Page 18 of Sugar & Snowflakes
“I’m not.” I twist the corkscrew in carefully.
Her smile softens as she watches me pour. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” I say, filling the mug and handing it to her.
She cradles it in both hands, gaze dropping to the swirl of dark red inside. “I mean it, West. You’re making me dinner, you found wine, given me multiple orgasms… You’ve done all this, and I haven’t lifted a finger. It’s…nice. I guess I’m not used to nice.”
I walk the short distance back to the kitchen, set the wine bottle down, and lean one hip against the counter. “I’m doing these things because I want to.” I pause, catch her gaze, make sure she hears this next part. “You deserve it, Emme. All of it. Hell, you deserve more than dinner and a dusty bottle of wine.”
She tilts her head, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight. “More orgasms?”
Yes. Now!
I can’t help the surge of heat that races down my spine. “Most definitely.”
She takes a sip and wiggles deeper into the blanket. “I should probably find something to wear.” She taps her chin and narrows her eyes at me playfully. “Unfortunately,somebodycompletely shredded my bra and panties.”
My cock twitches with the memory of her perky tits bouncing as I fucked her on this very countertop.
“I’ve got something,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel and crossing the room to the dresser I built myself. I pull out an old T-shirt and a pair of soft drawstring shorts. “These should be more comfortable,” I tell her, setting the bundle on the arm of the couch. “They’ll drown you, but they’re clean.”
Her smile is bright, teasing. “You just want me in your clothes.”
The thought sends a low hum through my chest that I pretend is just a laugh. The wolf in me stirs anyway, a quiet growl of approval in the back of my mind.
She lifts the shirt first presses the fabric to her nose. The move is more instinct than anything, but when she breathes in, her shoulders soften, and a quiet sound slips from her throat.
My pulse kicks. The wolf reacts, but I shove it down and head back into the kitchen to focus on the pan still cooling on the stove. If I stay here, if I watch her revel in my scent, see more of her smooth skin when the blanket slips away, I’ll starve to death just to be inside her again.
A few minutes later she pads into the kitchen on fuzzy pink socks, the hem of the shirt brushing her thighs, the shorts hanging down past her knees.
“Looks good.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. The sight of her in my space, swallowed up in my clothes, feels dangerous in all the quiet ways—like she already belongs here, like fate has decided she does too.
She laughs, tugging at the hem. “Not so sure about that.”
I turn back to the oven before she can see what she’s doing to me. Heat rushes out as I pull the tray free, roasted broccoli and potatoes hissing in the oil. I plate the vegetables beside the steaks, one for her, one for me, and carry them to the counter.
I strike a match and light a stub of a candle I find on the shelf and set it between our plates. I tell myself it’s just for the atmosphere, but the truth is deeper. I want her to think this cabin, this dinner, thatImight be worth keeping.
She climbs onto the barstool and picks up her fork and knife. When she cuts into the steak, I hold my breath, suddenly terrified that I’ve forgotten how to cook the one thing I’m good at preparing.
She chews and lets out a quiet hum. “Delicious.”
Relief escapes in a rough exhale as I pick up my own fork. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am,” she admits, grinning around another bite. “You’re not a wine guy, and you definitely don’t strike me as someone who does candlelight dinners.”
“It’s usually just me. And I don’t bother lighting candles for myself.”
She studies me, fork suspended halfway to her mouth. The playfulness drains out of her expression, replaced by something softer. “Well, then I’m glad I’m with you.”
I swallow, glance down at the counter, then back at her. “You don’t know—” I start, then have to clear my throat. “You don’t know how good it feels to have you here.”
“You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
“Good ones, I hope.”
“The best.” She takes a sip of wine, her smile crooked and unguarded. “You cook. You chop firewood. You know how to do all sorts of things with your hands. And you—” She stops herself, swallows a bite, and takes another drink.
