Page 23 of Snowbound
"Maybe you need to remember what romance really is," he murmurs. "What it feels like to have a heart that someone doesn’t rip out and trample on."
"Maybe,” I whisper, “we shouldn't have let dumb rules and stupid fucking made-up laws keep us apart back then." I take a deep breath. "Because I wanted to. I want to now."
And I do. God, I do.
I try to remind myself that he’s still off limits. That there’s no future here. That this is reckless, stupid, doomed.
But I stop… I stop thinking.
Because this little cabin? It feels like an escape. A portal. Like we’ve stepped into a snow-globe world where everything else falls away.
I glance over my shoulder at the window. The snow’s rising—drifted up the door now. We're not going anywhere.
"Let me remind you," he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
"Of what?" I breathe, barely able to get it out.
"What it’s like to be wanted."
And I think: What it’s like to not feel alone. Rejected. Broken. What it’s like when the man who haunted your teenage dreams—and kept showing up in every fantasy since—finally says fuck it and comes for you.
"Do it," I dare him, my voice a whisper of need.
His eyes go storm-cloud dark, blazing.
And then his mouth crashes into mine.
There’s no hesitation, no soft build-up. Just heat. Teeth. Tongue. He kisses me like he’s been waiting for years for permission. His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I gasp.
I’m wet, instantly. My breasts are heavy and aching. This… this is so much better than my own hand, than my quiet, sad little fantasies.
And then his tongue slides in—possessive, hungry—the way he’s always looked at me, like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. My thighs tighten around him as he shifts, grinding up into me.
I feel him through his jeans—thick, hot, straining. And god, I want him.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I don’t care. It’s too late.
The snow keeps falling, soft and relentless, sealing us in like the universe itself is conspiring.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His gaze drags over my face like he’s memorizing me, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
And it makes me feel—fuck—it makes me feel good… wanted, sexy, precious.
"You have no idea," he murmurs, his voice wrecked and hoarse.
God, that voice. That accent. How many nights have I imagined this? Me—needy, straddling him, with nowhere to run.
My breath hitches. "Owen."
He slides a finger beneath my chin, tipping my face to his. His eyes are darker now. Hungry.
"Don’t speak until I give you permission."
Then his mouth finds mine again, slower this time. More deliberate, consuming. His hands are everywhere.
Back when I knew him, he was bossy. Dominant. And I hated it. I loved it. I craved it. And now—this is why.
