Chapter 8
WEST
Emme’s curled up on the couch with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and tucked under her chin just like she was this morning.
The fire’s low now, mostly coals, throwing slow-moving light across her face.
Her hair spills in loose golden waves over her shoulders, catching the glow every time she moves.
Every now and then she glances toward the kitchen and smiles at the sight of me cooking.
“You always this domestic?” she calls over the crackle of the pan as I set the steaks into the hot butter and herbs to sear.
“Only when there’s company worth impressing.”
Her cheeks pinken. “So just me, then?”
“Don’t get cocky,” I tease, flipping the steaks.
“Too late.” She grins into her blanket.
Her blanket.
That’s mine—on my couch, in my cabin—but somehow it feels like it belongs to her now.
The whole place does. The couch has her shape in it, her scent, her laughter sunk into the fabric like it’s been there for years instead of a day.
I glance over at her again and it hits me hard and sudden how easily she’s made this place feel like a home.
The scents of thyme and garlic fill the room, mixing with the faint sweetness of sugar still lingering from earlier.
I open a cabinet, searching for something to drink that isn’t the Glenlivet she thinks tastes like an old boot.
In the back corner, behind an old tin of cocoa and a jar of something that might’ve once been jam, I find a dusty bottle of red wine.
The label’s faded, cork dry and cracked, but it’ll do.
She eyes the bottle as I carry it over along with the only other clean coffee mug. “I didn’t take you for a wine guy.”
“I’m not.” I twist the corkscrew in carefully.
Her smile softens as she watches me pour. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” I say, filling the mug and handing it to her.
She cradles it in both hands, gaze dropping to the swirl of dark red inside. “I mean it, West. You’re making me dinner, you found wine, given me multiple orgasms… You’ve done all this, and I haven’t lifted a finger. It’s…nice. I guess I’m not used to nice.”
I walk the short distance back to the kitchen, set the wine bottle down, and lean one hip against the counter.
“I’m doing these things because I want to.
” I pause, catch her gaze, make sure she hears this next part.
“You deserve it, Emme. All of it. Hell, you deserve more than dinner and a dusty bottle of wine.”
She tilts her head, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight. “More orgasms?”
Yes. Now!
I can’t help the surge of heat that races down my spine. “Most definitely.”
She takes a sip and wiggles deeper into the blanket. “I should probably find something to wear.” She taps her chin and narrows her eyes at me playfully. “Unfortunately, somebody completely shredded my bra and panties.”
My cock twitches with the memory of her perky tits bouncing as I fucked her on this very countertop.
“I’ve got something,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel and crossing the room to the dresser I built myself.
I pull out an old T-shirt and a pair of soft drawstring shorts.
“These should be more comfortable,” I tell her, setting the bundle on the arm of the couch. “They’ll drown you, but they’re clean.”
Her smile is bright, teasing. “You just want me in your clothes.”
The thought sends a low hum through my chest that I pretend is just a laugh. The wolf in me stirs anyway, a quiet growl of approval in the back of my mind.
She lifts the shirt first presses the fabric to her nose. The move is more instinct than anything, but when she breathes in, her shoulders soften, and a quiet sound slips from her throat.
My pulse kicks. The wolf reacts, but I shove it down and head back into the kitchen to focus on the pan still cooling on the stove. If I stay here, if I watch her revel in my scent, see more of her smooth skin when the blanket slips away, I’ll starve to death just to be inside her again.
A few minutes later she pads into the kitchen on fuzzy pink socks, the hem of the shirt brushing her thighs, the shorts hanging down past her knees.
“Looks good.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. The sight of her in my space, swallowed up in my clothes, feels dangerous in all the quiet ways—like she already belongs here, like fate has decided she does too.
She laughs, tugging at the hem. “Not so sure about that.”
I turn back to the oven before she can see what she’s doing to me. Heat rushes out as I pull the tray free, roasted broccoli and potatoes hissing in the oil. I plate the vegetables beside the steaks, one for her, one for me, and carry them to the counter.
I strike a match and light a stub of a candle I find on the shelf and set it between our plates. I tell myself it’s just for the atmosphere, but the truth is deeper. I want her to think this cabin, this dinner, that I might be worth keeping.
She climbs onto the barstool and picks up her fork and knife. When she cuts into the steak, I hold my breath, suddenly terrified that I’ve forgotten how to cook the one thing I’m good at preparing.
She chews and lets out a quiet hum. “Delicious.”
Relief escapes in a rough exhale as I pick up my own fork. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am,” she admits, grinning around another bite. “You’re not a wine guy, and you definitely don’t strike me as someone who does candlelight dinners.”
“It’s usually just me. And I don’t bother lighting candles for myself.”
She studies me, fork suspended halfway to her mouth. The playfulness drains out of her expression, replaced by something softer. “Well, then I’m glad I’m with you.”
I swallow, glance down at the counter, then back at her. “You don’t know—” I start, then have to clear my throat. “You don’t know how good it feels to have you here.”
“You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
“Good ones, I hope.”
“The best.” She takes a sip of wine, her smile crooked and unguarded. “You cook. You chop firewood. You know how to do all sorts of things with your hands. And you—” She stops herself, swallows a bite, and takes another drink.
I tilt my head. “And I…?”
She shakes her head quickly, but the movement only draws attention to the flush rising in her cheeks. “Nothing. You just…you make it easy to forget that a world outside this cabin exists.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I glance toward the window. The last light of day bleeds through the ice still clinging to the glass, but it’s easy to see the storm has passed and the snow has stopped falling.
A strange calm settles in its place, quieting me and my wolf.
It’s peace.
No, more than that. I’m…happy. Really, ridiculously happy for the first time in longer than I can remember.
Emme and I eat quietly for a while, the scrape of forks and knives soft against the plates. Every so often she laughs at something I say, and when she does, it catches somewhere behind my ribs.
When we’re finished, I take her plate before she can move. She protests half-heartedly, as I rinse them in the sink and slide them into the old dishwasher that barely fits beneath the counter.
“You don’t have to do everything, you know,” she says, pouring herself another mug of wine.
“For you, I do,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I want to.”
Emme goes quiet. When I turn back around, she’s watching me over the rim of her mug, gaze soft and unreadable. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“I believe you.”
Something about the way she says it knocks the air from my lungs. It’s the trust in her tone, the quiet certainty. My chest tightens, and I don’t know what to do with all of it—the warmth, the want, the ache that feels a lot like need.
I clear my throat, trying to pull myself back to something solid. “Storm’s stopped,” I say, nodding toward the window. “I’ll be able to take you home in the morning.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
The quiet stretches, and a shadow that looks a lot like sadness crosses her face.
She sets her mug down and slides off the barstool, my t-shirt swishing around her thighs. “But it’s not morning right now,” she chimes. “And there’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”
I arch a brow as she crosses the cabin to her bag. “Should I be worried?”
“Trust me,” she laughs as she rummages through its contents. She pulls out a small plastic container. Hot pink vanilla frosting.
She points to the leather armchair, and I immediately comply, dropping into it as she walks toward me with a sway in her hips that punches all the air out of my lungs.
“You’re going to like this.”
She drops to her knees between my legs, unbuttons my jeans, and tugs my zipper down. My cock springs free, already hard just from the way she’s looking at me.
She dips her fingers into the sticky, glossy frosting and paints it across the head of my cock with a slow, teasing swirl.
“Oh, fuck,” I grind out between clenched teeth.
Emme leans in and swipes her tongue over the tip, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. The frosting smears across her lips, glistening hot pink as she takes me in deeper.
Warm, wet suction wraps around me and I groan, hand dropping to her hair.
Sticky frosting clings to her lips, her chin, the corners of her mouth as she bobs her head. It’s messy and enthusiastic and perfect. Her hands grip my thighs for leverage, and her moan vibrates around the base of my cock.
“Shit,” I rasp, hips bucking. “I’m close, little fox.”
She pulls back and runs her tongue under the base, licking up stray streaks of sugar with a pleased little sound.
I lose it.
I scoop her up without a word, kicking off my jeans as I carry her to the bed. She giggles as I drop her down on the mattress, lips still glossy pink, tongue flicking across the corner of her mouth like she’s starving for more. And those clothes I let her borrow are in my fucking way.
Like I’m unwrapping a gift, I peel the shirt off her. Then the shorts, dragging them down her soft thighs, revealing that bare pussy glistening between her legs. I tug my own shirt off and toss it aside, and her eyes darken as they rake down my chest.
“On your hands and knees,” I say.
She obeys instantly, crawling to the center of the mattress and arching her back, giving me the perfect view of her juicy ass.
Bite it.
I kneel behind her, run my hands down her sides, then grip those hips and plunge inside.
She gasps, her back bowing in a perfect fucking arch. Her pussy clenches around me like a fist, hot and soaked and so fucking tight I see stars. I bottom out, the perfect swell of her ass slapping against my hips with a sound so filthy I have to grit my teeth not to come right there.
I groan, fingers digging into her hips like I could pull her further onto my cock.
“I’ll never get over how fucking perfect you feel.” I rasp, snapping my hips forward again, hard enough to shake the whole bed.
“Fuck yes,” she whimpers.
Greedily, she rocks back into every thrust, that ass bouncing just right. Her fuzzy pink socks kick behind her—the tips of them peeking out as her legs twitch from the force of each stroke.
“Make me come, West. Make me come.”
I grip her tighter and shift my angle, tilting her hips up with one hand, the other arm wrapping around until my fingers are between her thighs. I find her clit and rub in fast, tight circles.
“Come for me,” I growl, hips driving into her faster.
She moans into the pillow, legs shaking.
And then I feel it. That perfect little flutter. The way her walls clamp down, rippling around me like her body is trying to lock me inside. Her body trembles, legs twitching, and she lets out a moan so wrecked and high it doesn’t sound real.
“That’s it,” I pant as I slow my thrusts just enough to let her ride it out. “That’s my good little fox.”
I can’t hold back anymore. I pull out just before I lose it, stroke myself until I’m right there, and then I bend down, sink my teeth into the curve of her ass, and come with a groan that tears out of my chest.
She yelps at the sudden bite, then laughs, breathless and blissed out, before collapsing onto the mattress.
I push up and head to the sink. I run the water until it’s warm and grab a washcloth.
When I come back, she’s lying there smiling up at me, eyes heavy lidded, chest rising in a slow, rhythm.
I kneel beside her and clean her gently.
Wipe away the frosting, the come, the mess we made together until only warmth remains.
Finished, I strip the used blanket off the bed and exchange it for the thick, furry one that’s draped across the couch. Then I tuck her under the covers and climb in next to her.
Emme curls toward me, pressing her face into my chest with a quiet, contented sight. I bury my face in her hair and hold her close, breathing her in—the sweetness of her skin, the faint trace of sugar that still clings there, the scent that’s already become home.
I don’t say it out loud, not yet, but the thought settles deep and certain as we both drift off to sleep—I can’t imagine this place without her. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to imagine my life without her either.