CHAPTER 22
Evander
Phoebe is in a vulnerable state. Recovering from hypothermia. Exhausted. Likely overwhelmed. The girl almost died, for fuck’s sake.
She’s under my protection. She’s my responsibility. I’ve told her to trust me.
But I’m aware of what’s going on inside that pretty head of hers. That's the part I don’t know how to deal with.
I caught her looking at me again. Her eyes were filled with longing—and not the kind that can be satisfied with just one kiss.
That’s the real problem. From what I’ve surmised, Phoebe’s still a virgin. She thinks she wants me, but has no idea what that would entail. And if she got me, she wouldn’t be able to handle me.
So that’s her side of the equation.
Here’s mine: Despite Phoebe’s vulnerability and innocence, I want her. Bad. I suppose that makes me a complete bastard.
She may not know what she’s asking for, but I know what I want. I want it all. And I’d happily take it.
But not here and now. Not under these circumstances. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair to her.
If I were to be her introduction to sexual pleasure, I’d need to be damn sure she was ready for me. I’d want it to be a slow, incremental process. I’d need to take my time with her, guide her, and encourage her while I protect her from any kind of harm.
The experience would have to be perfect. Because she’ll lose her virginity once in this lifetime. It should be something she can look back on with a smile and a sigh.
I want that for her. A woman that kind and good-natured deserves nothing less.
I place my hand on the latch and step inside. It’s silent. I see the firelight flickering on the other side of the tarps.
I take off all my outerwear, staying as quiet as I can while my mind continues to spin.
In a few moments, I’ll be sliding under the covers with Phoebe. I’ll be sleeping with her. Now would be a good time to remind myself of what’s important here.
Responsibility.
Protection.
Trust.
Nothing more.
I place more logs on the fire and heat up a pan of water. While it warms, I look over my shoulder to Phoebe. She’s sound asleep, on her side facing the fire, the blankets pulled snug around her.
Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. I can just make out the freckles across her nose and the rise and fall of her breath. Her lips are parted just the tiniest bit. Such a soft pink.
I look away. Why torture myself? Where’s the benefit in that? What’s the point of admiring something I can’t have?
Responsibility, protection, trust… it’s my new mantra. I sound like I’m selling fucking home and auto insurance.
The water is heated. I grab a towelette and soap from the supplies, then carry them along with the warm water into the icy-cold back room. I pull the curtain, pour the water into an old ceramic wash bowl I found in a cabinet, and give myself a quick cleanup.
By quick, I mean lightning fast, since I’d prefer not to freeze my balls off. Just the essentials. I’d like to spare Phoebe the side effects of a day’s worth of climbing, shoveling, digging, and axe-wielding. Even in bitter cold, I’m the kind of man who sweats it out.
I dry off on my T-shirt, then put on my thermal underwear once more. I won’t be much to look at during our brief blizzard adventure, but Phoebe has seen me well-dressed plenty of times. She knows I have style.
And anyway, who cares what I look like or what I’m wearing? This isn’t some kind of reality TV dating show. It’s real life. Realer than real.
I remember what Cal said when I first told him I planned to follow him and Finn into the Navy and then become a SEAL. I asked him to tell me about the biggest lesson he’d learned up to that point.
He thought about it a moment and said, “When you’re in the shit, your world shrinks down to a pinprick of attention. The pointless stuff falls away. All you see is what’s right in front of you and who’s most important to you, and then you do your job.”
He was right, as Cal often is.
I’m in the shit right now, for sure. And Phoebe is the only thing I see and the person most important to me. My job is her wellbeing. Everything else has fallen away.
Seeing it like that makes it pretty simple.
I hang up my wet coveralls and shirt near the fire, then check the logs one last time. The flue seems to be holding together, so for now at least, it’s all clear. Still safe.
Now I have to decide where I should situate myself. Do I lie in front of Phoebe, providing a shield in case a log should dislodge or a spark carry? Or do I spoon her from behind, where I can warm her back while the fire warms her front?
I decide on the second option. I’ll just do what I’ve done thousands of times before—let my body rest while my mind stays half awake, alert to any potential danger.
I’ll put out any fires. Literally.
I grab the emergency blanket from the couch and walk around behind Phoebe, sliding down next to her and on top of the old rug.
There’s no point in tugging at the blankets so we can share. That would only wake her up and I know she’s exhausted. So I press my front to her back and pull the space blanket over both of us. I’ll be fine. If I get cold I’ll just suck it up.
I’ve survived far worse.
I slip my arm around her waist and pull her close. I rest my chin on top of her head. She snuggles into me as if it’s a perfectly natural thing to do. She fits like she was made for me.
I inhale the mellow, feminine scent that’s already become familiar to me. I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s Phoebe’s scent.
I feel the rise and fall of her body in sleep, and I allow the relief to flood through me. She’s really going to make it out of this without a scratch.
How that happened, I’ll never understand. It doesn't make the slightest bit of sense to me.
The harsh realities of tactical rescue have been beaten into my head for years. I know how that shit works. She shouldn’t have survived. I didn’t expect her to.
It seemed like too much to ask for.
But I asked anyway. And I received. Part of the miracle, I guess.
I’ll take it.
She makes the cutest little moan and cuddles up tighter against me. Her firm, round ass presses directly into my groin.
There’s no fucking way I’ll be able to fall asleep in this position. But I’ll put a stop to this perfectly normal biological response because I don’t have time for it.
I’m not the type of dude who gives his dick a name and then claims that Captain Blackbeard—that sly old horndog—has a mind of his own!
No thanks.
I already have a mind—the gray matter inside my skull and the consciousness, perception, reason, emotion, and memory it sends out and receives. I’ll stick with that.
Sure, my nameless dick may want what it can’t have. The greedy motherfucker may be moving at flank speed toward the safe harbor of Phoebe Travis, but my dick isn’t at the helm. My brain is. And nobody’s going anywhere.
I let my eyes close.
Phoebe suddenly shifts. She gasps. I feel her slowly twist around in my arms to face me.
“Evander,” she whispers. “You must be freezing. Here.”
I’m not sure why I make the decision I do, but I pretend I’m asleep and keep my eyes closed.
Maybe I worry she could ask for something she doesn’t really want, need, or know how to handle.
Maybe that’s a conversation better suited for a time when we’re home, safe, and not in such a heightened state of uncertainty.
Perceived danger can make people do shit they wouldn’t normally do.
So I keep my eyelids shut and my breath deep and regular. I’m curious to see what her next move will be.
Phoebe carefully extracts my arm from her waist.
All right, fair enough. Message received and understood.
Then she yanks the blankets from under her body and rises up, carefully draping them over my side and reaching around to tuck them in behind my back. Finally, she brings the space blanket over us both once more.
Three layers of wool no longer separate her body from mine. And I can feel that she’s wearing only her thermal leggings, turtleneck, and my sweater.
She’s still in my sweater.
I like the idea of her sweet, soft body inside my sweater. I like it too much. And I have no business using those four words in the same sentence: inside, sweet, soft, body.
That’s when she throws me another curve ball. She doesn’t choose to spoon with her back to my front. Instead, she stays facing me, reaches for my arm, and returns it to her waist.
She raises her soft, warm lips to where my jaw meets my neck, and deposits a gentle kiss.
“Thank you for being such a good man, Evander.” Her warm whisper caresses my skin. “Sleep well.”
Phoebe snuggles tight to me, burying her face into my chest. “How do you always smell so good?”
Then she goes still.
My eyes fly open, but I dare not move a muscle. I feel her body release into sleep again in just minutes.
I lie there wondering how the fuck I’m supposed to navigate this. Phoebe’s heart is tender, and her affection is wholesome. Her trust in me is absolute.
And she’s under the impression that I’m a very good man.
Holy hell.
Responsibility, protection, trust.
Ask me how bundling can save you hundreds!