Page 52 of Snowbound
We crash into the tree. An ornament falls and rolls across the floor with a soft clink.
I laugh. Then he flips us, pinning me beneath him like he can’t take one more second of me in charge.
“My turn.”
His breath is hot against my cheek. Whispered sin.
This time, he takes his time… slow, deep strokes that punch the breath out of my lungs. That glass ornament chimes on the floor like a warning bell. He leans in and kisses me tenderly.
“You were always mine, Emma.”
I let the words settle over me, warming me through.
Afterward, we’re tangled in the quilt, my body still trembling. His fingers stroke through my hair while the movie plays, forgotten. That movie will never be sweet and innocent again.
He asks, “Still your favorite?”
“It’s chaos.” I exhale. “Feels like home.”
“I used to pretend I was him, you know? The boy left behind.” I liked the thought of being alone. Forgotten.
He laughs, rough and real. “You’d booby-trap the whole fucking house if I left you alone.” He smirks and kisses my temple. “I never stopped loving you, Emma.”
I don’t say it back. Not yet.
I won’t even let myself voice the doubts I have, that this is all a mirage, that I’m going back home to my divorce papers and empty apartment, my mother’s judgment and looming deadline.
But I don’t pull away either. Because this, right now?Isreal.
Then his palm smacks my ass, sharp and satisfied.
“Now, Em,” he growls. “Get those damn words in.”
I write like thewind.
Words flow from me like a woman possessed. They’re raw and real, and so cathartic, I become the woman I’m writing, the jilted lover in search of finding her true self.
And they say romance novels aren’trealistic.
“Fuck them,” I mutter.
“Fuck who?” Owen calls out from the other room, only a few feet away.
“The people who say romance novels are unrealistic! As if women don’t deserve undying love and affection.”
“Aye? And men aren’t hung like fucking broncos, amirite?”
I snort and slam the laptop shut. “Done. You, sir, have well and truly unblocked me.”
He peeks around the corner and smiles at me. My heart turns over in my chest. “Well done, lass. Well done. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I whisper the reply because I don’t trust my voice.
“Snow’s beginning to melt a little,” he says, turning from me, as he walks back toward the kitchen.
My heart sinks.
When the snow melts, we have no reason to be sequestered here together anymore. What happens then?
