Page 22 of Snowbound
The cabin feels too small.Too warm. Like the air itself is pressing in on me.
And it’shim.
Owen, right in front of me—every bit as handsome as I remember. No. No,morethan that.
I stifle a groan. He's changed—broader, solid, more masculine. A man now.
And I want him.God, I want him. This wasn’t some passing high school crush. I’ve fantasized about him over and over again—vivid, aching dreams that no one else, not even the man I married, could ever touch. Because no one ever made me feel like this.
And now? His hands are on me—one low on the back of my head, the other curling behind my neck like he owns it. Like he owns me. And maybe… maybe he does.
Maybe I never stopped being his to claim.
"Tell me in great detail," he whispers, his voice thick with that Irish brogue that slides over my skin, rich in familiarity.
God. Thatvoice. That deep, rough timbre of his tone—it’s lower now, weathered with age, but better. More dangerous. It wrecks me.
"You write romance books. What makes the romance come easily, Emma?" he murmurs, his hot breath brushing against my ear.
"Fantasy," I whisper back, my throat tight as I swallow hard. My lips part instinctively. "When I let myself really… you know. Go."
“So porn?” he asks, his lips twitching.
“Uh…”
When I don’t correct him, his chuckle is deep and dark.
"Do you touch yourself, Em?" His voice dips lower, darker.
I nod, barely. "Sometimes."
"And what do you think about when you do?" His breath ghosts across my cheek, burning, pulling me under.
I close my eyes and turn away. I can't. I just can’t.
"Emma," he says again, but this time, his hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are molten. "What do you think about?"
My voice is shaky, cracking under the weight of it. "Sometimes I…" I swallow again. "Sometimes I think of you."
No, not sometimes.
Fuck.
I should end this. I should. But I don’t move.
"Tell me to stop," Owen says, his voice a vibrating growl against my ear.
But I can’t. And god help me—I don’t want to.
My fingers twist into his shirt, bunching the fabric and dragging him closer. His laugh, low and primal, slides down my spine, and I feel the solid, slow throb of his cock pressing against me, thick and hard beneath his jeans. A promise. A threat.
"So you said you’ll help… fix my writer’s block," I whisper, trying to play it off like a joke, but it comes out broken, raw. "I need to write this fucking book."
"Maybe," he breathes out, his eyes locked on mine, burning. "You can’t write because no one’s touched you like they meant it. Not in years."
Maybe. God, maybe. The words hit like a punch to the chest, and a tear slips down my cheek—hot, heavy—and I whimper. Actually whimper.
It’s pathetic. Desperate. But he seems to need it, like it breaks something in him, too, because his grip on me tightens.
