us. "That I'm throwing myself at you because you gave me shelter?"
"I think you've been through hell." My hands find her waist despite my best intentions. "I think you're vulnerable. And I'm terrified of taking advantage of that."
Her expression softens. "Always so honorable." Her fingers trace my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "That's why I trust you. Why I know this isn't a mistake."
"And what is this, exactly?" I need clarity. Need to hear her say it.
"This is eight years of wondering what might have been." She rises on her toes, bringing her lips a breath from mine. "This is me choosing you. Not out of gratitude or desperation. But because there's never been anyone else who measures up to you, Ridge Reeves."
The last of my resistance crumbles. I crush her to me, mouth claiming hers with a hunger I've kept leashed for too long. She responds immediately, melting against me, arms winding around my neck as her body arches into mine.
This kiss is different from the one this morning. Less frantic, more thorough. I explore her mouth with deliberate intensity, committing every taste and texture to memory. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging slightly in a way that makes me groan against her lips.
"I've dreamed about this," she whispers when we break for breath. "About you. For years."
"Tell me," I urge, trailing kisses down her neck. "Tell me what you dreamed."
"Your hands on me." She guides one of my hands beneath her sweater, up to cup her breast. "Your mouth. Everywhere." She arches as my thumb circles her nipple through the thin fabric of her bra. "You inside me."
The words send fire racing through my veins. I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her toward my bedroom. I hesitate at the doorway, giving her one last chance to change her mind.
