Chapter 3 – Elizabeth
I wake to pale winter light filtering through frosted windows, turning everything silver and soft.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am, then the scent of pine and woodsmoke registers, and last night comes flooding back.
The storm. Jason. The almost-kiss that didn't happen. The way he pulled away like touching me burned him.
I feel restless.
I slip out of bed, still wearing his flannel, and pad to the window. Outside, the world is buried in fresh snow that sparkles like crushed diamonds under the early morning sun. The storm has passed, leaving everything crystalline and perfect and...
Jason stands in the clearing beside the cabin, splitting logs with an ax. He's wearing a dark flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the cold, and every time he swings, I can see the flex of muscle through the fabric—shoulders, arms, the broad plane of his back.
His breath fogs in the cold air. Snow clings to his dark hair and beard, and there's something almost primal about watching him work, all controlled strength and raw masculinity.
Heat pools low in my belly, sudden and undeniable. I want him. I wanted him last night when he touched my face in the kitchen, when he sat so close by the fire I could feel his body heat, when he looked at me like I was something precious and terrifying all at once.
And I want him now, watching him split wood in the freezing cold like some kind of mountain god who decided to take human form just to wreck me completely.
The ax comes down. Wood splits clean in half. Jason straightens, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm, and even from here I can see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes hard. I press my palm against the cold window glass, trying to cool the heat building under my skin.
It doesn't work.
The sound of his boots on the porch makes my pulse jump. I move quickly to the kitchen, trying to look casual, like I wasn't just watching him through the window like a complete creep.
When he comes inside, stamping snow from his boots, I feel his presence before I turn around.
"Morning," he says, voice rough and low.
I turn. His hair is damp with melted snow, his cheeks flushed from exertion and cold. There's a dusting of white across his shoulders, and he looks so good it actually hurts to breathe.
"Morning." My voice comes out breathier than I intend. "Coffee?"
"Yeah." He moves into the kitchen, filling the space with his size and warmth and the scent of winter air clinging to his clothes. "Thanks."
He reaches above my head to grab something from the upper cabinet—mistletoe, I realize, tied with red ribbon—and suddenly he's surrounding me, his chest nearly against my back, his arm extended over my shoulder.
I'm trapped between the counter and his body, and every nerve ending I have lights up at once.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
"Tradition." He clips the mistletoe to a hook I hadn't noticed above the doorway, but he doesn't step back. Instead, he's so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell pine sap and clean sweat and something uniquely Jason underneath it all.
His hand comes up, fingers gentle as they brush a strand of hair back from my face. The touch sends electricity straight down my spine.
"You were watching me," he says quietly.
"I was admiring the view."
His jaw tightens. "Elizabeth."
I turn to face him, and suddenly we're chest to chest, his hand still hovering near my face. His green eyes are dark with something that makes my pulse race.
"What?" I breathe.
"You're making this very difficult."
"Making what difficult?"
"Keeping my hands to myself."
Oh. Oh.
"What if I don't want you to keep your hands to yourself?" The words come out before I can stop them, bold and honest and absolutely true.
His thumb traces along my jaw, achingly slow, and I lean into the touch without meaning to. "You don't know what you're asking for," he says, but his voice has dropped an octave, gone rough and dark.
"Then show me."
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then his hand slides to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and he lowers his forehead to mine. Our breath mingles in the small space between us, and I can feel his restraint hanging by a thread.
"We should finish making coffee," he says, but he doesn't move.
"We should," I agree, and I don't move either.
His lips are so close. All I'd have to do is tilt my face up, but he steps back like he's been shocked, cold air rushing in where his warmth had been. "Cinnamon rolls," he says abruptly. "I made extra dough yesterday. We should bake them."
I blink, trying to process the whiplash of almost being kissed to suddenly discussing breakfast pastries. "Cinnamon rolls."
"Yeah." He's already moving toward the counter, pulling out the dough, not looking at me. His jaw is tight, his movements slightly jerky, and I realize he's as affected as I am.
He's just better at hiding it. Or trying to.
"Fine," I say, moving to stand beside him. "Let's make cinnamon rolls."
The dough is cool and smooth under my hands, and we work side by side in charged silence.
Jason rolls out the dough with efficiency while I mix the cinnamon sugar, and every time our elbows brush or our hands reach for the same thing, the air between us gets heavier.
"You're doing it wrong," he says when I start spreading the cinnamon mixture too thick.
"There's no such thing as too much cinnamon."
"There absolutely is." He reaches over to adjust the amount, and his hand covers mine, guiding my movements. "Like this. Even layer."
"Bossy," I mutter, but I don't pull away.
"Officious," he corrects, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Bossy means I tell you what to do. Officious means I know the right way to do things and get irritated when people do them wrong."
"That's literally the same thing."
He makes a low sound in his chest that might be a laugh, and when I look up at him, there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It transforms his whole face, softens the hard edges into something warm and approachable. I reach up without thinking and swipe icing across his jaw.
He goes completely still. "Did you just—"
"Oops." I try to look innocent and fail miserably. "Accident."
His eyes narrow, and there's something predatory in the way he sets down the spoon, turns to face me fully. "That was not an accident."
"Prove it."
Big mistake. Huge.
Before I can react, his hand darts out and catches a dollop of icing from the bowl, and then his fingers are on my neck, smearing the cold sweetness along my throat. I gasp at the sensation—cold icing, warm fingers, his touch burning everywhere it lands.
"Jason—"
"Oops," he says, voice dark with amusement. "Accident."
Then his thumb presses against the hollow of my throat, and I feel my pulse jump against his skin. His eyes track the movement, pupils dilating, and suddenly the playfulness evaporates into something else entirely.
"Elizabeth." My name is a warning. Or a plea. Maybe both.
"Yeah?"
"If you want me to stop, you need to tell me now."
I should. I should tell him to stop, to step back, to keep pretending we're just two strangers thrown together by circumstance.
But I look at him—this beautiful, grumpy, careful man who carved Christmas ornaments and makes mulled wine and looks at me like I'm something precious—and I know exactly what I want.
"Don't stop," I whisper.
He moves so fast I barely have time to process. His hands grip my hips, and then he's lifting me effortlessly onto the counter, stepping between my legs, and suddenly we're eye to eye with nothing between us but shared breath and want.
"Tell me to stop," he says again, but his hands are still on my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, and his voice says he's hoping I won't.
"Don't. Stop."
He kisses me. It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's hungry and deep and absolutely inevitable, like he's been holding back for too long and finally let go all at once.
His hands slide from my hips to my back, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against his chest, and I open for him without hesitation.
He tastes like cinnamon and coffee. His beard scrapes against my skin, rough and perfect, and when I thread my fingers into his hair, he makes a low sound that vibrates through both of us.
"God," he breathes against my mouth. "You have no idea—"
"Then show me," I say again, and this time he doesn't hesitate.
His hands find the hem of the flannel shirt and slide underneath, palms hot against my bare skin.
I arch into the touch, gasping when his fingers trace up my ribs, deliberately slow, like he's mapping every curve and dip.
When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts through my bra, I grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Off," I manage, tugging at his shirt. "This needs to be off."
He pulls back just long enough to yank the flannel over his head and toss it aside, and then he's all bare skin and muscle and warm solidity.
I run my hands over his chest, feeling the scatter of dark hair, the way his muscles jump under my touch, the rapid thud of his heart against my palm. "You're so beautiful," I whisper.
"That's my line." His hands frame my face, tilting it up so I have to look at him. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Sitting on my counter, wearing my shirt, looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to ruin you."
Heat floods through me. "Maybe I do."
His answering smile is slow and wicked and completely devastating. Then his hands are moving again, sliding under the flannel to find bare skin, and I'm arching and gasping and forgetting how to breathe.