Chapter Twenty-Four
Carson
By the time we crawled into the tent that night, I’d convinced myself foolishly that it would be fine.
Manageable. That the rules we’d laid out with such strained, nervous formality would hold up under wilderness conditions.
Separate sleeping bags.
No touching.
Professional distance.
Mature restraint.
All very reasonable in theory.
In practice?
The tent was too small.
Her sleeping bag was too close.
Her presence was everywhere.
Sienna lay on her back, staring upward, hair fanned over her pillow, her breath visible in faint puffs where the cold crept in.
I lay stiff as a board on my side, my back toward her, because if I turned around and saw her face, soft, flushed from the chilly air, lips parted slightly in sleep, I wasn’t sure I trusted myself not to ruin every boundary we’d ever drawn.
“Night,” she mumbled, trying for casual.
“Night,” I replied, trying for something similar.
Except the word came out lower, rougher, betraying far too much.
We fell into a tentative silence, broken only by the muted rustle of nylon and the light wind against the fly outside.
I focused on my breathing…slow, even, disciplined.
I listened to the rhythm of the trees swaying outside.
I thought about everything and anything except the memory of her lips earlier today or the way her body had felt when she brushed against me in the tent.
This was fine.
I was fine.
Totally capable of being a professional adult guide in a shared tent.
Until ten minutes later, when she rolled over in her bag and whispered, “Why is this sleeping bag colder than the ice age?”
I exhaled a laugh before I could stop it. “Probably because you’re refusing to use the one that is rated for colder weather.”
She groaned. “It makes that crunchy sound. I hate crunchy sounds.”
“It keeps you warm.”
“I prefer silence.”
“And hypothermia?”
“Maybe.”
I shook my head. “Go to sleep, Sienna.”
“Oh, wow,” she whispered. “Guides’ orders. Very authoritative. I feel so safe.”
I let out a breath and smiled. “Please sleep.”
“Fine.”
She flopped dramatically onto her other side, and the tent swayed. For a few minutes, she went still, and I let myself drift. I wasn’t fully asleep, just that light doze guides develop from years of sleeping in unpredictable places.
But sometime after midnight, something tugged me fully awake.
A faint rustle.
A shiver.
A sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a small gasp.
I blinked my eyes open and turned my head.
Sienna was curled on her side, bundled tight in her bag, shoulders hunched, breath shaky. Her teeth weren’t fully chattering yet, but they were close.
“Sienna,” I whispered.
No response.
I pushed up onto an elbow. “Hey. Are you cold?”
Her eyelids fluttered. She gave a tiny, miserable nod. “My bag is failing me.”
“Because you brought a silent one instead of an insulated one.”
“Don’t sass me,” she whispered, but her voice trembled.
In the dim light from a lantern that was nearly dead but still flickering, I could see goosebumps rising over every inch of exposed skin. The temperature had dropped more than forecasted. Thirty-five degrees wasn’t dangerous with good gear, but with bad insulation?
She’d freeze.
“You should have said something earlier,” I said softly.
“I didn’t want to…” She winced as another shiver rippled through her. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle a little cold.”
“Sienna,” I murmured, “you went to Denali last year. Nobody doubts your toughness.”
She cracked a tiny smile, but it slipped away as her body trembled.
“Okay,” I said, decision made before logic could protest. “We’re breaking rule number one.”
Her eyes opened fully. “Separate sleeping bags?”
“Yeah.”
I hesitated.
She stared at me for a long second. “Carson, we really shouldn’t.”
“I know. But shivering through the night isn’t an option.”
She swallowed. “So what do you suggest?”
I inhaled, steadying the stupid, reckless pounding of my heart. “We combine the bags.”
Her breath hitched. “Like… zip them together?”
“Exactly.”
She blinked. “Is that allowed for married couple guides?”
I almost choked. “We’re not—”
She raised an eyebrow weakly. “You know what I mean.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “This is purely for warmth.”
Her gaze flicked toward my chest, then down to her own layered torso. “Well, I’m in fleece and wool and thermal leggings and two pairs of socks, so nothing… weird should happen.”
“Right,” I said, even though a hot, traitorous part of me whispered otherwise. “Nothing weird.”
We maneuvered the bags together with clumsy midnight coordination, zipping the sides until they formed one long cocoon with just enough space for two people. Barely.
“Scoot,” I murmured.
“No, you scoot.”
“I’m bigger.”
“Exactly.”
I gave her a flat look. “Sienna.”
She rolled her eyes, but she shifted closer, crawling inside the merged bag until she settled at one end. I slid in beside her, careful, precise, every muscle tensed like a spring.
The heat hit me instantly. Her warmth. Her scent. The faint brush of her hip against mine.
Too close.
Far too close.
She burrowed down into the lining and sighed in relief. “Okay. This was a good idea.”
“Yep.”
“And strictly for survival reasons.”
“Strictly.”
“And because you care about my safety.”
“That’s the only reason,” I said quickly.
Her fingers accidentally brushed my forearm.
We both froze.
Then she whispered, “Oh. You’re warm.”
Too warm.
Dangerously warm.
I cleared my throat. “Heat retention. It’s just physics.”
“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, eyes half-shut. “You’re like a big human heater.”
My entire nervous system short-circuited.
“Stop talking,” I whispered.
“Why?” Her voice was sleepy, innocent.
Because I’m going to forget every boundary we made.
Because I want to pull you closer.
Because this feels like the most dangerous thing I’ve done in years.
But I didn’t say any of that.
I said, “Just… rest.”
“I’m trying.”
She nestled deeper into the shared bag.
Then her hips shifted, innocently, trying to find warmth.
Except innocence had nothing to do with the way that movement sent a bolt of heat straight through me.
She wiggled again. “Ugh. Sorry. Trying to get comfortable.”
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not too crowded?”
“It’s… manageable.”
Another soft shimmy of her hips, and I knew she was truly unaware of the effect.
“You good?” she asked sleepily.
No.
Not remotely.
But I forced out, “Yeah.”
She exhaled a breath that ghosted warm across my throat. “Thanks for this, Carson. Really.”
“Of course.”
Silence settled around us, thick but not uncomfortable, filled with the muted hum of the forest. Her breathing slowed. She grew heavier against the curve of my body.
But just as I began to think she’d fallen asleep, she murmured, “Hey, Carson?”
“Yeah?”
“This doesn’t break rule number two, right?”
“No touching?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I swallowed hard. “We’re just sharing warmth.”
“Right.” A pause. “Sure.”
But then her body softened, relaxed completely, unconsciously molding toward the heat, toward me. Her hips pressed gently into mine again, her back aligning with my chest. Her hair brushed my jaw.
My breath stilled.
My restraint strained at the seams.
And then quietly, like a confession falling out of sleep, she whispered, “You smell good.”
I shut my eyes.
Hard.
This was torture.
Sweet, impossible torture.
“Sienna,” I whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m trying very, very hard not to break any rules.”
Her lips curved against the sleeping bag fabric. “Me too.”
“You’re not making it easy.”
“I know,” she breathed, barely conscious. “Neither are you.”
Her hips shifted again, accidentally grinding the faintest degree against me.
A low, involuntary sound escaped my throat, quiet, but not quiet enough.
Her breath caught.
Awareness flickered through her sleep-heavy voice.
“Carson…?”
I didn’t move.
I didn’t breathe.
The tent was suddenly hotter than any fire, but she didn’t pull away.
Instead, in a whisper that nearly undid me, she murmured, “Just… stay close, okay?”
I exhaled shakily.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing evened out, slow and warm, her body melting against mine as if her sleep trusted me more than her waking mind did.
And lying there, breaking every rule we’d ever set, I realized something terrifyingly simple:
I didn’t want distance.
I didn’t want boundaries.
I didn’t want rules.
I wanted her.
And that was a problem I no longer had the strength to ignore.
For several long minutes, I convinced myself she was just shifting in her sleep. That the little wiggles of her hips were innocent. That the small, dragging movement of her hand across my thigh was a coincidence. A twitch. A dream reaction. Something harmless.
But the next time she moved, it was slower and more deliberate.
A timed slide of her palm across the outer seam of my pants before curling back toward her chest, as if she realized she’d done it and tried to pretend she hadn’t.
My breath caught.
She wasn’t asleep.
Not fully.
Maybe not at all.
“Sienna,” I whispered.
No answer.
Oh God.
She knew.
She definitely knew.
Every rule we’d set, every professional boundary we had sworn up and down to maintain, every warning I’d whispered to myself about lines we couldn’t cross, they all began to collapse like wet paper.
Her hips shifted again, this time brushing along my thigh with a slow, subtle grind that stole my breath. Heat coiled low in my stomach, sharp and immediate. My hand twitched at my side before I forced it into a fist.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” I whispered, barely able to get the words out.
A soft exhale.
Not denial.
Not innocence.
“Sienna,” I tried again, and it came out far too rough. “You’re freezing. You need to stop moving.”
“I’m trying,” she murmured, but the way she said it, low, warm, threaded with something undeniably intentional, made my pulse slam against my ribs.
She definitely wasn’t trying, and she definitely wasn’t cold anymore.
She curled deeper into the shared bag, her body fitting against mine with impossible precision. Her hair brushed the underside of my jaw. Her hand drifted, accidentally again, sure, back across my thigh.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
She heard it.
Of course she did.
I could sense that tiny half-smile appeared as she whispered, “Still just physics?”
I shut my eyes. “Sienna…”
“Yes?” she whispered sweetly.
“You’re killing me.”
“Really?” Her voice was hazy, flirtatious in a way that should never have been allowed in zipped-together sleeping bags. “Because you’re very warm. And very… steady.”
“Don’t,” I warned, because my control was hanging by a fraying thread. “Don’t start something you don’t want finished.”
Her hips moved again, slow and deliberate.
Right against me.
“Maybe I want to,” she breathed.
My heart nearly stopped.
This wasn’t accidental.
This wasn’t a half-asleep instinct.
This was her.
Teasing.
Testing.
Trying to see how close she could get before I broke.
“Rules,” I managed, though my voice was failing. “We made rules.”
She hummed softly. “We make a lot of rules.”
“And we’re bad at all of them.”
She shifted again, rolling her shoulders, arching slightly back into the curve of my body. The sleeping bag shifted with her, the fabric brushing heat across places I definitely didn’t need heat.
“You’re the one who said we were terrible at rules,” she whispered.
I exhaled shakily. “I didn’t mean this.”
“Liar.”
Her hand slid along my thigh again, not lingering, not grabbing, but enough to ignite every nerve I had. Enough to make my restraint wobble dangerously.
“We’re not really married,” I reminded her in a hoarse whisper. “We’re pretending.”
She let out a quiet laugh against my chest. “So? Pretending can be fun.”
“You’re playing with fire.”
She tilted her head slightly, her lips brushing the barest ghost of breath against my jaw. “Maybe I like fire.”
I swallowed hard. “Sienna…”
“Yes?” She whispered, light and teasing.
The sound of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
“If you don’t stop—”
“You’ll what?” she whispered, turning her head a fraction more so her cheek grazed my chin. “Lose all your self-control?”
My jaw clenched. “Sienna.”
Her voice dipped into something low and dangerously honest. “Carson… I can feel how hard you’re trying not to touch me.”
That hit like a punch to the chest because it was true.
Every part of my body was straining not to react to her.
Not to pull her closer. Not to kiss the hell out of her right here in this tent.
“We can’t,” I forced out. “Not on this trip. Not tonight. Not when they think we’re—”
“Married?” she teased.
“Exactly.”
She turned in the sleeping bag slowly and deliberately, rolling from her side to face me. The movement brought her nose to mine, her breath warm against my lips. Her legs tangled lightly with mine in the narrow space. Her hand found my chest, resting there, soft but undeniably bold.
And I was gone.
Every thought, every rule, every warning I’d been repeating all night dissolved beneath the look in her eyes—low-lidded, warm, impossibly inviting.
She whispered, “Carson…?”
I froze as my heart slammed.
She leaned in, just a fraction, just enough that her lips brushed mine without fully touching.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” she whispered.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t think.
Because I absolutely could not tell her that.
Not when she was inches away.
Not when I could taste the ghost of her breath on my mouth.
Not when every cell in my body was begging to close the distance.
“Sienna,” I whispered, voice shredded, “don’t do this unless you mean it.”
She smiled softly, the kind of smile that promised trouble, heat, and every rule breaking itself in a quiet explosion.
She tilted her head up…
Closer.
And her lips almost touched mine as the world narrowed to a single moment that was about to change.