Page 24 of Snowbound

Because I knew—knew—he was someone who would take, not ask. And I wanted that.

I wanted to let go. To stop thinking. To stop controlling every goddamn thing and just be. To let my mind go blank under his hands.

Those hands skim down my back, fisting the hem of my ratty old sweater, tugging it up inch by inch. I lift my arms, surrendering. He drags it over my head and tosses it aside, baring me to the firelight.

Just a soft lace bra now. My cheeks flame. I feel so… exposed, not just my skin—but all the aching, ugly places inside me.

I start to speak… to say something stupid.

He growls. "No. What did I tell you?"

His hands clamp down on my hips, dragging me harder against him. And I stop thinking altogether.

“Youfeel. You let go. No more thinking tonight. You gave me a job—so let me fucking do it.”

And I did, didn’t I?

I gave him a job—unblock me. Lovely.

No need to dig through the past. We’re right here—like we never left, like nothing and no one ever kept us apart. And I feel it again, that sharp, electric thrill I haven't felt since I was a horny teenager.

The rush of being wanted… of wanting him.

I shudder, helpless, as he leans in, pressing a kiss to my throat. Then lower to my collarbone, then the tops of my breasts.

His stubble scrapes the sensitive skin, and my nipples harden instantly.

“You’re going to come for me, Emma,” he says, his voice thick with heat. “And you're going to do it before I even fuck you.”

Oh fuck. Oh Jesus. Oh fucking hell.

My body tightens at the promise. He shifts and lays me back on the couch without breaking eye contact. His hands slide under the waistband of my sweats, teasing.

I grab his wrist without thinking. “Wait?—”

His brow lowers, then touches mine, soothing.

“Emma,” he whispers. “Do I need to punish you for talking when I asked you not to?”

I shake my head, biting my lip.

“Let me in,” he whispers, and I do.

I let him.

His fingers slip inside first—hot and slick—and a low groan breaks from his chest. “Jesus. Fucking hell. You’re soaked already.”

I cry out, my hips jerking when his thumb circles my clit with slow, devastating pressure. He doesn't give me what I think I want. He gives me what I need.

He works me with precision—every twitch, every gasp. His eyes never leave my face.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

I do.

His thumb presses harder. My mouth opens in a half sob.

“I’m going to come—Owen… I can’t?—”