Chapter 7-Daniela
The one thing about this cabin I really like is the floor to ceiling windows along the far end of the cabin.
It gives the perfect view of the forest behind us, and the way the windows curl into the ceiling seamlessly like a skylight without the frame is simply breathtaking.
But even with all that mountain beauty on display, with this prime view of actual Thanksgiving snow—a truly freakish thing this time of year—I’m hardly appreciative.
All I feel is hot.
Like I’m sweating.
Actually sweating.
This stupid fleece hoodie is clinging to me like a desperate ex, and the matching sweatpants?
They're basically a sauna with a drawstring.
I’m marinating in my own panic and pride while he—the literal human furnace next to me—is lying there without a single care in the goddamn world with his mega cock just flapping in the breeze.
Tank Jackson is still as a statue, one arm tucked behind his head, bare chest on full display, and his dick? That gorgeous, nine and half inch, girthy fucker?
It’s just there.
Like he’s posing for a calendar called Rugby Gods and Their Natural Habitat.
The fireplace isn’t helping either.
Neither is the fact that I’m 96% sure my nipples could cut glass.
And my ovaries? Yeah, they’re doing cartwheels. Cheering. Throwing confetti. Shooting flares into the sky, like they’re hoping to be rescued.
Useless little traitors.
This whole sleeping in the same bed but acting like we’re not two sex-starved people with a past and unresolved tension situation is a joke.
The worst kind.
The kind I wrote.
Pillow wall. No touching. Be professional.
Right.
“Why are you squirming over there?” he rumbles, voice low and smooth, like warm honey over gravel. “You restless, Sweetheart?”
God. That accent. That pet name. It should be illegal.
“I’m fine,” I snap.
But I’m not.
I’m one hoodie-flap away from a full mental breakdown.
“Yeah, you are,” he says, and I can hear him—his hand sliding down his skin.
Oh my fuck. Is he—Gulp.
Is he about to touch himself?
I make a decision.
A stupid, reckless, hormone-driven decision.
But whatever because I have to do something.
I stand up, heart hammering in my chest like it’s trying to warn me.
Tank’s dark eyes flick toward me, and I try to ignore the fact that one fist is gripping his cock as he stares, but I look—how could I not?
I look hard.
And I swallow.
Then, that’s when I do it.
Slowly. Deliberately. Tauntingly.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my sweatpants, and I slide them down my legs.
He sits up so fast I almost laugh.
His biceps flex.
His jaw ticks.
“What are you doing?” he growls, voice rougher now.
I shrug like this isn’t a calculated act of war.
“Just getting comfy. We’re both adults. And it is warm in here.”
My tone is casual. My pulse is not.
And then, with full dramatic flair, I reach for the hem of my hoodie.
His eyes widen.
“You wouldn’t,” he breathes.
Oh, I would.
I lift it up and over my head, revealing the lacy tank I forgot I packed and my very tiny lacy boyshorts underneath.
They’re pink.
Of course they’re pink.
And the lace is so fine, they’re practically sheer.
Yep.
My life is a cosmic joke.
Tank swears under his breath.
I toss the hoodie to the floor like a mic drop.
“There,” I say, crawling back atop the covers like I didn’t just detonate a sexual tension bomb. “Isn’t that better?”
He stares at the ceiling like it owes him money.
I try not to look at him.
Really. I try.
But I give in and roll to my side.
Tank is looking at me now.
He’s all muscle and tanned skin and shadows. And he’s so still.
Like he’s meditating.
Or dying inside.
I thought two could play at this game.
But I think it’s more like two could lose.
He shifts onto his side.
The pillow wall shuffles.
I shift onto my back for a second, then I return to my previous spot.
Another pillow topples.
Our knees almost brush.
I roll the other way.
The mattress dips, losing another pillow.
This bed? King sized?
Nah. It feels small. Tiny even.
The air?
Hotter. Tighter.
The tension?
Suffocating.
And when I finally close my eyes and almost convince myself I’ve won this ridiculous game of flirty chicken, I feel it.
Heat.
A hand.
His hand.
Not on me, but near me. So close it hums.
“If we’re both so comfy,” he murmurs, voice thick, “why’s your heart beating like that, Dani?”
I exhale.
Because I am not comfy.
I am combusting.
And I think I might be done torturing myself after all.