2. Heat Index
Heat Index
Lucas leads me through the lodge in silence, our footsteps echoing softly across polished wood floors. The distant crackle of the fire fades behind us as we reach the back door. He pushes it open, holding it for me, and the sound of the wind surges in like a living thing.
We step under the covered walkway, and everything narrows.
The world is white and shadowed, the edges of the structure crusted with snowdrifts that creep in beneath the slats.
Wind whistles through the cracks, sharp and relentless, but in here it's just the sound of his boots against weathered planks—and the pounding rhythm of my pulse.
The walk to his lodge is short, but it feels like miles. Snow whips around us, cold needles against my cheeks, but the heat under my skin makes it bearable. Or maybe it's adrenaline.
Each step drives home just how alone we are out here.
Cut off.
Sealed in.
I tell myself it's just the cold. Just exhaustion.
Just survival.
But the heat beneath my skin says otherwise.
I focus on the rhythm of his footsteps in front of me. He walks ahead, his pace unhurried, every movement precise. Controlled. That kind of effortless strength that comes from a man who never second-guesses himself.
It shouldn't be hot. But it is.
He glances back once, and our eyes catch in the dim light. No words. No smile. Just heat.
Not imagined.
Not one-sided.
Just there—undeniable.
My stomach dips. My breath catches. I follow him, heart thudding, every nerve wound tight.
His private lodge looms ahead, smaller than the main building but still impressive—modern lines, warm cedar, and windows that gleam with reflected firelight. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, gesturing me inside.
Our gazes lock and simmer.
Warmth hits me like a blanket. The fireplace is already lit, casting golden light over thick wooden beams and worn leather furniture. The space is cozy—almost too intimate. Like the kind of place you bring someone when you want to blur lines.
There's a sleek kitchen tucked into one corner, the countertops gleaming in the firelight. A spiral staircase winds up toward a lofted area, open and shadowed, while the main floor remains dominated by one thing: the bed.
A king-sized, four-poster bed.
Flannel sheets, thick comforter, pillows stacked like he's expecting someone to stay. The posts are thick—dark wood, polished smooth—and at the top, just beneath the crossbeams… rings.
I blink. Look again.
Definitely rings. Metal. Anchored into the frame.
There's no door to the bedroom. Just a wide, square opening that leads straight into the sleeping area like a dare. The ceilings stretch high above, and my eyes lift instinctively—catching on something else.
Hooks. Bolted into the beam overhead.
Oh my God.
My brain is spinning before I can stop it. Those rings at the top of the bed… the hooks in the ceiling… restraints?
I'm probably imagining it. I have to be imagining it. Right?
But the moment the thought enters my mind, it stays—taking root, unfurling into a vivid, inappropriate fantasy I can't unsee. Ropes. Wrists bound above my head. His hands on my hips, his mouth on my skin, that voice—deep and steady—telling me I'm not allowed to come until he says so.
Heat floods low in my belly, sharp and instant.
I swallow hard, eyes dragging back to the bed like it's trying to tell me a story my body already knows by heart.
I am in so much trouble.
It's perfect.
Too perfect.
He shuts the door behind us. The lock clicks.
My pulse spikes.
"This is it," he says, voice low and smooth, like he's welcoming me into something more than just shelter. "It's not much, but it keeps the cold out."
Lucas tosses his gloves onto the entry table with a quiet thud. Then he unbuttons his flannel jacket, slow and unhurried, like this is just another night—like he brings strange women into his private lodge all the time and never thinks twice.
He drapes the jacket over a chair and straightens, revealing the fit of the dark sweater beneath. It clings to his torso, outlining thick shoulders and a chest built for carrying weight—literal and otherwise.
My fingers twitch. My brain screams don't stare, but that's a battle I'm already losing.
"Living room, kitchen," he says with a nod, gesturing like he's giving me a tour of a hotel suite. "Bathroom's through there. My bed." His voice dips slightly on the last word, rough around the edges.
He meets my eyes when he speaks again. "Blankets are in the chest. I'll take the couch."
I turn in a slow circle, trying not to visibly short-circuit. The whole place smells like pine, woodsmoke, and him—clean and masculine with a sharp, underlying edge that makes my skin prickle. A scent that should be bottled and weaponized.
"You don't have to," I say, too fast. "It's your bed."
I try to make it sound casual. Light. Like I'm unaffected. I'm not.
He shrugs, that same maddening half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I insist." A beat. "Like I said… the couch is comfortable."
His eyes flick to mine, deliberate. And there's something in his tone—something too smooth to be innocent.
My gaze drops because I can't look at him when he says things like that. Not when my brain is still running slow-motion reels of the bedposts and ceiling hooks. I focus on the couch. The tiny, insufficient, going-to-fold-him-in-half couch.
Right. Comfortable. Sure.
"Right," I murmur. "Well. This is… cozy."
He chuckles, low and quiet, as he moves toward the fireplace. Stokes it with the kind of ease that says he doesn't need to fill silences with noise.
"This is temporary," he says, still not looking at me as he stokes the fire. "Just tonight. In the morning, I'll fix the main generator. Get you back to the lodge."
Back to normal. Back to safe.
"And if the storm doesn't let up?" I ask, my voice softer now. Less sure.
He glances over his shoulder, firelight carving shadows along his cheekbone, his mouth curved just slightly—like he already knows the effect he's having.
"Then you're stuck here," he says, tone low and unhurried. "Trapped in my cabin. With me."
A pause. A flicker of heat in his eyes.
"Could be worse."
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Loaded.
I force myself to move, walking to the fireplace with arms crossed tight across my chest like that'll hold in the storm building under my skin. My thoughts are spiraling again—rope, rough hands, control, surrender. The same reel, playing louder now. Closer.
He watches me. Says nothing.
But I feel his eyes on me.
I rub my arms—not from cold, but to ground myself against the buzz crawling along my nerves. It doesn't help.
Lucas moves past me, crouching at the hearth. He stokes the fire with casual precision that makes everything worse. Each movement is quiet and deliberate, and his body language is easy—like he's in control of the room, the fire, and me.
His broad shoulders shift beneath that damn sweater. His sleeves are still pushed up, revealing forearms that should come with a warning label—tan skin, corded muscle, thick ropey veins that disappear under the edge of his cuff.
I should be setting boundaries. Making a plan. Saying something smart and responsible.
Instead, I say, "So… are you always this prepared for weather-related emergencies, or is this your subtle way of luring unsuspecting women into your lair?"
He straightens, slow and fluid, and when he turns to face me, his expression strips the air from my lungs. His eyes are darker now. Focused. Heat curling in their depths like he's already undressing me in his head—and maybe retying me in something else.
"Only the ones who look like they need it," he says, voice low, intimate. "Or want it."
My stomach flips.
My thighs clench.
The silence between us thickens, buzzing with the things we're both pretending we're not thinking. I force myself to breathe. To blink. Don't look down.
I fail.
My eyes flick to his hips—and yep.
There it is.
His jeans are tight. Too tight. Straining just enough to make my mouth go dry and my brain short-circuit.
I drag my gaze back up, slowly, like I'm afraid of what else I'll see.
He doesn't look smug. Doesn't look cocky.
He just looks.
At me.
Like he's deciding.
I should move. Walk away. Unpack. Build a pillow fort of professional distance.
But I don't. I just stand there, heat crawling up my neck, my pulse hammering in my throat.
Lucas takes a single step toward me.
I don't retreat.
Another step.
Close enough now that I can see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the taut set of his jaw, the muscle ticking as he holds himself back. The firelight flickers across his face, and for a second, he looks like something carved from heat and control and hunger.
He watches me with that unreadable gaze—but now it's fraying at the edges. Tight. Coiled. Ready to snap.
"Amelia," he says, voice low and rough. "If you keep standing there looking at me like that…"
My breath hitches. "Like what?"
His eyes drop to my mouth. Linger. His voice is smoke and sin. "Like you want me to pin you against the nearest wall and give you everything you've been fantasizing about since the lodge."
I go still. Completely still. The words land like a match dropped in gasoline.
The air thickens, charged with the same electricity that lives in the seconds before thunder.
He steps closer—slow, deliberate—until we're toe to toe, chest to chest, heat to heat.
"I'm not blind," he murmurs. "And, fair warning, I sure as hell ain't a saint."
My lungs forget how to work. My blood pounds everywhere at once. I can smell him—smoke and pine and that scent I haven't stopped thinking about since he first opened the damn lodge door.
"I'm not trying to make this weird," I whisper, even though it already is. My voice trembles, not from fear, but anticipation. "We're two professionals. Adults. Stranded in a blizzard. We can survive one night in close quarters without it turning into?—"
"Into what you've been imagining since you saw my bed?"
His mouth is right at my ear now, the heat of his breath dragging across my neck like a promise.
The heat in my cheeks explodes into something darker. Deeper. My core tightens like it's responding to his voice alone.
"You've been looking at me," he growls, "like you want me to tie you to that bed and ruin you."
My lips part. I can barely breathe, but I manage the only thing I have left.
"You're not wrong."