Page 7 of Snowbound
I settle into the armchair, coffee in hand, and tell myself my goals are simple: survive this storm, heal my wrecked soul, and maybe—maybe—finish the book that’s been dragging me through this nightmare.
Piece of cake.
But the memory of Owen kindles something in me.
The truth is, I want more.
I want to feel chosen. I want to feel loved. I want to feel safe.
Onmyterms.
And preferably without dying alone in a cabin where firewood magically stacks itself and the fridge mysteriously refills.
But I remember. I stare at the first, and I bring it all back, piece by piece.
Us, by the fire.
Build an inferno, really.Owen’s low, steady voice right at my ear. I can still feel the vibration of it through his chest when he stood close behind me, his hands bracketing mine on the kindling. He smelled like smoke and pine sap, and the warmth of him at my back made my fingers clumsy.
Back then, I didn’t understand why my pulse jumped when his knuckles brushed mine. Why I’d hold my breath so long my lungs ached, just to feel that moment stretch.
Now I do.
I stare as the fire catches, and my skin feels too tight. The heat inside me has nothing to do with the flames.
Well. I’m alone. And I know myself well.
I’m a romance writer, goddammit, and romance writers need inspiration.
Maybe if I get in themood,I can write again. Maybe I need to do what I do best—create a fictional scenario and let myself justgo.
Maybe I need to rely on the only fantasy that’s sustained me for five fucking years.
That handwritten note back in the fridge… why does it remind me of Owen?
I poke the fire, satisfied with its warmth, before I sink back into the armchair, slide the coffee onto a coaster, and stare at the fire like it might swallow me whole.
But every crackle is him. Every shift of the wood is the ghost of his voice in my ear. My blood pulses. Whynotgive in to the fantasy one more time?
My thighs press together without thinking, seeking friction.
Maybe if I just… take the edge off, I can write. Clear my head. That’s all.
I tug the blanket over me, sliding lower in the chair. My hand drifts under my sweater, over the waistband of my baggy sweats, pausing when I realize my breathing’s already gone shallow. The storm howls outside, a low, hungry sound. I close my eyes.
It’s Owen’s hands in the memory now, not mine. His heat at my back, his voice a quiet command—slow, Emma. That’s a girl.His palm covers mine, guiding me lower, pressing until I gasp.
I bite my lip and let myself follow that imagined pressure. The tension uncoils, sharp and sweet, until I’m shivering—not from cold, but from the kind of warmth that sinks deep into your bones. I stroke myself, growing wetter and needier by the minute, my breath coming faster. And the closer I get to orgasm, the memories come faster and harder. Owen, hugging me. The almost kiss that never was. The longing in his eyes he tried to mask but couldn’t. Him, pinning me down after chasing me in a snowstorm, holding me down. His rough voice, reminding me to behave—the first man who ever showed me the appeal of strong, dominantalpha.
I imaginehimtouching me in a way that I knew even then would never be anything like other men. Owen wasn’t gentle. He’d pin me down andtake.
His imaginary growl still in my ear, I send myself over the edge, my hips rising, my breath filling the cabin.
When I open my eyes, the fire’s still burning, steady and alive. My body feels loose, languid. But my mind? My mind’s a mess because the only thing I want now… is the real thing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Owen
