Snowbound

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Emma

The orgasm slams through me, stealing my breath. I’m helpless under his voice, his fingers, his control.

Every tight, wound thing inside me unravels and melts.

Heat and need blend in one electrifying moment before he pulls me onto his lap, my bound wrists pressed against his chest. He kisses me hard and hungry, his tongue sweeping my mouth like he owns it.

I taste myself on him. It feels dirty when I recognize the sharp, sweet taste, still laced with peppermint.

My thighs are sticky, skin tingling, still slick with peppermint and him.

Maybe when I found my way to this cabin, I truly did leave the old Emma behind. Maybe I left behind expectations. Maybe I left behind every last damn fuck I was holding on to.

“Fuck, Emma.” He breathes against my lips. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

I press my hips against his. He’s still hard. I feel the thick length of him and whimper.

“I want you,” I whisper. “Now.”

His hand clenches the garland binding my wrists.

My pulse spikes at the feral look in his eyes and the powerful grip he has on my makeshift bonds.

I stare at his strong, powerful hands and remember how I used to imagine those exact hands touching me in a way only he could.

Thick veins stand out as his fingers wrap around the sparkly golden garland.

“You sure you can take it, lass?” he growls, his green eyes boring into mine. “Bloody hell, Emma. Once I start, I’m not feckin’ holding back another damn second.”

I lean in closer and bite his shoulder. “I can take it. I’m not holding back either.”

That breaks something in him, the last thread of restraint.

Standing, he holds me tight, his hand gripping my ass.

My clit throbs, a whimper escaping my lips, as he lays me down on the thick rug just in front of the fire, staking his claim.

I’m sticky and minty, bound and aroused, my hair’s a mess, and the towel’s fallen away, long forgotten.

The garland scratches against my wrists as he pins them above my head, anchoring them with one of his huge hands.

“I love your hands,” I moan, sounding ridiculous even to my own ears. “You’re so strong and powerful. I crave this, Owen. I crave you.”

His wicked grin should warn me, but it doesn’t. With his free hand, he shoves my thighs apart. He doesn’t tease this time, doesn’t work up to anything. Doesn’t play. Just drives into me, brutal and deep, like he’s making up for lost years.

And I love it.

“Oooh fuck,” I cry out on a moan. I still want impossibly more. Him.

I swear I see stars with every thrust. My body bows, my back arching off the rug, but he just presses me down and drives harder, fucking me mercilessly.

The sound of his skin slapping against mine fills the cabin, filthy and hot.

I go to reach for him, but the garland bites into my wrists, holding me back.

He presses the restrained wrists above my head again, and heat surges through me.

“That feel good, baby? He pants, his voice low and brutal. This feels so fucking good, I never want him to stop.

I nod, moaning. “Yes. Yes, Owen, please.”

He bends his mouth to my ear. “You’re mine. You know that, don’t you? This pussy? This body? All fucking mine. You were always mine, Emma.”

“Yours,” I choke out, because it’s true and always has been. My cheeks are damp with tears.

He drives in deeper, harder. Spasms of ecstasy rip through me. Each thrust sends shockwaves of sensation and bliss, coiling another orgasm deep in my belly. My legs are shaking, spread as wide as I can, as he fully takes everything.

His mouth finds my nipple again, teeth grazing, tongue circling as he pounds into me. I feel like I’m breaking apart. I want more. I want everything.

And then he reaches between us, rough calloused fingers scraping against my clit, but I push into him, needing the pressure and release. “Come again. Right fucking now, Emma. Come for me, baby.”

My eyes roll back. I fall apart on a scream, boneless beneath him. My walls clamp around his cock, and he curses, slamming into me, once, twice, three times before pulling out, gripping his massive cock, red and swollen and slick with my heat. He strokes himself hard and fast, grunting.

“Touch yourself. Make yourself come again while I do. I want to watch you come when I mark you.”

He growls my name, and I whisper his, my hands moving harder and faster as I claim my own release. My head falls back and my hips rise, consumed in ecstasy. He comes across my belly, thick and hot, spilling across my skin in messy streams.

We collapse together, tangled and panting.

I don’t want to be anywhere but here… with him.

A few minutes later, he’s cleaned us up, and we’re wrapped again in damp towels, lazing by the fire.

“You look like you’re ready for a nap,” he says, sounding proud of himself.

“Mmm. Trying to decide between that and another word session.”

“How about both? Close your eyes and get a little cat nap, then up and at ’em for your words.”

My eyes are already closed.

I wake up aching.

Not sore, exactly. Just… empty. Like I need him inside me again, need to be reassured that he wants me. I liked how hot it was when he marked me and all, but… I need him in me.

Now.

I need it again. Deeper. Rougher.

The fire’s burned low and ember-red. A pine candle flickers somewhere close—warm wax and smoky sweetness curling through the air like incense.

He’s behind me, propped against the couch—long legs stretched toward the fire, his bare feet flexed against the hearth. His bare arms are crossed, lean muscle and old scars, as he watches something on the TV like he belongs here. Like he's always belonged here.

What is it?

I haven’t even turned the damn thing on since I got here.

Then I hear it—the sound before the screen catches up. Booby traps, screaming, that stupid, perfect Christmas chaos.

Home Alone.

I can’t help but smile.

We first watched that together, in another life—another version of us.

He laughs softly behind me, and it sounds real… almost boyish. That sound punches me right in the chest.

I move before I think.

The scratchy towel slips off my hips, damp and forgotten.

I crawl toward him—my hands and knees sinking into the thick rug. The sofa’s fibers scrape against my skin, rough and real, until I’m straddling his lap.

He stills instantly. His hands twitch like he’s trying not to grab me. Green eyes lock on mine—sharp and predatory. Holding back, just barely.

I don’t speak as I press him back against the couch—my palms flat to his chest, heat pouring off him in waves. And the part of me that knows he’s stronger, that he could overpower me, likes that he doesn’t.

He lets me settle over him. The hard ridge of him presses against my slick, wet heat.

“Emma…” He breathes it like it’s a prayer… a warning… a fucking plea.

I grind down slow and filthy. My hands spread over his stomach—my palms catching on hard lines and smooth heat. He’s burning, and I’m freezing. I didn’t realize how cold I was until I touched him.

He’s tight, like a wire… like violence barely leashed.

“I want you. Again.”

His groan is deep and dark. His head falls back as I trail my lips along his throat, the rasp of his beard igniting me.

I catch his earlobe between my teeth.

“Are you sure, lass?” His voice frays at the edges. “Because once you take control, I want it rough. I want you to lose control.”

“But let me start it this time,” I whisper.

That does it. His jaw flexes, and his cock twitches beneath me. And his hands finally, finally, find my thighs. He grips them like he’s branding me, bruising ownership into my skin.

I reach between us and take him in hand, then stroke—once, twice—just to watch him shudder. Just to take something back. I lift up, then sink down on his cock.

My moan cuts through the air, sharp and raw.

“Christ, Emma.” He growls like the name burns.

I ride him slow, with drawn-out agony. Every thrust is a tease. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted, hands clenched at my waist.

I dig my nails into his shoulders. He grips tighter, guiding me harder and deeper. He watches me like I’m the last fucking miracle in a ruined world.

“Like that, baby…” His voice is gravel and need. “Just like that. Ride me like you mean it.”

And when he brings his fingers between us, pressing his thumb to my swollen clit—I see stars. The pressure, the heat.

I clench around him, chasing it, right there on the edge. Then, his palm covers my mouth—not rough, not cruel, but firm.

His eyes widen, locked on mine. He’s watching me squirm and pant, barely breathing through my nose. A little breath play, a lot of control.

The noise is wet and frantic when he groans, his cock twitching inside me. “So fucking good like this,” he growls. “So goddamn beautiful.”

I break. My body locks and shudders, my scream muffled beneath his hand.

His other arm crushes me to him as he slams upward—hard, deep, and relentless. I’m boneless and trembling, sprawled on him like a fucking ruin.

We crash into the tree. An ornament falls and rolls across the floor with a soft clink.

I laugh. Then he flips us, pinning me beneath him like he can’t take one more second of me in charge.

“My turn.”

His breath is hot against my cheek. Whispered sin.

This time, he takes his time… slow, deep strokes that punch the breath out of my lungs. That glass ornament chimes on the floor like a warning bell. He leans in and kisses me tenderly.

“You were always mine, Emma.”

I let the words settle over me, warming me through.

Afterward, we’re tangled in the quilt, my body still trembling. His fingers stroke through my hair while the movie plays, forgotten. That movie will never be sweet and innocent again.

He asks, “Still your favorite?”

“It’s chaos.” I exhale. “Feels like home.”

“I used to pretend I was him, you know? The boy left behind.” I liked the thought of being alone. Forgotten.

He laughs, rough and real. “You’d booby-trap the whole fucking house if I left you alone.” He smirks and kisses my temple. “I never stopped loving you, Emma.”

I don’t say it back. Not yet.

I won’t even let myself voice the doubts I have, that this is all a mirage, that I’m going back home to my divorce papers and empty apartment, my mother’s judgment and looming deadline.

But I don’t pull away either. Because this, right now? Is real.

Then his palm smacks my ass, sharp and satisfied.

“Now, Em,” he growls. “Get those damn words in.”

I write like the wind.

Words flow from me like a woman possessed. They’re raw and real, and so cathartic, I become the woman I’m writing, the jilted lover in search of finding her true self.

And they say romance novels aren’t realistic.

“Fuck them,” I mutter.

“Fuck who?” Owen calls out from the other room, only a few feet away.

“The people who say romance novels are unrealistic! As if women don’t deserve undying love and affection.”

“Aye? And men aren’t hung like fucking broncos, amirite?”

I snort and slam the laptop shut. “Done. You, sir, have well and truly unblocked me.”

He peeks around the corner and smiles at me. My heart turns over in my chest. “Well done, lass. Well done. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” I whisper the reply because I don’t trust my voice.

“Snow’s beginning to melt a little,” he says, turning from me, as he walks back toward the kitchen.

My heart sinks.

When the snow melts, we have no reason to be sequestered here together anymore. What happens then?

If only real life had the happily ever afters I write.

But for now?

I’ll take the next chapter.