Chapter 7
I wake slowly.
The first thing I register is warmth. Not just from the blankets or the lingering fire in the hearth, but from him . Solid behind me.
His arm is still draped around my waist, our bodies curved together like we were built to fit this way. One of his legs is tangled with mine, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I don’t move. Not at first.
Because it feels too good.
Too safe. Too impossible. Too much like something I could get used to if I let myself.
I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the soft light spilling in through the shutters. The snow outside makes everything glow faint and pale blue, like the world is still holding its breath.
His hand shifts slightly against my stomach, and I stiffen without meaning to.
A beat passes .
Then his voice, low, groggy, rough with sleep, rumbles behind me. “Mornin’, darlin’.”
My heart stutters.
“Morning,” I whisper, still not turning around.
Neither of us moves. The air is thick with the awareness of how close we are and how we didn’t mean for this to happen. Or maybe we did. Or maybe we just didn’t stop it.
His hand flexes once, then slowly pulls back, giving me space.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to crowd you.”
I finally roll to face him, hair a mess and my heart even messier. “You weren’t.”
His eyes meet mine, soft but clear. Searching.
We stay like that for a long second, breath mingling in the hush of the early morning.
Neither of us says what we’re thinking.
But it’s loud in the silence.
“Had a dream about you,” he says, voice low and sleep warm.
I blink. “Yeah?”
“You were floating away in that Prius of yours.”
I smile softly, heart picking up pace. “Did you save me?”
“I sure as fuck tried.”
Something in the way he says it, like it mattered, even in sleep, hits me right in the chest. Before I can stop myself, I lean in.
Our lips meet in a soft, uncertain kiss. Just a breath of a moment, but it’s enough to light a spark low in my stomach. Enough to make me ache in places I thought were too tired to feel anything. Enough to make me want.
I pull back slowly, eyes still on his.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what? ”
“For saving me,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I’d like. “Even in your dreams.”
His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, rough fingers brushing over my knuckles.
“I’ll always try,” he murmurs.
The words settle in my chest like a promise I never asked for but suddenly want to believe in.
Outside, the storm has passed.
But in here something new is stirring.
Without thinking, I kiss him again. No hesitation. No filter. Just need. His hand comes up instantly, cupping my cheek, his palm warm and steady as he tilts my head and deepens the kiss.
This time, there’s no soft testing. No waiting.
His mouth claims mine with quiet urgency, his tongue sweeping against mine in a rhythm that steals every coherent thought from my head.
It’s not rough. It’s intentional.
Like he’s been holding this back and waiting.
My fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to the heat of his body and the way he kisses like it means something.
Because it does.
Even if we can’t name it yet—this thing blooming between us in the quiet dark—it’s real.
When we finally part, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing like we’ve just surfaced from something deeper than we meant to fall into.
“Charlotte…” he murmurs, voice rough, strained.
“I know,” I whisper. “Me too.”
And we lie there, wrapped in warmth and tension and something dangerously close to hope, as the morning sun finally rises .
“Well,” he says, his voice still thick from sleep, “I need to get up before I do something ungentlemanly like.”
That earns a slow smile from me. “Oh? I’m intrigued.”
“Which is exactly why I’m getting up.”
He throws the blanket back and stands, and I immediately miss the heat of his body next to mine.
“I’m gonna shower first,” he says as he stretches, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of skin. “You can grab some clothes from my closet.”
I blink. “I’m wearing your clothes?”
“You are.” He flashes me a lazy grin as he walks toward the bathroom. “And you look damn good in them.”
Heat. Instant. Low and curling deep in my stomach.
He winks and disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit there for half a second, stunned and overheating, before leaping out of bed and making a beeline for the closet.
Inside, it’s warm, wood-paneled, and packed with more flannel than any man should own. I quickly grab a pair of sweats and a soft navy button up.
I’m just turning toward the mirror when the bathroom door swings open and Sam strolls in the closet.
Wearing nothing but a towel.
White. Low-slung. Water still clinging to his skin.
My lips part. “Oh my God.”
Because he’s built. Like statue-worthy. Ripped in a way that’s both unfair and completely distracting. He’d put a Greek God to shame with those abs.
He smirks. “Thank you, darlin’.”
My hands fly to my face. “Tell me I didn’t say that out loud. ”
He walks past me toward a drawer, totally unfazed. “Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Kill me now,” I groan behind my fingers.
“Tempting,” he says, chuckling. “But I’m not quite finished enjoying this moment.”
I peek through my hands and see him grinning, towel still in place but barely.
And I know one thing for sure. This closet? Danger zone.
“You know,” I say, still peeking through my fingers, “this feels like entrapment.”
Sam raises an eyebrow as he tugs open a drawer, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs. “You walked into my closet, darlin’.”
“You walked into it looking like a Calvin Klein ad.”
He smirks, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I thought you said I looked like a Greek god.”
I groan and drop my hands from my face. “Sam.”
“Yes?”
“You’re being naughty.”
He turns to face me fully, still gloriously shirtless, still damp from the shower, and that damn towel hanging low on his hips like it’s been strategically designed to test my sanity.
And then he steps closer.
Not enough to touch. But enough to feel. The air between us warms, tightens, hums with something electric.
“I could be,” he says softly, eyes on mine, “but only if you want me to be.”
My breath catches, heat blooming from the center of my chest outward, rushing straight to where I’m weakest.
He looks down at me like he’s reading every thought I’ve tried to keep buried .
“Charlotte,” he says, my name rough on his lips.
I reach for the flannel still draped over my arm and clutch it to my chest like a shield.
“I should probably get dressed.”
His lips curve slowly. “That a yes or a no?”
I smile, breathless. “That’s a ‘yes’ to getting dressed.”
He nods, stepping back, towel still barely hanging on. “Alright. For now.”
And the for now ? It burns hotter than anything else.
Which is the only reason I can explain my next move.
I reach out, fingers curling around the edge of that traitorous towel. And I pull.
It drops.
Just like that.
Sam freezes, eyes locked on mine, caught in that perfect storm between shock and unmistakable heat.
The soft morning light spills through the closet doorway, painting over the planes of his bare chest, his damp skin still glistening from the shower.
And God help me, the man is a fucking masterpiece.
Broad shoulders. Muscles that ripple down his chest and stomach like they were carved, not built.
A fine dusting of dark hair leads down from his chest and lower, drawing my gaze down the defined lines of his torso until?—
Oh.
My.
Greek god? Understatement.
Because there he stands, unabashed, glorious, and completely unbothered by the fact that he’s hung like a fantasy I didn’t know I had until just now. Massive. Heavy. Utterly distracting.
And no, I don’t even pretend to look away. Not right away .
I stare.
Because how could I not?
Then, slowly and deliberately, I turn, his flannel clutched in my hand like a trophy, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. I step out of the closet with as much grace as I can fake, my legs somehow still working, though my brain is pure static.
I only look back once.
Okay, twice .
But who could blame me?
He hasn’t moved. But the fire in his eyes when I glance over my shoulder? It could bring the storm back.
By the time I reach the bedroom, I’m breathless, equal parts smug and shaken. My hands tremble as I slide into the flannel, buttoning it up with fingers that don’t want to stop remembering.
What I did.
What I saw.
What I want.
From the closet, I hear a low laugh. The sound of a drawer slamming. Footsteps.
My pulse roars in my ears.
He’s close. I can feel the weight of his presence pressing against the air before he even steps through the doorway.
“Careful, darlin’,” he says again, voice thick, low. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, and getting dressed might not be the next thing we do.”
I should laugh. I should tease him back. I should keep walking that tightrope we’ve been balancing on since the second I landed in this storm.
But I don’t.
I turn .
He’s there, now in boxer briefs, but just as dangerous and devastating.
I drop the pretense like I dropped his towel.
Crossing the room, I move straight to him, every step fueled by that steady thrum of heat beneath my skin.
He watches me with parted lips and dark eyes, like he’s waiting for me to flinch. To stop. To pretend this is still innocent.
But I don’t.
I stop in front of him. I slide my hands up his chest, tracing the lines I’d only imagined last night. I rise on my toes.
And I kiss him.
No hesitation. No teasing. Just hunger.
He groans low in his throat as his hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him, the flannel bunching in his fists. His mouth slants over mine, deeper, hotter, rougher, like he’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
It’s not careful.
It’s not sweet.
It’s inevitable.
My fingers tangle in his hair. His grip tightens on my hips. And I know without a doubt that this is the point of no return.
Sam’s kiss turns urgent. He’s no longer asking, no longer teasing. Just taking.
His hands slip beneath the flannel, fingertips brushing along my bare waist. The contact sends sparks skittering across my skin, lighting up every nerve ending. And then his hands move higher, cupping my breasts.
I gasp against his mouth, but it only fuels him. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss with a low groan that vibrates in my chest. His mouth claims mine like he’s starving for it and starving for me. And I give in willingly, melting into him, completely lost in the taste and heat of it all.
But then?—
He breaks away.
Abrupt. Breathless.
“Shit,” he mutters, backing up a step, running a hand through his already-tousled hair. “I’m sorry.”
My lips feel bruised, kissed raw, and my heart is doing its best to beat its way out of my chest as I blink at him, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
“It’s okay,” I manage. “I understand.”
But his eyes stay locked on mine, stormy and unrelenting. “No, darlin’. I don’t think you do.”
He steps forward again, his voice rough around the edges.
“One more second,” he says, “and we’d be right back in that bed. And not for round one and two. More like round three, four, and maybe five.”
My breath catches. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh .” His mouth curves, but there’s something serious in his gaze now, something that makes my pulse race for a whole different reason. “And that’s not who I am.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow. “Something funny?”
“You’re a world-famous country star,” I say. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a one-night stand?”
“Oh, I’ve had ‘em,” he admits, without shame. “But that’s not what this is.”
His hand gestures between us, slow and sure.
“When I take you to bed,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “I want you to know exactly what it means. Just how serious I am.”
Holy. Crap .
I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.
He smiles—crooked, cocky, and just this side of wrecked—and backs toward the door.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask, my voice cracking like my composure.
“Take a cold shower,” he says, already disappearing, “and hope this goes down before my annoying sister starts running her damn mouth.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I’m left standing there hot, flustered, and entirely ruined for any man who isn’t Sam Stone.