Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emma
The cabin feels too small. Too warm. Like the air itself is pressing in on me.
And it’s him.
Owen, right in front of me—every bit as handsome as I remember. No. No, more than that.
I stifle a groan. He's changed—broader, solid, more masculine. A man now.
And I want him. God, I want him. This wasn’t some passing high school crush. I’ve fantasized about him over and over again—vivid, aching dreams that no one else, not even the man I married, could ever touch. Because no one ever made me feel like this.
And now? His hands are on me—one low on the back of my head, the other curling behind my neck like he owns it. Like he owns me. And maybe… maybe he does.
Maybe I never stopped being his to claim.
"Tell me in great detail," he whispers, his voice thick with that Irish brogue that slides over my skin, rich in familiarity.
God. That voice. That deep, rough timbre of his tone—it’s lower now, weathered with age, but better. More dangerous. It wrecks me.
"You write romance books. What makes the romance come easily, Emma?" he murmurs, his hot breath brushing against my ear.
"Fantasy," I whisper back, my throat tight as I swallow hard. My lips part instinctively. "When I let myself really… you know. Go."
“So porn?” he asks, his lips twitching.
“Uh…”
When I don’t correct him, his chuckle is deep and dark.
"Do you touch yourself, Em?" His voice dips lower, darker.
I nod, barely. "Sometimes."
"And what do you think about when you do?" His breath ghosts across my cheek, burning, pulling me under.
I close my eyes and turn away. I can't. I just can’t.
"Emma," he says again, but this time, his hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are molten. "What do you think about?"
My voice is shaky, cracking under the weight of it. "Sometimes I…" I swallow again. "Sometimes I think of you."
No, not sometimes.
Fuck.
I should end this. I should. But I don’t move.
"Tell me to stop," Owen says, his voice a vibrating growl against my ear.
But I can’t. And god help me—I don’t want to.
My fingers twist into his shirt, bunching the fabric and dragging him closer. His laugh, low and primal, slides down my spine, and I feel the solid, slow throb of his cock pressing against me, thick and hard beneath his jeans. A promise. A threat.
"So you said you’ll help… fix my writer’s block," I whisper, trying to play it off like a joke, but it comes out broken, raw. "I need to write this fucking book."
"Maybe," he breathes out, his eyes locked on mine, burning. "You can’t write because no one’s touched you like they meant it. Not in years."
Maybe. God, maybe. The words hit like a punch to the chest, and a tear slips down my cheek—hot, heavy—and I whimper. Actually whimper.
It’s pathetic. Desperate. But he seems to need it, like it breaks something in him, too, because his grip on me tightens.
"Maybe you need to remember what romance really is," he murmurs. "What it feels like to have a heart that someone doesn’t rip out and trample on."
"Maybe,” I whisper, “we shouldn't have let dumb rules and stupid fucking made-up laws keep us apart back then." I take a deep breath. "Because I wanted to. I want to now."
And I do. God, I do.
I try to remind myself that he’s still off limits. That there’s no future here. That this is reckless, stupid, doomed.
But I stop… I stop thinking.
Because this little cabin? It feels like an escape. A portal. Like we’ve stepped into a snow-globe world where everything else falls away.
I glance over my shoulder at the window. The snow’s rising—drifted up the door now. We're not going anywhere.
"Let me remind you," he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
"Of what?" I breathe, barely able to get it out.
"What it’s like to be wanted."
And I think: What it’s like to not feel alone. Rejected. Broken. What it’s like when the man who haunted your teenage dreams—and kept showing up in every fantasy since—finally says fuck it and comes for you.
"Do it," I dare him, my voice a whisper of need.
His eyes go storm-cloud dark, blazing.
And then his mouth crashes into mine.
There’s no hesitation, no soft build-up. Just heat. Teeth. Tongue. He kisses me like he’s been waiting for years for permission. His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I gasp.
I’m wet, instantly. My breasts are heavy and aching. This… this is so much better than my own hand, than my quiet, sad little fantasies.
And then his tongue slides in—possessive, hungry—the way he’s always looked at me, like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. My thighs tighten around him as he shifts, grinding up into me.
I feel him through his jeans—thick, hot, straining. And god, I want him.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I don’t care. It’s too late.
The snow keeps falling, soft and relentless, sealing us in like the universe itself is conspiring.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His gaze drags over my face like he’s memorizing me, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
And it makes me feel—fuck—it makes me feel good… wanted, sexy, precious.
"You have no idea," he murmurs, his voice wrecked and hoarse.
God, that voice. That accent. How many nights have I imagined this? Me—needy, straddling him, with nowhere to run.
My breath hitches. "Owen."
He slides a finger beneath my chin, tipping my face to his. His eyes are darker now. Hungry.
"Don’t speak until I give you permission."
Then his mouth finds mine again, slower this time. More deliberate, consuming. His hands are everywhere.
Back when I knew him, he was bossy. Dominant. And I hated it. I loved it. I craved it. And now—this is why.
Because I knew—knew—he was someone who would take, not ask. And I wanted that.
I wanted to let go. To stop thinking. To stop controlling every goddamn thing and just be. To let my mind go blank under his hands.
Those hands skim down my back, fisting the hem of my ratty old sweater, tugging it up inch by inch. I lift my arms, surrendering. He drags it over my head and tosses it aside, baring me to the firelight.
Just a soft lace bra now. My cheeks flame. I feel so… exposed, not just my skin—but all the aching, ugly places inside me.
I start to speak… to say something stupid.
He growls. "No. What did I tell you?"
His hands clamp down on my hips, dragging me harder against him. And I stop thinking altogether.
“You feel. You let go. No more thinking tonight. You gave me a job—so let me fucking do it.”
And I did, didn’t I?
I gave him a job—unblock me. Lovely.
No need to dig through the past. We’re right here—like we never left, like nothing and no one ever kept us apart. And I feel it again, that sharp, electric thrill I haven't felt since I was a horny teenager.
The rush of being wanted… of wanting him.
I shudder, helpless, as he leans in, pressing a kiss to my throat. Then lower to my collarbone, then the tops of my breasts.
His stubble scrapes the sensitive skin, and my nipples harden instantly.
“You’re going to come for me, Emma,” he says, his voice thick with heat. “And you're going to do it before I even fuck you.”
Oh fuck. Oh Jesus. Oh fucking hell.
My body tightens at the promise. He shifts and lays me back on the couch without breaking eye contact. His hands slide under the waistband of my sweats, teasing.
I grab his wrist without thinking. “Wait—”
His brow lowers, then touches mine, soothing.
“Emma,” he whispers. “Do I need to punish you for talking when I asked you not to?”
I shake my head, biting my lip.
“Let me in,” he whispers, and I do.
I let him.
His fingers slip inside first—hot and slick—and a low groan breaks from his chest. “Jesus. Fucking hell. You’re soaked already.”
I cry out, my hips jerking when his thumb circles my clit with slow, devastating pressure. He doesn't give me what I think I want. He gives me what I need.
He works me with precision—every twitch, every gasp. His eyes never leave my face.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I do.
His thumb presses harder. My mouth opens in a half sob.
“I’m going to come—Owen… I can’t—”
“Go on, then,” he murmurs. “Time for you to break out of this. Let’s see you.”
He bends, closing his mouth around my nipple, licking the hard peak. My hips buck. My mouth falls open again, another sob breaking free as I come—hard.
So fucking hard I can’t breathe.
I’m shaking, gasping, split open and undone. He holds me through it, murmuring praise against my cheek.
“That’s it, beautiful. That’s my good girl. All fucking mine.”
I’m still trembling when he lifts me again, effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I feel like I’m flying.
My sweats are halfway down, tangled around my thighs. My panties are soaked.
I should feel exposed, but with Owen? I feel owned.
It’s the history. The ache. The years we spent ripped apart. The depth of what we were to each other before anyone tried to ruin it.
I didn’t know he wanted me like this. I thought it was just in my head, and maybe I was just imagining that Owen felt it too.
I didn’t know his father hurt him like my mother hurt me. They fucking deserve each other.
Then Owen looks at me and growls, “God. Look at you. Wrecked. And I haven’t even started.”
He throws the little blanket off the couch with one hand and lays me flat again, pinning my arms above my head in one brutal, commanding motion.
My heart kicks up, panic and hunger braided tight together.
He leans down and licks a bead of sweat from my throat. My hips arch again, still caught in the aftermath.
When he bites down on my collarbone, it’s hard enough to bruise.
“Think you could write now?” he murmurs.
“If my hands could move,” I whisper back, earning a deep chuckle. I feel that chuckle between my thighs.
“You're going to remember this,” he rasps in my ear. “Every time you sit down to write. Every time you close your legs at night and wonder why they ache—this…”
His hands slide between my thighs again, two fingers slipping back inside, teasing. “This is why.”
I arch off the couch, moaning. Begging.