Chapter 7 Ava
SEVEN
AVA
Iwake to the steady sound of breathing and the weight of a strong arm draped over my waist. Warmth surrounds me, anchoring me in place.
Scott.
He must’ve wrapped himself around me, abandoning his spot on the edge of the mattress he desperately clung to last night.
Now, I’m curled into the cradle of his body, his naked chest welded against my back.
An impressive bulge presses firmly between my ass cheeks.
I mentally scream at myself not to rub against it.
His soft breath blows evenly against the nape of my neck, sending a jolt of electricity down my curved spine.
A large hand rests beneath the swell of my aching breast, my thin cotton cami rolled up, exposing my flesh.
Calloused fingers splay wide, like he’s desperate to touch as much skin as he can, even in his sleep.
I don’t move at first.
For a few glorious moments, I let myself enjoy our tangled limbs. The protected feeling of being held in his muscular arms soothes something deep within. A safety I haven’t felt since I got here, and I like it too damn much.
But safety’s a fleeting illusion.
Being enveloped by his strength doesn’t stop the memories from last night from rushing back like a cold wave. The shock’s enough to steal my breath.
The dream. No, not just a dream. Another nightmare. The second since walking under this roof. First, it was someone hiding in the darkness, then that awful certainty that something was outside the window, watching. Not trying to get in. Just watching.
Were they connected? Or was Scott right, and my brain was too enamored and distorted by the evening to let me get away with a restful sleep?
I shift slightly, quickly overheating now that I’m awake and all too aware of how my body’s reacting to him. I’m slick between my thighs, the thin cotton of my pajama shorts soaked through.
Scott grumbles in his sleep and pulls me closer, his arm tightening instinctively, those fingers grazing my breast, and sending a zing to my aching pussy.
I close my eyes, sighing, and let myself imagine that this is our normal. Like he always holds me as if I’m his to protect and keep safe, even when he’s dead to the world.
The old bed creaks as I slide free, and he exhales, turning onto his back, still out cold. The sheet’s at his waist. It helps display carved muscles and a dusting of dark hair across his chest. He might be in his late forties, but the man hasn’t let himself go.
My core throbs desperately for me to throw caution to the wind, crawl up the mattress, and slide his boxers free to see what he’s working with.
Instead, I let an ounce of sanity break through and lean down to grab clean clothes out of the dresser.
Backing away quietly, I all but sprint my way to the bathroom.
Every floorboard under my bare feet is colder than the last, but it does nothing to chill the raging hormones racing through my nervous system.
The mirror reveals my lack of decent sleep last night. Dark circles park beneath my eyes, ready to alert the media. I peel off my clothes, turning the water as hot as the dial can go, and step into the small shower once the steam begins to bloom against the blue tile.
I let it scald the fear off my skin. Wash away the lingering doubts clawing at my consciousness.
I close my eyes and press my hands against the tiled wall, trying to breathe past the memory of the window and the sensation of being watched. My brain won’t stop fixating on the feeling that whatever it was, it’s waiting for me.
The water runs long past my showering needs, my mind too busy flipping through ridiculous scenarios. I miss the advantage of the solo moment to take care of the waning throb between my thighs.
By the time it dawns on me, the water’s turned too cold to bear.
I shut it off, my fingers pruned, and the mirror fogged over.
The lack of sleep steals my worries about doing anything to my hair or makeup.
I pull on my cozy layers, wipe down the mirror, and leave the fan running to avoid a damp bathroom later.
In the kitchen, I move on autopilot. Coffee. Eggs. Pancakes made from a mix I found in one of the cupboards. Probably from Mr. I Come Prepared. I crack open the window and let the smell of snow drift in. Daylight paints everything with a fresh outlook. It’s almost beautiful.
Almost.
But the snow is deep. Way deeper than when I arrived yesterday. I can tell by the buildup on the window’s ledge. We’re not going anywhere. And no one’s coming.
We’ll be alone, again, and with the way my body reacted this morning, that’s a time bomb waiting to detonate.
Footsteps thump behind me. I turn as Scott stumbles into the kitchen, shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep.
He looks edible.
He scrubs a hand over his bearded jaw. “Damn. Something smells good.”
I smile at his carefree candor. “You mean besides me?” I tease playfully.
The tension between us has shifted since last night. Maybe it’s the new day with the winter sun beating through the windows, or that we both got some much-needed sleep.
His eyes flick to mine, then down my body in a way that’s not subtle. “Well, I was gonna wait until after breakfast to tell you.”
Heat blooms low in my belly, explosive and undeniable.
Is he flirting, too?
I turn back to the stove before my face betrays too much and call over my shoulder, “You sleep okay?” in hopes of changing the subject.
He doesn’t answer right away. “Yeah. I think so. You?”
I pause before flipping a pancake. “Better than I thought I would.” I lie.
He sinks against the counter beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body again.
Just a few inches, a tilt of his head, and his mouth could be on mine.
The thought sends a flicker of want straight through me.
It’s reckless and wildly inappropriate to have those thoughts about this man.
Which is exactly why I turn back to the stove before the pancakes scorch. “Thanks for staying last night,” I say, letting out a shaky little laugh. “Thought I was past needing emotional backup when things go bump in the night.”
He leans in and bumps his shoulder into mine gently, erasing the small distance I managed to reclaim. “Don’t worry about it.”
The tension crackles between us. It buzzes under my skin like a live wire, dangerous to the touch. A feeling that could either snap... or catch fire.
The smell of burnt batter curls up my nose, pulling me back to the moment. I flip the pancake with more force than necessary and use the excuse to step away from his gaze, which feels like it’s burning right through my sweatshirt.
“Looks like the snow finally stopped,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen window.
I’ve still got it propped open to air out the bacon smoke, though now the chill leaking in is a pleasant relief to my scorching skin.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “But not before it buried us in another foot or two of it. There’s no way we’re getting out today.”
“And no chance of anyone getting up here, either,” he adds, voice low and rough like he’s trying to hide his thoughts on the matter and failing.
My stomach does a slow somersault. The implication drapes over us, thick and inescapable, muffling the space like the snow piled up outside.
The fire in the corner crackles softly, its warmth radiating into the kitchen. The mingling scents of coffee, woodsmoke, and cinnamon syrup make the space feel like a dream. A dangerous dream I might just want to sink further into and let the delusions run free.
He doesn’t talk much in the morning, just picks at the food while downing enough coffee to bring color back into his face. I watch him come to life sip by sip. The sleepy edge in his eyes fades, his mouth quirking into a familiar half-smile as the caffeine kicks in.
I get it. I’m the same way. He just happened to catch me after my two cups.
“I’ll take a shower, then head out to get more wood,” he says eventually, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles ripple through the tension, and I look away too slowly. “If we’re stuck for a few more days, we might as well be warm.”
“I just hope we don’t run out of food before the snow melts.”
He glances at me with a lazy grin. “I’ve got my shotgun with me out in the Jeep. If things get that dire, I’m sure I can hunt down something for us to eat.”
I smile, but my stomach twists. Not because I’m naive to the necessities of self-sufficiency or think he couldn’t do it.
God knows Scott’s always had that capable edge to anything he does.
But the thought of him out there for hours, tracking something down, while I’m stuck in here alone, draws the nightmares back into focus.
I glance down at my half-eaten pancakes. Suddenly, no longer in the mood for their sweet, fluffy goodness.
He stands and starts clearing plates, the chair scraping against the wood floor.
I force myself to move, grabbing the syrup bottle and wiping down the counter, needing something to do with my hands.
Something to keep my mind busy. Every now and then, I catch him watching me.
It’s never for long, but long enough that my skin prickles with awareness.
When he brushes past me to rinse his plate, his arm grazes mine. Just an innocent graze, but it lights the slow burn in my belly all over again.
This can’t keep happening. I really should have focused on my needy body in the shower this morning. Maybe then I wouldn’t keep getting turned on by the graze of a pinky or quick glance.
He turns off the faucet and shakes water from his hands. “I’ll shower, then head out for that firewood.”
I nod, suddenly unable to trust my voice. My heart beats louder than it should, and I’m nervous he can hear it.
He disappears down the hall, leaving me and my lustful thoughts alone.
What the hell is happening to me?
This is Scott. The same Scott who helped my dad move me into my freshman dorm. Who once made me laugh so hard that root beer shot out of my nose. He knows how I take my coffee or that I insist on watching the same movies anytime we’re here at the cabin.
But this morning? This morning, I felt like prey under his unrelenting gaze. He didn’t make it obvious, but there was no denying it either.
This magnetic chemistry between us dances in the pauses of our conversation, in the heat behind his eyes, in the way he moves just close enough to feel like a dare.
And I feel it too. God, I feel it.
The water starts up down the hall. The rush of his shower echoes faintly through the cabin. I imagine him there, bare and steaming, water sluicing down the muscles of his back. I press my thighs together instinctively and immediately hate that I do.
This is bad.
I sweep my hands through my hair and let out a shaky breath.
The smell of coffee lingers in the air, grounding me in something real.
I busy myself and pour another warm cup to keep my hands full, pretending I don’t feel the pulse at the base of my throat pounding like a drum before I even take a swallow.
I need to get a grip.