Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Emma
The words come easily at first, probably because I want to see that pleased look on his face and hear his praise when I hit that word count. And I really, really want that reward.
But beyond that, something’s clicked. Being with Owen really has made the words start coming again, and I’m easing back into who I am—I’m a writer, through and through, and I’m not really myself unless I’m crafting a new world.
I wasn’t joking when I said sex unblocks the creativity for me. And sex with Owen? I’m on fire.
I sip the hot tea he gave me when I come up for air after writing for another straight hour. I remember the way he kissed my temple like it meant something, pulling me onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I think I wanted to be there.
No, I definitely wanted to be there.
I type faster, the words slowly forming an entire book, one stroke of the keyboard after another.
Owen’s words echo in my head.
Same rules, young lady.
My fucking god, do I have it bad for stern Owen. Always have, if I’m honest.
I should hate how that makes me squirm on the couch. Should… but don’t. And to think, all these years… he wanted me too.
I miss him even though he’s only outside chopping wood. I like the reassurance of him sitting next to me, the slow tap of his fingers on his keyboard, the serious and definitely hot look of concentration he gets.
Swoon.
So when I hear his heavy boots just outside the door, I check my word count and realize with glee I’ve far surpassed them.
Ah well. I’ll have to figure out something else to earn that spanking.
I stand and yawn, stretching my back. I run my fingers through my hair so I don’t look half-wild when he comes in, unbutton a few of the buttons from my shirt, and tie the bottom in a knot to make it look like a little slutty crop top.
Perfect.
He’s stomping his feet outside, but doesn’t come in. What’s up with that?
“Is the door locked?” I say, heading to open it. “Just a minute.”
But when I swing the door open, it isn’t Owen on the other side but two men, covered from head to toe in snow, wearing thick winter gear, staring at me.
“Oh!” I say, startled. My heart’s beating a frantic rhythm in my chest as I quickly scan behind them for any sign of Owen. I don’t see him.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you can help us,” one of the guys says, his face darkened in from his hood. “We’re freezing to death out here.” And without another word, both of them push past me.
“Hey! You can’t just come in here,” I say, when the second man, dressed in a rough gray jacket and thick winter boots, tracks snow into the house and eyes my cropped top.
“We’re freezing to death out there. Got lost hunting,” the taller one says. “We just need to come in by the fire and make a few calls.” Their voices are slurred, and the stench of stale alcohol makes my stomach flip over.
Then why do they give each other that look that makes my hair stand on end? I can’t speak. My throat’s gone dry. Owen’s going to flip when he sees these guys here.
“You alone, sweetheart?” the taller one asks, as he takes a step toward me.
My body locks. “No.” I shake my head and lie on instinct. “My husband went to get us some wood for the fire and will be back any second.”
The shorter one takes an assessing look around the cabin. I watch as his calculated gaze falls on my one pair of slippers, my one cup of tea, the folded blanket on the couch, and no car in the driveway.
“You’re lying.”
I draw myself up to my full height. “I’m not, and you have no business coming in here without being asked and then calling me a liar. You can leave now.”
“Like hell we will,” the taller one says. “Freeze to death when we could have the chance to save our lives in the company of a beautiful lady? C’mon now, only an idiot would do that.”
I stare, quickly trying to think of what I could use for a weapon. That fire poker is out of reach and probably wouldn’t do much good anyway.
They start taking off their coats, but they’re moving closer to me.
“You can make a call if you need to, then you need to leave. I’m not comfortable having you here, especially since my husband stepped outside.”
“Mmm. I see that.”
When they make no move to leave, I open the door as wide as I can and scream. “Owen! Owennn!”
I scream myself hoarse, and when I turn back to the cabin, the two men are advancing on me.
“I’m sure we could have our little liar help us warm up, don’t you think? Don’t scream to a phantom husband, pretty girl, when we’re right here and could have a hell of a night together. Come on, help us warm up. What’s your name?”
“Get out of my house,” I hiss, anger replacing fear.
The taller one takes a menacing step toward me. “We’re not freezing to death just because you’re too scared to have us here. For Christ’s sake, we only want to get warm.”
And then I hear it, not words but a growl. Low, male, threatening. Familiar.
And something shifts in the air. I’m still afraid, but now, hopeful.
Owen steps into view, axe swinging lazily, menacingly, by his side. His face is thunder, cold and deadly.
The two men begin to backpedal, their gazes fixed steadily on Owen.
“Y’alright, lass?” he asks, though his gaze remains on them.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “These men came in without me asking them, and they won’t leave.”
Owen turns, swinging his axe up to his shoulder. “Is that right, lads?”
His face is thunder. Cold. Deadly.
The two of them begin to move back like prey that just realized they’re standing right in front of their greatest predator.
Owen doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. His silence is more terrifying, anyway.
One of them stumbles and drops something. A flask? The other grabs his arm, muttering something I can’t hear. And they run. Not walk, not saunter, not amble away in knee-deep snow, they manage to run.
“It’s only because of you they’re still standing,” he mutters with a growl, and there’s something in his tone that makes me believe that he’s sincere. He isn’t just keeping me company. He’s guarding me.
And for all my talk about independence and safety and learning to stand on my own, I realize… I don’t feel weak for wanting this, for wanting him. I feel wanted. Protected. Loved.
He storms through the cabin toward me. “Tell me, before the chance to catch them’s gone. Did they touch you, Emma?”
I shake my head vehemently. “No, they didn’t.”
He stares at me, then drops the axe still dripping with snow. He cups my face in both hands like he needs to make sure I’m alright.
“You sure?” he demands.
“They didn’t,” I whisper, still trembling. “Can’t say they weren’t thinking on it, though.”
I feel his rumble all the way down to my toes. His jaw flexes. I see the same expression on his face he had years ago, that need to hurt something. Someone.
His breath leaves him in a rush, like he’s only now allowing himself to take a breath.
"You screamed."
I nod.
“Why’d you open the feckin’ door, Em?”
I swallow hard. “I-I thought it was you. I thought you were here, and I—”
His gaze falls to my unbuttoned top and the gentle curve of my bare belly. “Did you, now?” he whispers.
Then, he pulls me in… hard. Like he needs me to ground him. As if I’m the only thing keeping him from flying apart at the seams.
I bury my face in his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt.
We don’t speak.
There’s no need.
Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, the fire crackles. And in the silence between, I know one thing with aching, terrifying certainty: I don’t want to leave.
Not this cabin, and definitely not him.
“Alright, then,” he whispers, his mouth to my ear. “I’ll let it go this time, but if you ever do something dangerous like that again—”
I nod, eager for his absolution. “I know,” I whisper.
“Did you get your word count?”
I nod. “And then some.”
“Good girl. That’s my girl. Now go. I want you in the bedroom. Stripped completely naked. Legs spread eagle on the bed, waiting for me.” He leans in and whispers in my ear, “And don’t you ever, ever open the door to a stranger like that again. You hear?”
I nod, my breath hitching.
“Say it.”
“I hear you.”
“Good girl.”
I don’t walk. I float.
The room is cold, but I don’t feel it. My blood is hot, my skin flushed. I strip layer by layer until I’m bare and trembling on top of the covers, legs parted the way he told me, my arms stretched above my head, chest rising and falling with every shaky inhale.
He enters slowly, steady, eyes black with hunger, stripped to his jeans and long-sleeved tee, his cheeks still flushed from the cold.
He doesn’t speak. Just kneels at the edge of the bed and drags his palm down my thigh, spreading me wider.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Already soaked.” Shaking his head, he lifts one leg and gives my ass a sharp spank. “Naughty little Emma.”
I moan, my breath catching as he dips his head and inhales like I’m his first meal in weeks. My clit’s throbbing with anticipation.
Then, heat.
His mouth covers me—hot, wet, relentless—his tongue slowly dragging up my slit, flicking over my clit in a rhythm that makes my hips buck. His arms lock around my thighs, holding me open, helpless to the cadence he sets.
He groans against me, like this is the only thing that matters.
I arch, one hand flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick waves as he sucks harder, slower, deeper, then lifts my legs and gives my ass another sharp spank—one, two, three.
His tongue circles, then presses, then flicks, and my vision whites out.
My legs tremble. My thighs quake. My ass is on fire, and my clit is throbbing. I’m going to come, and I can’t stop myself. His hand glides over the sting of the spank, just before he gives me another erotic smack of his palm, hard enough to make my thighs quake and a whimper escape my lips.
“Please.” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.
But he knows. He always knows.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. He cups my ass and squeezes, then lands another spank.
“Come for me, Emma.”
He buries his mouth against me again, his tongue working in perfect, devastating pressure until the wave breaks.
I come hard and loud, shaking.
My back arches off the bed. My cry echoes off the cabin walls. But he doesn’t stop, just keeps licking me through every pulse, every aftershock, until I’m wrecked.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth is glistening, his eyes molten.
He crawls up my body, kisses my throat, my cheek, my mouth.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
And for once, I believe him.
“No more rules tonight, Emma,” he says, holding me to him. “Just me. And you. And how fucking good it feels when you’re mine.”