Page 7
Tessa
The wind howls like something out of a nightmare. It rattles the windows and groans through the trees, making the cabin feel like a boat caught in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. The fire’s the only light now, crackling softly behind the grate while shadows dance along the wooden walls.
Then, just as I finish pouring water into the kettle—click. Everything goes dark. The lights blink out. The fridge hum dies. The soft buzz of Sawyer’s ancient overhead bulb vanishes.
I stand frozen in the silence, holding the kettle in both hands.
“Power’s out,” I say uselessly.
Sawyer is already up, flashlight in hand, checking the window like he expects to see something more than darkness and wind.
“It happens,” he mutters. “Lines are probably down up the ridge.”
I set the kettle aside. “What now?”
He shrugs. “Candlelight. Fire. Blanket fort.”
I raise a brow. “You build blanket forts?”
“No. But you look like the kind of woman who demands ambiance in a blackout.”
I laugh despite the nerves twitching in my belly. “You’re not wrong.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and a few minutes later returns with three thick candles and an old oil lantern that throws golden light across the room in soft, flickering waves.
We sit in the quiet, listening to the wind and the occasional creak of the old wood cabin adjusting to the weather. It should be cozy. It is cozy, but under that comfort is something sharp and coiled and too hot for this fire alone.
Thick and humming, building between us like a slow burn, is undeniable tension. I feel it every time he looks at me. Every time he shifts a little closer. Every time he speaks in that low, gravelly voice that drags across my skin like smoke.
I shouldn’t want this, but I do. God help me, I do.
I stand abruptly, needing movement, space, something. “This place is unreal,” I mutter, pacing toward the window. “Like a fairytale.”
“You mean nightmare,” Sawyer says behind me.
I spin on him. “No, I mean fairytale.”
He rises slowly from his chair, crossing his arms over that broad chest. “You think this is a fairytale?”
“You don’t?” I tease.
He steps closer. “We’ve got no power. No running water. A stalker with a camera in the trees.”
“Sounds like chapter five of a bestseller.”
His eyes flash. “You romanticize everything, don’t you?”
“It’s better than living like everything’s a punishment.”
He’s close now. Too close. His jaw is tight. His eyes are hard, but he doesn’t move away. “Why are you really here, Tessa?”
I stare up at him, breath catching. “I told you. The story—”
“No. Not the story. Not the magazine. You. Here. With me. Now.”
The words lodge in my throat. Why am I here? Not for the assignment, at least not anymore.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. That’s the truth of it. Raw and unfiltered.
Sawyer breathes out slowly, like the fight just drains from his chest.
“You drive me crazy,” he says.
“Right back at you.”
His hands are at my waist before I realize what’s happening, his head dipping low. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I don’t. Instead, I rise on my toes and kiss him. It starts soft, a brush, a breath. Then he groans low in his throat, and everything explodes.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot, urgent, starving. His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him. I gasp, and he swallows the sound, tongue sweeping into my mouth with devastating skill.
We stumble backward, knocking into the couch. He catches me, one arm around my waist, the other fisting in my hair.
I clutch at his shirt, yanking him closer, needing more. More of his mouth. More of his hands. More of this thing between us that’s been threatening to detonate since the moment I laid eyes on him.
He kisses like he’s angry at how much he wants me, and I match him, kiss for kiss, fire for fire.
My back hits the wall, and he presses into me, all hard muscle and heat. His thigh wedges between mine, forcing them apart just enough that I feel the thick, undeniable shape of him.
Sawyer pulls back, panting.
“Tessa…”
“Don’t stop.”
His eyes search mine, wild and dark. He lifts me. Just…lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his hips, and he carries me to the couch, laying me down carefully, reverently, before crawling over me.
Our clothes are a blur. My shirt goes first. Then his. His hands find the skin at my waist, sliding up to cup my breasts. He growls. Actually growls.
“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth moving down my neck, across my collarbone, between my breasts. I arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently.
“You’re shaking,” he says against my skin.
“I want this.”
“Say it again.”
“I want you.”
Something in him snaps. His hand slides into my pants, fingers tracing over the damp heat between my thighs. I gasp, bucking against him.
He kisses me again, slower this time, savoring every second. Then he stills and his forehead drops to mine.
“God,” he rasps. “I want you so bad it’s killing me.”
“Then take me.”
His eyes meet mine. “I’m not going to rush this,” he says. “Not when it matters.”
I blink. “Matters?”
He cups my cheek, thumb stroking gently. “You’re not just some distraction.”
My heart slams because I feel it, too. This isn’t casual. It never was. He kisses me again slow and deep and aching with everything we can’t say. And when he sinks into me, it’s not just about lust. It’s about need.
His body presses into mine, claiming every inch, every breath, and I cling to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders as he moves. Every thrust is deliberate. Measured.
He watches me like he’s memorizing every expression, every sound I make. His name spills from my lips again and again, and every time, it breaks him a little more. The world fades. There’s only this.
His body in mine. His mouth on my skin. His voice murmuring my name like a prayer. We come undone together, breathless, shaking. Lost and found in the same heartbeat.
Afterward, he gathers me close, his chest slick against mine, his breath slowing beside my ear. Neither of us speaks. There’s no need. Because whatever just happened between us—it’s not over. It’s only the beginning.