Chapter 4 Oliver
OLIVER
The fire in the woodstove has burned down to embers, but the heat in my veins hasn’t dropped a single degree.
I stare at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling, my body stiff on the too-short couch.
Outside, the wind howls, battering the logs of the cabin.
Inside, the silence is heavy. It’s weighted with the scent of her—vanilla, rain, and the dark, sweet musk that belongs only to Avery.
She’s in my bed.
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. Avery Nolan. The woman who tried to fix a rotting porch with a prayer is currently wrapped in my sheets, her soft curves pressing into the mattress where my body should be.
I sit up, the old springs of the couch groaning. My neck cracks as I roll it. I didn’t sleep. I spent six hours listening to her breathing, counting the seconds between inhales, tracking the rhythm like a target. It’s pathetic. I’m the Vanguard. I have discipline. I have control.
Or I did, until yesterday.
I stand and move to the woodstove, the floorboards silent under my bare feet.
I toss a few logs onto the coals and watch the flames lick up the dry bark.
The room brightens, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.
The storm has buried us. I checked the perimeter through the window an hour ago—snow is drifted four feet high against the door. We aren’t going anywhere.
A soft thud from the bedroom freezes me.
The door creaks open. Avery stands there, blinking against the sudden light. She’s wearing my flannel shirt. It hangs off her shoulders, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare. Her hair is a mess of dark waves, tangled from sleep. She looks soft. Vulnerable.
And completely off-limits.
"Morning," she whispers, her voice raspy. She hugs her arms around herself, trembling slightly, though the room is warm.
"Coffee's on the stove," I grunt, turning my back to her. I can't look at her legs. I can't look at the way the top button of the flannel is undone, hinting at the pale skin of her throat. "Get dressed. Real clothes. It's cold."
"I don't have real clothes, remember? They’re still damp," she says. "The fire isn't exactly a high-speed dryer for heavy denim."
"Wear the sweatpants I gave you."
"They fall down every time I take a step, Oliver. I had to roll the waistband four times."
I grab a mug from the hook, pouring the black sludge I call coffee. "Then hold them up."
She huffs, walking into the kitchen area—my space—and hopping up onto the counter. Her bare feet swing, heels thumping rhythmically against the cabinet doors.
"Stop that," I snap.
"Stop what?"
"The kicking. It’s annoying."
She stops, gripping the edge of the counter. Her blue eyes track me as I hand her the mug. "You're grumpy. Even worse than usual."
"I didn't sleep."
"Why not?"
Because I was thinking about burying my face between your thighs.
"Storm kept me up," I lie. I take a sip of my own coffee, the bitter heat grounding me. "Power's still out. Probably will be for days."
Avery looks toward the window, where the whiteout presses against the glass. "So we're trapped."
"We're secure," I correct her. "There's a difference."
She sets the mug down and hops off the counter. She moves to her bag and starts rummaging through it. I watch her, my eyes narrowing.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm restless," she says, pulling out a small, canvas roll. "And I feel useless. I can't fix the power, I can't shovel the snow because I have no boots, and you won't let me cook because you think I'll burn the cabin down."
"I know you will."
She ignores me and unrolls the canvas on the sturdy oak dining table.
"What," I say, my voice flat, "is that?"
She lifts her chin. "My tools. I inherited the cabin, remember? I came prepared."
I walk over, towering over her. The head had snapped off yesterday, and she’d clearly tried to wedge it back on.
"This isn't preparation, Avery. This is a hazard. You hit a nail with this, the head flies off and takes out your eye."
"It works fine," she insists, snatching it back. "I was going to use the screwdriver for the pantry door hinge," she corrects, picking up the one with the yellow plastic handle. She marches over to the pantry door.
I cross my arms and lean against the table. The predator in me enjoys this too much. Watching her struggle. Watching her determination.
She fits the screwdriver into the screw head. It slips immediately. She curses under her breath—a soft, creative string of words. She tries again. She doesn't have the leverage. She’s standing on her tiptoes, her arm extended, the flannel riding up just enough to show the curve of her hip.
My mouth goes dry.
"You're stripping the screw," I say.
"I am not."
"You are. You're not pushing hard enough."
"I'm pushing as hard as I can!" She grunts, twisting. The tool slips again, skittering across the wood. She drops her hand. "Damn it."
I push off the table. I move toward her, my strides eating up the space. "Move."
"No. I want to do it."
"You can't do it."
"Show me, then," she challenges, spinning to face me. Her eyes are blazing. "Don't just tell me I'm useless. Show me how to do it."
The air in the room thickens, charged with static. She’s standing her ground, looking up at me like she’s not afraid of the monster in her kitchen.
"You want a lesson?" My voice drops an octave, rumbling in my chest.
"Yes."
I step closer. She doesn't back down, though her breath hitches. I’m close enough to smell her sleep-warm skin. I reach past her, grabbing the screwdriver from her hand. Our fingers brush. A spark snaps between us, hot and sharp.
"Turn around," I order.
She hesitates, then turns back to the door.
I move in behind her. I don't touch her, not yet. I hover, my chest inches from her back, caging her between my body and the wood. I encompass her. She’s so small. I could crush her, but all I want to do is cover her.
"The problem," I murmur, bringing my hand up over her shoulder to place the tip of the screwdriver into the slot, "is your angle. You have no torque."
She trembles. I see the goosebumps rise on her neck. "Okay."
"Put your hand on the handle."
She reaches up. Her hand is dainty.
"Now grip it."
I cover her hand with mine. The size difference is obscene. My hand swallows hers, my rough, calloused palm rasping against her soft skin. I can feel the delicate bones of her fingers beneath mine. My other hand comes to rest on the door frame, right next to her head, boxing her in.
"Lean into it," I instruct. My lips are right at her ear. I can feel the heat radiating off her. "Use your weight, Avery. Not just your wrist."
She leans forward, pressing into the tool. Her ass bumps back against my thighs.
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body locks up. The contact is electric. Through the thin flannel of my shirt and the cotton of her panties, I feel the soft give of her glutes against my quads. My cock responds instantly, violently, surging hard against the denim of my jeans.
"Like... like this?" she whispers. Her voice is shaky.
"Yeah," I choke out. "Turn it."
She turns. With my hand guiding hers, the screw bites into the wood and tightens effortlessly.
"There," she breathes.
She doesn't move away. Neither do I.
The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. The fire crackles in the other room, but the only sound in the kitchen is the ragged rhythm of our breathing. I should step back. I should walk away, go chop wood, go sit in the snow until my blood freezes.
But I can't.
I slide my hand from hers, but I don't retreat. My hand drifts down her arm, tracing the line of the flannel sleeve. I feel her vibrate.
"You did it," I say low.
"Oliver..."
She turns in the circle of my arms. Her back is against the pantry door now. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, pupils blown so black the blue is just a thin ring. Her lips are parted, wet.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispers.
"Nothing you don't want," I growl.
The restraint snaps.
I crash my mouth down on hers.
I don't know how to be gentle. I devour her like I’ve been starving for a decade and she’s the first meal I’ve seen. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the coffee, tasting her sweetness, claiming the space as mine.
She makes a noise—a whimpering moan that vibrates against my lips—and her hands fly up to tangle in my beard. She pulls me closer, her body arching into mine.
I grind my hips forward, my thick, engorged cock a steel bar crushing against her soaking pussy.
Even through the layers of denim and flannel, the friction is a violent promise of what’s coming; I need to be inside her.
My hands slide down, my large fingers digging into her ass, kneading her like I’m already trying to leave my permanent prints in her skin.
I lift her higher, hauling her up until her dripping pussy is slammed directly against the bulge of my cock straining against my jeans.
I can smell the raw, heavy musk of her arousal now, thick and unmistakable, overriding the scent of vanilla until my head spins.
"You're so small," I growl against her mouth, nipping at her bottom lip until she gasps. "So fucking soft."
"You're... huge," she manages, her voice breaking.
"Does it scare you?"
"Yes." She kisses me back, hard and desperate, her tongue tangling with mine. "But don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
I growl and thrust my hips, a brutal, rolling grind that mashes my heavy balls against her thighs and my rock-hard cock directly against her swollen clit. She cries out, her head slamming back against the wood, exposing the long, pale line of her throat.
"Please," she whimpers.
I don't give a damn what she's pleading for—I'm going to take it all.
I want to rip the flannel off her back, tear her panties to shreds, and bury my cock so deep in her she forgets her own name.
My hand moves between us, finding the drenched seam of her panties.
I press the heel of my hand against her clit and rub with enough pressure to make her see stars.
Her hips snap forward, chasing the friction.
"That's it," I praise, my voice a rough, predatory rumble. "Ride my hand, Little Bird. Show me how much of me you can take."
She’s panting, jagged breaths tearing out of her chest as she grinds herself against my palm and the unyielding wall of my body.
I keep the rhythm steady, punishing circular motions that have her unraveling in my arms. I can feel the hot juices soaking through her fabric, the material so saturated it clings to my skin.
"Oliver, I feel... I feel tight. I need..."
"I know." I kiss her again, deep and possessive, swallowing the high-pitched cries of her release.
I move my hand away and replace it with my heavy hips.
I grab her thighs, pinning them around my waist, and I start to fuck her against the door.
The wood groans with every impact. Just friction.
Just pressure. But the drag of the rough denim against the swollen, weeping lips of her pussy is a beautiful torture.
For both of us.
Every thrust sends a bolt of lightning straight to my core. I’m sweating, my muscles trembling with the effort to hold back. I want to be inside her so badly my vision is blurring. I want to claim her. I want to make sure no other man ever looks at her again without seeing my mark.
She’s close. I can feel the tension winding up in her body. Her nails dig into my shoulders, sharp and desperate.
"Oliver!" She gasps my name like a prayer.
I thrust harder, faster, losing myself in the rhythm. "Come for me, Avery. Let go."
She stiffens, a high, keen sound escaping her throat, and then she shudders in my arms. Her internal pussy muscles clench, and I feel her gripping my cock even though we’re fully clothed.
I hold her through it, pressing her tight against the door until the tremors fade. My own seed is clawing at the gate, begging to be let out, but I lock it down. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
I can't. Not like this. Not when she’s vulnerable and stranded and trusting me to keep her safe. If I take her now, I won't stop. I’ll ruin her.
Slowly, agonizingly, I stop moving.
The silence rushes back into the room, louder than before. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire. I rest my forehead against hers, my eyes closed. My pulse hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Oliver?" she whispers. She sounds wrecked.
I lower her slowly until her feet touch the floor, but I keep my hands on her waist to steady her. Her legs are shaking. I pull back, looking down at her. Her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed with lust, her skin flushed pink. She looks thoroughly, beautifully ravaged.
And I haven't even touched her skin.
I step back, putting a foot of distance between us. It feels like tearing off a limb.
"Fix your shirt," I say, my voice raw gravel.
She looks down, realizing the flannel has gaped open. She clutches it together, her cheeks flushing darker.
"Did I... did I do something wrong?"
"No." I run a hand over my face, trying to wipe away the hunger. "You did everything right. That's the problem."
I turn away, walking to the window. I grip the sill until the tension in my arms makes them shake, staring out at the blinding white snow. The cold radiating off the glass helps, but only a little.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me, Avery," I mutter, half to myself. "But if I don't stop now, I'm going to take you right here on the kitchen floor. And when I take you, Avery, it won't be because we’re bored or because the storm locked us in."
I look back at her over my shoulder. She’s watching me with a mix of fear and fascination.
"It’ll be because you belong to me."
Her breath hitches.
"Go wash up," I order, turning back to the snow. "Before I change my mind."
I hear her hesitate, then the soft padding of her feet as she retreats. The door clicks shut. I let out a long, shuddering breath and rest my forehead against the freezing glass. I’m in hell. The sweetest, most dangerous hell imaginable.
And for reasons I can’t explain, I never want to leave.