Chapter 2
Chapter Two
F ox
The loft is a battlefield. Not in the dramatic sense, but every glance, every word, feels like a calculated move. And right now, the war is over the thermostat.
I sit on the sofa later her first night in my space, legs sprawled out, laptop balanced on my knees working on updating accounts for the garage. The air is crisp, like it should be—because I keep the damn thermostat set at fifty-five. It’s how I work best. Always has been. The cold keeps my head clear, my body sharp.
I hear her before I see her. The soft shuffle of her steps against the hardwood floor.
“What in the actual Arctic tundra is happening in here?” Amelia’s voice rings out, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. She steps into the living room, bundled up in a ridiculous mountain of layers—my flannel wrapped around her body, a furry blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, her tiny hands clutching a steaming mug of tea.
“Fifty-five degrees,” I reply without looking up from the laptop. “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” Her voice rises an octave, and I risk a glance at her. She’s a vision of outrage, her cheeks flushed and her nose tinged pink from the chill. “Fox, I can see my breath in here. Are you trying to turn me into a popsicle my first night? Is that your plan to freeze me out–” she stops abruptly.
Her eyes widen, and it takes me a second to realize her gaze has dropped lower—right to where my naked junk is on full display for her greedy eyes. I’m well-endowed, there’s no doubt about it, but this girl is looking at me like she’s never seen a dick before. Then it occurs to me–could she really be innocent? A virgin? I shake the thought of her untouched innocence from my head. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I keep thinking like this.
I smirk, closing the laptop and setting it on the coffee table, enjoying the way her eyes are taking me in. “I run hot.”
“You sure do,” she mutters, then snaps her head up, her face a shade redder. “But this is ridiculous. Normal people set their thermostat to seventy-two. You know, a temperature where your roommate doesn’t get frostbite.”
“I’m not normal.” I lean back, stretching an arm over the back of the sofa, enjoying the way her eyes dart nervously as if she’s afraid my half-hard dick might bite her. “And I don’t have a roommate. I have you.”
She narrows her eyes, clutching her tea like it’s a weapon. “Don’t tempt me to spill this on you.”
I laugh, the sound low and rumbling. “Relax, sunshine. You’ll get used to it.”
“Used to it?” She steps closer, her bare feet hesitant on the icy floor. “Fox, I’m pretty sure penguins would object to these conditions.”
“Come warm up, then.” I pat the cushion beside me, raising an eyebrow. “Jet won’t bite,” I gesture to the sleeping dog near the fireplace, “I can’t make any promises for myself though.”
Her lips press into a line, a mix of irritation and intrigue flashing in her eyes as she glances from the dog to my eyes. She doesn’t move right away, but I see the slight shift in her stance, the way she clutches the blanket tighter. Finally, she huffs and sits on the far edge of the sofa, as far from me as the furniture allows.
“You know,” she says, her tone overly sweet, “I could crank the thermostat up to eighty while you sleep. Turn this place into a sauna.”
“And I’d wake up, open some windows, and turn it right back down,” I reply, my smirk growing. “So unless you want to find yourself living in an igloo, I suggest you don’t.”
Her jaw drops, and the look of horror and fascination on her face is priceless. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Her laugh bursts out, sharp and disbelieving, and I can’t help but grin at the sound. She tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders and leans back, her legs curled beneath her. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re soft.” My eyes drift to the way her flannel-clad arms poke out from under the blanket. My flannel, oversized and swallowing her curvy frame. “Cute, but soft.”
She scoffs, her nose wrinkling in that way that makes her look like she’s holding back a smile. “I’ll have you know I’ve survived snowstorms in the Andes and desert nights in the Sahara. I can handle cold.”
I chuckle, the sound rough in my chest. “Sure you can, sunshine. That’s why you’re sitting there like an Eskimo in my living room.”
Her glare is fiery, and for a second, I think she’s going to toss her tea at me after all. Instead, she leans forward, setting the mug on the table, and stands.
“Oh, you want to see how tough I am?” she says, dropping the blanket dramatically.
My gaze sweeps over her, taking in the long, bare legs beneath the flannel. My flannel. Damn. My new roommate is a sight for sore eyes.
“I’m not going to stop you,” I say, my voice dropping. “Show me.”
She marches to the thermostat like a woman on a mission, her determination palpable. She punches the buttons, setting the temperature to seventy-five with an exaggerated flourish. Then she turns to me, hands on her hips, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
“There. Now we’ll see who’s soft.”
I tilt my head, rising slowly from the couch and her eyes widen again, darting to my bare chest, down to my heavy cock hanging between my thighs.
“You should be careful, Amelia,” I say, stepping closer, my voice low and deliberate. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her bravado faltering for just a second. “You’re the one who started it.”
I’m standing in front of her now, close enough to see the flutter of her lashes, the way her breath hitches as I lean in. “I don’t play games, Princess. I win them.”
Her lips part, her retort caught somewhere between her brain and her tongue. She steps back, bumping into the wall, and I let my smirk grow as I rest a hand on the wall beside her, caging her in, punching the thermostat back down to fifty-five, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Still think you can handle the cold?” I ask, my voice a rough whisper.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, all the banter, all the teasing, falls away. The air between us is electric, charged with something neither of us is willing to name. Her lips curve into a small, defiant smile.
“I think I can handle you,” she says, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.
Damn. The city girl has balls.
My other hand finds her waist, my fingers brushing the fabric of the flannel. She shivers under my touch, and it’s not from the cold.
“We’ll see about that,” I murmur, my thumb tracing slow circles against her side.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then she ducks under my arm, stepping away with a laugh that’s half-nervous, half-challenging. “Nice try, Fox,” she says pressing the button to crank the heat right back up. She grabs the blanket and wraps it around herself again. “But you’re going to have to do better than that.”
I watch her retreat to the other side of the room, her hips swaying just enough to make me clench my jaw. She glances back, her smirk infuriatingly smug.
“Enjoy your arctic palace,” she says, plopping onto the sofa and pulling the blanket tight.
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of me. Damn woman. She’s going to be the death of me.
But as I settle back onto the couch, the distance between us palpable but charged, I can’t bring myself to mind. Let her think she’s won this round. The thermostat war is far from over.
And if it means more moments like this—more fire, more sparks—then maybe I’ll keep the temperature right where it is. For now.
“Damn, Princess,” I drawl, letting my voice dip low. “How’re you gonna handle having just one bed in this place?”
Her cheeks flame red, and I bite back a grin. She’s too easy to fluster, and it’s quickly becoming my favorite pastime.
“I—uh—what?” she stammers, her grip on Buttercup tightening. The cat gives an annoyed meow, flicking her tail, but Amelia doesn’t seem to notice.
“You heard me,” I say. “Just one bed. Looks like we’re gonna end up real cozy tonight.”
Her eyes widen, and for a moment, I think she might drop the cat. Buttercup, bless her temperamental soul, twists out of Amelia’s grasp and lands gracefully on the floor before stalking off to her corner. Jet lifts his head from the fireplace, but doesn’t move. So far, he’s been a good boy about our new roommate situation. I take a step closer to her, watching as Amelia’s gaze darts everywhere but at me.
“You’re kidding,” she says finally, her voice higher than usual. “No air mattress? No cot, no… anything?”
“Couch is too small,” I say, “and no air mattress. Guess it’s just you, me, and that bed in the loft.”
She sputters, her hands clenching at her sides. “That’s ridiculous. You… you can’t expect?—”
“Relax, Princess.” I chuckle, the sound low and rough. “I’ll take the couch if that’s what will make you comfortable. I’m not a complete heathen.”
Her shoulders sag with relief, but there’s still a spark of indignation in her eyes. “Good. Because I was about to demand you take the floor.”
“Demand, huh? You sure you’re in a position to make demands? No car, no clothes, no good sense considering you came all the way out to my mountain to be my bride…”
Her breath hitches, and she finally meets my gaze. There it is—the fire, the challenge I’ve come to expect from her. It’s intoxicating.
“Maybe not,” she admits, her voice soft but steady. “What are you, afraid to be my husband? Thought you were a man who stands by his obligations?”
The words hang between us, heavier than either of us expects. Her attempt at brushing it off with a shrug doesn’t fool me. I grunt, giving her a slow once-over, and something about the way she shifts under my gaze—equal parts defiant and unsure—sends a thrill down my spine that lands straight in my balls.
“Right,” I say finally. “Husband and wife.”
Her lips part as if she wants to say something, but instead, she bends down and scoops Buttercup back into her arms. The cat immediately starts purring, and Amelia buries her face in the fur, clearly using her as a shield.
I lean in just enough to make her tilt her head up. “Tell you what–I’ll be a gentleman, for now, but one bed or not, you’re gonna have to learn how to share, Amelia.”
With that, I brush past her, my smirk widening as I hear her muttering something under her breath.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sprawled out on the couch, staring at the ceiling and regretting my decision to be a “gentleman.” The couch is about as comfortable as lying on a pile of scrap metal, and my back is already screaming in protest. Buttercup, of course, has claimed the corner of the couch as her throne, watching me with those unblinking eyes like she’s judging my life choices.
I hear soft footsteps above me, followed by the creak of the loft floor. Amelia’s silhouette appears at the edge of the stairs, her flannel-covered form illuminated by the dim light of the lamp. My flannel. I can’t help the way my eyes trace her legs, bare and smooth, the fabric hitting just high enough to make my thoughts stray.
“You look ridiculous down there,” she says, her voice teasing but quiet. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I grunt, shifting to get comfortable. Buttercup lets out a hiss, clearly annoyed at my movement, and I glare at the cat. “Your pet, on the other hand, is a tyrant.”
“She’s sweet,” Amelia says, descending the stairs and walking toward me. “You just don’t understand her.”
“She hates me.”
“She tolerates you,” she corrects, standing over me with her hands on her hips. “And she’s got a good read on people, so I’d say that’s a compliment.”
I sit up, rubbing the back of my neck. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
She hesitates, fiddling with the hem of the flannel. “I, uh… I can’t sleep.”
“And you think staring at me is gonna help?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “No. But I figured I’d at least make sure you’re not dying of hypothermia.”
“I told you, I run hot.”
Her gaze flickers, and I can see the way her throat bobs as she swallows. “Well, it’s not exactly warm down here.”
“Neither’s the bed up there,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to drag me back to the loft?”
Her cheeks flush, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I stand, stretching to my full height, and watch as her eyes widen just a fraction. “If you’re that worried about me, Sugar, why don’t we solve both our problems?”
Her brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
“One bed,” I say simply. “We’ll share it. No big deal.”
Her jaw drops, and I swear I can see the war waging in her head. Finally, she sighs, clearly resigning herself to the inevitable. “Fine. But no funny business.”
I grin, motioning for her to lead the way. “Whatever you say.”
Back in the loft, the bed feels smaller than I remember. Amelia curls up on one side, clutching the quilt to her chest like a barrier between us. I lie on my back, my arms folded behind my head, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from her side of the bed with her damn cat nestled up near my armpit.
The silence stretches, heavy and charged, until I can’t resist.
“Your pussy’s already addicted to me,” I say, my voice low and teasing.
She gasps, her head whipping around to glare at me. “Excuse me?”
I nod toward Buttercup. “Your cat. She’s been glued to me since you brought her here.”
Amelia groans, covering her face with her hands. “You’re impossible.”
And then, Jet climbs into my bed, snuggling up against Amelia and whining for some attention from her.
I chuckle, the sound rumbling in the quiet room. “You walked into this, Sugar. Don’t act surprised.”
She gives Jet a quick scratch behind his ears, her laughter finally breaks through, soft and genuine, and for a moment, the tension eases. She turns to face me, her expression still half-exasperated, half-amused.
“Goodnight, Fox,” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.
“Goodnight, Amelia.”
I close my eyes, a smirk still playing on my lips, and let the warmth of her presence lull me to sleep.