4. Control Issues
Control Issues
Sunlight streams through the cabin's windows, painting golden patterns across the rumpled sheets.
I stretch languidly, every muscle in my body gloriously sore.
Memories of last night flood back in vivid detail—strong hands pinning my wrists above my head, hot breath against my neck, whispered commands that made me shiver with desire.
My body still hums with the aftershocks of pleasure so intense I forgot my own name.
Who would have thought the laid-back resort owner could be so... commanding? So attuned to exactly what I needed before I even knew myself?
The space beside me is empty, though the sheets still hold his warmth.
I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in his pillow to inhale the intoxicating scent of pine and musk.
A smile curls my lips as I recall how thoroughly he dismantled every wall I'd built, how completely I surrendered control to him.
The aroma of fresh coffee pulls me from the haze of sleep and soreness. I blink against the light, reluctant to leave the warm nest of blankets and the vague ache between my thighs that reminds me exactly why I'm sore in the first place.
Lucas's shirt—thick flannel, abandoned in a frenzy last night—lies crumpled nearby. I slip it on. It falls to mid-thigh, sleeves dangling past my fingertips, smelling like cedar and sex and him.
Lucas stands at the stove in the kitchen, flipping pancakes like he didn't absolutely wreck me against the bedposts six hours ago.
His back is to me—broad shoulders, jeans slung low on his hips, the waistband slightly askew like he tugged them on in a hurry.
He's barefoot, humming to himself, steam rising from a French press beside him.
Unbothered. Unapologetic.
Completely at ease in the aftermath of a night that left me half-feral and mostly incoherent.
"Good morning." My voice is huskier than intended, still raw from hours of begging and gasping and screaming his name.
He turns, those penetrating blue eyes sweeping over me in a slow appraisal that makes heat bloom across my skin. A knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Morning." He flips another pancake without looking. "Sleep well?"
"Not much." I attempt a casual tone that doesn't quite land. "Someone kept me busy."
His laugh is low and sensual, stirring embers I thought thoroughly extinguished. "No complaints were registered at the time." He pours a mug of coffee and hands it to me.
"None whatsoever." I grab the coffee, grateful for something to anchor me. The mug's still warm, the brew strong and black. Exactly how I need it.
I take a sip. He watches me over his shoulder.
"You moaned louder than the wind last night," he says casually. "Might've scared off the storm."
Heat floods my cheeks. I roll my eyes and will my body not to react to the memory of his mouth on me. Again. And again.
"We need to talk about the wedding."
His expression shifts, the playful lover retreating behind the mask of the relaxed resort owner. "Before breakfast?"
"We've lost a day already, and with the storm projected to last another three, that puts us dangerously close to?—"
"A wedding that's still four days away." He slides a plate of pancakes across the counter. "Everything will get done, Amelia."
His tone is maddeningly relaxed. Infuriating. Like the whole world can pause while he makes pancakes and plans his next round of sex.
I try to focus on the pancakes. Not on how he moves. Not on how good his arms look flexing when he flips a pancake. Not on the way his jeans hang just low enough that I can see the dip of muscle leading?—
"You don't understand." The pancakes look delicious, but anxiety has already begun its familiar crawl up my spine. "Even if the roads clear tomorrow, we've lost critical setup time. The florists need to begin arrangements, and the lighting crew needs to install the custom fixtures, the?—"
He cuts me off, stepping closer, coffee mug still in hand like we're chatting about the weather.
"And all of that will still be there," he says, voice low and maddeningly calm, "after pancakes… after I bend you over the counter… and after shower sex."
My mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.
"You're impossible," I manage, barely keeping my voice even.
He takes a sip of coffee, then nods toward the plate he made me. "Either eat your pancakes…" He leans in close, lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Or bend over."
My knees threaten to give out. My nipples pebble beneath his shirt. And he knows it.
Our eyes lock across the counter. Part of me—the part still buzzing from his touch—wants to yield. The other part— the professional event planner responsible for a multi-million-dollar wedding—cannot.
"I need to make a list at least." I reach for my phone, abandoned on the counter last night, when his kisses rendered technology irrelevant.
Lucas sighs, sliding a fork beside my plate. "You don't know how to stop, do you?"
The words sting more than they should. "Some of us can't afford to be so... relaxed."
"Is that what you think I am? Relaxed?" Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "You, of all people, should know better after last night."
Heat floods my cheeks as images from our encounter flash through my mind—the controlled power in his movements, the meticulous attention to every detail of my pleasure, the unwavering focus that left me breathless.
The cabin's lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize. Lucas glances toward the ceiling, frowning.
"Generator's struggling in the cold." He moves toward the window, peering out at the accumulated snow. "If it fails, we'll need to move back to the main building and rough it by the fireplace."
"Another complication." I push my barely-touched breakfast aside, anxiety superseding hunger. "We should check the resort. Make sure there's no damage from the storm."
Lucas regards me silently for a long moment, then nods. "Finish your coffee, at least. I'll get dressed."
He disappears into the bedroom, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and cooling pancakes. The spell of last night feels increasingly distant as reality reasserts itself.
What was I thinking, falling into bed with a man whose relaxed approach to business directly threatens my career? One night of mind-blowing sex doesn't change the fundamental conflict between us.
And yet, my body still tingles with the ghost of his touch. The memory of his voice, rough with desire, whispering exactly what he planned to do to me...
I shake my head, forcing my attention to the storm outside. The snow has stopped for now, though the accumulation looks significant. Drifts pile against the cabin's windows, transforming the world into a crystalline fortress of white.
Beautiful, but isolating.
Much like the connection we shared last night—intense but temporary, a product of extraordinary circumstances and steamy chemistry rather than any real compatibility.
Lucas returns dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, hair still damp from a quick shower. He tosses me a bundle of clothing.
"These will be too big, but they're warm. The path to the main building is covered, but the snow's deep."
I retreat to the bathroom to change, grateful for the moment alone to compose myself. The woman in the mirror looks different somehow—cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright with lingering satisfaction.
I barely recognize her.
Dressed in his borrowed clothing—jeans rolled at the ankles, sweater slipping off one shoulder—I emerge to find Lucas by the door, pulling on heavy boots.
"Ready?" He holds out a thick parka. His expression is neutral.
He watches me cross the room, his eyes scanning over the oversized clothes hanging off my body—his clothes. And for the first time since waking, the easy confidence he's worn like a second skin… falters.
"You didn't finish your breakfast," he says, voice cool.
"Wasn't hungry." I tug the sweater's hem down self-consciously. "Too much on my mind."
"Right. The wedding." His jaw tightens. Something in his tone makes me glance at him, really look. He's not smiling. His gaze is distant. Shielded. "Guess I read the room wrong."
"It's not that," I start, then stop. Because it is that. At least partly.
Last night was mind-shattering, yes. But this morning? We're back to reality, and reality looks like a checklist with too many moving parts and a man who flips pancakes while casually threatening to tie me up again.
I reach for the parka, but he doesn't let go.
"I didn't expect flowers and promises, Amelia." His gaze meets mine, steady. "But I also didn't expect you to pretend last night didn't happen."
"It's not that." I stiffen.
The words come too fast. Too sharp.
Because if I don't say them fast, I'll start thinking about what last night actually was.
Not a hookup. Not a release.
It was… everything I crave but never ask for.
The edge I always chase.
Not sweetness. Not softness.
Control.
Total surrender.
And not the kind dressed up with safe words and candlelight.
No—real domination. No mercy. No pause.
No holding back.
He did things to me I've never let anyone do.
Because no one's ever been able to take it that far without making it feel fake.
Until him.
Last night was the closest I've ever come to being completely undone… and feeling safe in the ruin.
But I can't say that. Not to him. Not when I know this means something very different to him than it does to me. Or maybe that's just what I want to believe.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.
"Last night was… nice."
"Nice?" His voice drops. "You jump into bed with strangers all the time, then? Let them tie you up, fuck you until you sob, fall asleep wearing their shirt?"
My breath catches. My lips part.
I can't speak.
He steps closer—not threatening. Just there. Solid. Unshakable. Heat radiating off him like the fire we never finished last night.
"There's scratching an itch," he says, softer now. "And then there's what happened last night. What you let me do to you… It was more than… nice ."
"I'm sorry. I'm just focused on my to-do list."
His eyes lock on mine. "Are you really going to stand there and tell me last night meant nothing?"
I shove my arms into the parka, fingers fumbling at the sleeves, the guilt hitting sharp under my ribs.
"It was chemistry, Lucas. Intense, overwhelming, and insanely hot chemistry. But that's all."
His smile is tight. Clipped. "Casual as mind-blowing sex can be between two very… compatible people."
"Exactly."
He studies me for a beat, then shakes his head like he sees through every carefully rehearsed line.
"I think the only thing we can agree on here," he mutters, "is that's a lie."