Chapter Eight
Tessa
I don’t mean to fall asleep on the couch again. After the cookie disaster, Clay and I call it a night. I try going to bed, but the silence presses in too heavy, the storm too loud. The room feels cold. Empty.
So I end up out in the living room, curled up under a blanket with some random movie playing. I tell myself I’ll stay up until the fire burns out, just to take the edge off the quiet.
Somewhere between the flicker of the screen and the crackle of the fireplace, I drift off.
As if my body senses I’m no longer alone, I jolt awake.
It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The room’s gone dim, coals glowing faintly in the hearth. Shadows crawl along the walls, the storm still battering the windows. But it isn’t the wind that wakes me. It’s someone else.
My gaze finds him across the room.
Clay.
He’s sunk into the chair, broad frame heavy in the cushions, one elbow braced on the armrest. A glass dangles from his hand, the amber catching the low light. His face is shadowed, like his head’s somewhere far from here.
I watch as he tips the glass back, finishing it in one slow swallow. His jaw tightens as he sets it down with a thud. Then he leans forward, and his eyes catch mine.
The air shifts.
His chest rises on a sharp inhale, nostrils flaring like he’s trying to get a grip. I freeze, clutching the blanket higher, my breath caught in my throat. For a moment, the only sound left is the storm. The cabin, the distance between us—it all fades under the weight of his stare.
My eyes move before I can stop them, tracing the way his white T-shirt pulls across his shoulders, the cords of his forearm muscles tensing, the lazy sprawl of his legs.
Maybe it’s the liquor softening his edges, but for a second, he looks younger.
Calmer. Almost like the Clay from three years ago—the one who kissed me like he’d been holding it in for years.
Something stirs low in my chest, warmth mixed with the kind of ache I’ve tried to forget.
“You talk in your sleep,” he says finally, cutting through the quiet.
My brows knit. I push up on one elbow, running a hand over my hair, checking if my messy bun is still holding on. “I do?”
He slowly nods once. His gaze drifts back to the fire, the light carving sharp angles across his jaw and catching in his eyes.
My mind scrambles for pieces of memory. I never remember my dreams. They’re often just flashes that blur with the past. What if it was that night? His back against the wall, the weight of him unstable as he pulled me in. His mouth found mine, my name breaking rough from his lips.
Heat crawls up my neck. I look down, pulse hammering, suddenly afraid of what I might’ve said out loud.
I bite lightly on my bottom lip, waiting him out. He won’t offer more unless I drag it out of him. But part of me—some small, selfish part—needs to hear it from him.
When he finally looks at me again, his gaze doesn’t waver. “Most of it was incoherent mixed with groans,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. “Until you said my name.”
The air catches in my chest, all the oxygen gone in one breath.
I grip the blanket tighter, the wool rough against my palms. His face stays unreadable, locked up tight, but the weight in his voice is enough to steal my breath.
“Oh…” It slips out small and useless, my cheeks burning hotter by the second.
Silence coils tight between us. I shove the blanket back, heat crawling under my skin until I can’t stand it. I shift toward the edge of the couch, needing the space, the distance.
But his eyes follow me. They drag down my body in one slow pass, stopping at my chest. My stomach flips. I forgot how, after he disappeared into his room last night, I’d slipped off my bra under my sweatshirt before crashing here.
His mouth parts, tongue wetting his bottom lip, and the air between us thickens.
“You said my name,” he exhales, voice harsher this time, like gravel caught in his throat. His hand flexes against his thigh, knuckles tight. “Then you asked me to touch you.”
The confession slams into me, heat rushing up my neck. My heart pounds, each thud echoing in my ears. A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine. Because the truth is—I don’t remember saying it. But God, I can’t deny how much I want him to.
The light flickers across his face, catching the hunger in his eyes. They drop to my chest, drag up to my mouth, then lock on mine again.
“Tessa…” My name escapes from him like a confession.
I don’t know if he meant to say it aloud, but I hold still, pulse pounding in my ears.
“Is that what you want?” he asks finally.
I don’t know where the boldness comes from. I stand, the hem of my shirt tugging up to bare a strip of skin. His gaze follows the movement, his throat working as he swallows. His hands tighten around the arms of the chair, holding himself back.
I step between his knees and lean down, palms pressing to his thighs. His breath stutters, a sound deep in his chest that goes straight through me.
“I want you to do more than touch me, Clay,” I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips. “But we can start there.”
His hand shoots out, catching my arm and tugging me onto his lap. I don’t hesitate—I go willingly, straddling his thighs. The room glows low behind us, shadows stretching along the walls.
He leans in, his mouth trailing from my collarbone up my neck. Each kiss grows rougher, a mix of teeth and heat that steals my breath. He pauses, breath hot against my skin, hands gripping my hips.
“You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice ragged against my throat. “Sweet, like cinnamon and sugar.”
Something about hearing Clay talk like this makes something inside me unravel.
I press my palms to his chest, fingers digging into muscle, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under my hands. His eyes find mine, dark and hungry, and when I peel my shirt over my head, his gaze follows every inch of bare skin.
His palms trace up my sides, sending a wave of chills through my body despite the heat in the room.
I catch his chin between my fingers, forcing his eyes back to mine. Leaning in, I hover my lips just shy of his. I drag my teeth across my lower lip, watching his eyes flare.
Then I breathe against his ear, my voice low. “I want the feel of your hands burned into my memory.”
It’s all the permission he needs. The restraint in him snaps, and whatever line he was holding disappears.
He reaches his hand around me, holding my body against him. His mouth finds its way to my breasts. I grip his face in my hands, not wanting him to stop. The combination of his tongue licking and sucking my nipple sends a shot of desire straight to my core.
He cups my breast, brushing his thumb over my puckered skin. My hips buck, thrusting against him, creating a delicious friction with each grind of my hips.
“Oh fuck, Clay,” I groan. “Keep doing that. Please don’t stop.”
His hand glides up my body, grabbing my throat and pulling back enough for me to see the desire simmering in his eyes.
The storm outside fades to nothing, just wind and snow against the glass. In here, it’s just him and me, wrapped in heat and want and the line we’re about to cross.
I brush my fingers over the front of his pants, feeling how wet I am through my panties grinding against him.
“Jesus.” He sucks a deep breath. “Do you have any idea what you fuckin’ do to me?”
Something about how his body reacts to me is so arousing. I love the way he tries to keep control, even when he’s losing it.
I rub my hand over him, dipping my fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and into his boxer briefs. His cock jolts when my finger brushes over the smooth tip, tracing the small bead of cum leaking.
I slide back on his legs, giving myself more room to explore his body, and he releases his hold on me.
“I want to taste you,” I moan, moving to stand in front of him. I step away to grab my pillow off the couch, tossing it on the floor at his feet. I grin devilishly, his jaw ticking at the sight of me kneeling before him.
He reaches his hand out, dragging his thumb over my lower lip before I suck it into my mouth.
“Do you know how hard it was for me to try to sleep earlier?” Clay’s voice is low, rough around the edges. “Knowing you were here… and we’ve got the whole place to ourselves?”
The confession sends a sharp pang in my chest, hearing him admit he wants me as badly as I want him.
“Then why did you?” I ask, barely above a whisper, the air thick with things we’ve both tried too long to ignore.
He leans back, gaze drifting past me, like he’s searching the shadows for an answer he doesn’t want to give. “I never thought this would happen. Not again.”
The words scrape out of him, heavy with guilt and something that sounds too much like longing.
“Did you want it to, though? ’Cause the way you say it makes it sound like it would be a mistake.” My voice cracks at the end, betraying me. It isn’t hesitation that drives the question—it’s fear. Fear of him shutting me out again. Of feeling that same sting I’ve spent three years trying to bury.
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney. Everything about this moment feels like it’s pressing in on us, demanding an answer.
But Clay doesn’t give me one. Not right away. He sinks deeper into the chair, eyes distant, slipping somewhere I can’t reach. The warmth from a moment ago—the version of him who let me in—fades and is replaced by the cold, distant man I know too well.
“Answer me.” The words come sharper this time, frustration cutting through the hurt.
His jaw tightens. His hand grips the armrest until his knuckles pale.
“Of course I want you, Tessa. God, you have no fuckin’ idea how bad I want you.
But it’s not that simple. Tomorrow, when the storm is gone and we leave this house, we’ll be left with nothing but the fallout. We both know how messy it could get.”
The words land like a punch to the chest. How could he really think that’s all we’d be left with? I nod once, though the sting behind my eyes threatens to break me.
I push back from him, rising unsteadily to my feet. I reach down, grabbing the pillow from where it’s been pressed beneath my knees, and clutch it to my chest like armor.
He reaches for me. His fingers brush my arm, but I jerk away, pushing his hand aside. “Tessa, wait. I wasn’t saying—”
“Good night, Clay!” The words snap out of me as I grab my shirt from the floor and tug it over my head. The fabric sticks to my skin, still flushed from everything that almost happened.
I toss the pillow onto the couch, adding it to the one I dragged out of my room earlier, leaving it along with my blanket. I’ll use whatever is in the bedroom. Right now, I just need space between us.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he snaps. “That’s not how I meant it.”
I turn back, the glow from the hearth washing him in gold that feels too warm for the weight in my chest. “Don’t worry about it, Clay.
Nothing you say ever comes out the way you mean it.
” My throat tightens, but I force the rest out anyway.
“We’ll just pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow.
Wouldn’t want things getting messy for you. ”
He exhales heavily, dropping his hand uselessly against his thigh. The room goes still, thick with everything we don’t dare to say. The faint glow from the tree lights spills across the floor, a reminder that the warmth in this room isn’t what it seems.
As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. It was all a dream I should’ve known better than to believe in.
If only forgetting him were that easy.