Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Darhg
The couch was too fucking short and the floor next to the fireplace was too fucking hot.
But it’s not the reason I barely slept a wink. No, the reason I haven’t slept a wink is tucked up in the one bedroom just down the hall, warm and safe under the duvet cover.
All night, every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Rona's wicked smile when she asked if I was planning to share a bed with her.
The way her pale-blue eyes lit up with mischief when she mentioned being good at cuddling.
I couldn't stop imagining what she looks like with her strawberry-blond hair spread across my pillow.
Every creak of the old cabin settling, every whisper of wind through the pines, every sound that might be her moving around had me instantly alert. I tried to tell myself that I was just doing my job, protecting her.
It's a lie, and I know it.
All I could think about was her vulnerable little human body, surrounded by my scent. In my bed. Inside my lair.
This is fucking dangerous and I love it way too much.
I gave up on sleep at around five thirty a.m. I slipped into my boots and jacket as quietly as possible and headed out to buy food, hoping to beat the morning crowd at the general store. I don’t want to feed her with the canned goods and emergency rations that are always filling my pantry.
Now that I’ve lined up provisions on the kitchen table and I’m cooking breakfast for her, I try not to think of how it makes me feel. I’m well aware of the satisfaction it gives me to gather food for her. To cook for her. To feed her. To keep her warm and safe.
None of this should feel the way it feels.
I'm above such primitive notions. I'm a modern ogre, not some feral brute. It’s not like I kidnapped her in the dead of winter to court her in my lair until she gives in to my advances.
There will be no courting and certainly no advances. I grunt with frustration at myself as that wicked smile flashes through my mind, and I concentrate on my growing stack of pancakes.
The bedroom door is still closed, no sound from within. Good. She needs sleep after yesterday's trauma.
I set coffee brewing and check on my work. I’ve cooked an acceptable feast for her. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, hash browns, fresh bread for toast. Pancakes from scratch using my grandmother's recipe. Yes, that will do.
The smell of bacon fills the cabin, mixing with the woodsmoke and coffee to create something that feels dangerously domestic. I flip another pancake and then add it to the growing stack on the warmed plate. The familiar motions settle something restless in my chest.
I'm just flipping the last pancake when I hear the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway behind me. I pick up her scent before she even enters the room, that sweet feminine fragrance now mixed with my own musk—my scent covering her.
The territorial satisfaction that hits me is so fierce it nearly buckles my knees.
Shit. I’m losing it. I have to be careful.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on the pancake stack. I'm in control here. I can handle this.
Then she appears in my peripheral vision, and I know I'm fucked.
She's wearing one of my old t-shirts, which she must have found in one of my drawers.
The soft worn white cotton hangs off one shoulder and falls to mid-thigh, revealing miles of shapely pale legs.
Her long hair is a riot of bed-messed waves tumbling over her shoulders, and her cheeks are still flushed with sleep. She looks good enough to eat.
She clocks the food and smiles like sunrise breaking over the mountains. My entire body preens with pride as she eyes the food with an approving, ravenous expression.
The food that is definitely not a courting offering.
"Wow, you cooked all this?" She slides onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "Did you wake up with the birds?"
Her voice is rich with humor, and it goes straight to my cock. I’m thankful for my apron, hiding the beginning of a bulge that will be impossible to hide if I don’t get myself under control.
"I went to town when the store opened," I manage, placing the plate with the pile of scrambled eggs in the middle of the table. "I don't keep food here in winter except for a few cans."
She tilts her head, and I feel that mischievous energy radiating from her just watching from the corner of my eye. Soon, all plates cram the small table, and I can no longer procrastinate.
I sit in front of her, feeling incongruously large in comparison.
"So you woke up at ridiculous o'clock and hunted breakfast for your grumpy houseguest?"
She gives me a smile so bright it hurts to look at it directly.
I don't deny it, because what's the point? She's not wrong. She doesn’t need to know that I was kept awake by thoughts about her.
"This is an insane amount of food," she observes, taking in the spread I've laid out. "Do you always eat like this?"
"Ogres eat a lot," I say simply.
Her gaze drops to my arms, fully displayed in the black t-shirt I threw on this morning, and her pupils dilate slightly.
"I can see why."
The way she says it, low and appreciative, makes my throat close up entirely. I swallow hard, ignoring the pain as saliva is forced down my gullet. My hands flex with the instinctive desire to reach for her, and I hide them on my lap.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. Being alone with her, watching her move through my space like she belongs here, her scent mixing with mine. Every primitive instinct I possess is screaming mine, claim, keep, and it's taking every ounce of self-control I have to maintain a neutral expression.
“Let’s eat.” I’m thankful my voice is even, although my heart pounds so hard it hurts.
She plates her food with unselfconscious pleasure, piling on eggs, bacon, hash browns, and two pieces of toast. When she takes her first bite of bacon, she actually moans in appreciation, and I have to stare at my coffee mug to prevent myself from watching her mouth.
I fail, and my cock stirs to life like the stubborn asshole it is.
"This is incredible," she says around a bite of eggs. "You're a really good cook."
"Just eat before it gets cold."
Turns out, Rona Quinn has the uncanny ability to speak like she doesn’t need to breathe. She starts with easy questions while she chews and looks up at me through her long, thick eyelashes. What's the best month to be up here? Does the bay ever freeze solid? Was the bedroom quilt handmade?
I answer in short, even responses, trying not to notice the way her legs swing under the table, her feet dangerously close to mine. Trying not to think about how those legs would feel wrapped around my waist. Wrapped around my shoulders, her thighs open for me.
Her gaze drifts to the mantel, cataloging the photos I'd forgotten were there.
"You were a soccer kid," she says aloud, pointing with her fork. "And I bet that was your mother and your grandmother. Is she the one who made that quilt? Why aren’t there any pictures of your dad?"
The casual way she reads my life, my history, sets my teeth on edge. I have nothing to hide from her. On the contrary, I want her to know everything. I want her to think of this as hers.
And this is the reddest of all red flags.
"You ask too many questions," I say, my tone sharper than I intended.
She immediately backs off, her expression shifting to something just a tad ashamed.
"Sorry. I'm just curious about this place. It's beautiful."
The silence stretches between us as we finish eating, and I hate that I snapped at her. She was just being friendly, showing interest in my home, and I responded like an ass because I can't handle having her here without wanting things I shouldn't want.
When we're done, I collect the plates and move toward the sink, grateful for the simple task. Anything that puts space between us and gives me something to focus on besides her.
"You cooked, I'll wash," she says, jumping up from her chair.
She tries to take the dishes from my hands, but I lift them out of her reach.
"No, you’re my guest. I’ll do the dishes."
It comes out rougher than I mean it to, and her eyebrows shoot up.
"Come on, it's only fair if I help."
I want to get out of her way, but she's already moving, slipping between me and the sink in the narrow kitchen space. Her body presses against mine, and her scent hits me like punch to the guts.
My body responds hard and fast, blood rushing south as every ogre instinct I possess flares to life. There’s no way she doesn’t feel how hard my cock is, how it pushes against the maddeningly soft flesh of her stomach. My vision darkens at the edges, and I’m barely holding on.
Maybe I’m not such a civilized ogre after all. I know I won’t be able to stop myself if she looks down at my bulge. Or if she wiggles even a little.
"I insist," she says lightly, tipping her chin up to meet my gaze.
The position puts her mouth inches from mine.
I didn’t even realize that I’m bending down, my large form hovering just above hers.
This close, I can see the pale freckles dusting her nose, and I can count the different shades of blue in her eyes.
I can feel the heat radiating from her skin where it touches mine.
Most of all, I can feel her breath on my face like the sweetest wind.
Her lips lift in that naughty, maddening grin, and she has the gall to push against my hips just a little. Just enough to be a challenge to my sanity.
The warning growls out of me, low and rough.
"You're a brat."
My voice comes out dark and rough. I don’t bother hiding the threat in it. We’re past that.
“What are you going to do about it?” she says, like I’m not big enough to swallow her whole. Isn’t she aware of how tiny she is? How big I am?
How hungry I am for her?
"Keep it up and I'll put you over my knee and spank that cute round ass of yours until it's bright red."
She gasps, and for a moment, I think I've shocked her into backing down. Then the most alluring, intoxicating smell rises between us in the small space. Shit. I know where this scent comes from. It comes from her. From that sweet, sweet pussy I know she’s hiding between her legs.
A wicked little smile blossoms across her lips, and her pupils dilate.
"Is that a promise?"
I break.
I put my hand on the back of her head, fingers tangling in all that soft hair as my mouth crashes down on hers. The soft feel of her lips under mine goes straight to my head like whiskey. She rises on her toes with a soft sound of surprise and pleasure, her hands fisting in the fabric of my shirt.
Fuck.
Her lips are perfect, soft and warm and fitting between my tusks like she was made for this.
Made for me. She opens them beneath my mouth with a little sigh that nearly brings me to my knees.
I don’t hesitate. My tongue invades her mouth as I take advantage of my position of absolute power, deepening the kiss until I'm drowning in her. She answers eagerly, her tongue meeting mine stroke for stroke until we’re melting into each other.
My cock pulses between us, lust coiling in a tight spot just below my navel. Her small hands reach up, flattening on my chest.
Mine.
The thought hits me like lightning, bright and dangerous and so fucking right it scares me sober.
I tear myself away, breathing hard, hands raised like I'm surrendering. She stares up at me with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, her lips swollen from my kiss, and it nearly undoes me all over again.
"Be ready in an hour," I manage, my voice rough as gravel. "We're going to town. You need winter clothes."
Then I'm out the door before I do something we'll both regret. I don’t even bother with a winter coat. Cold air hits my overheated skin like a slap.
I need to work. Need to move. Need to do something physical to burn off the madness coursing through my veins before I march back in there and finish what we started.
I need to break something. I need to rampage.
I settle on chopping wood.
My hands shake as I reach for the ax leaning against the side of the cabin.
I drop a round of wood on the stump and bring it down in a clean stroke, the satisfying crack of splitting timber echoing through the clearing.
Another round. Another swing. The rhythm helps, the burn in my shoulders and back giving me something to focus on besides the taste of her mouth and the way she felt pressed against me.
But nothing I do can cool the blood boiling in my veins or erase the word that keeps echoing in my head.
Mine.
I'm in so much fucking trouble.