Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Here,” he says, reaching for something beside the fire. “There’s a second poker if you need it.”
Now I’m laughing, too, even as I clutch the blanket tighter around my chest.
Safe?
Yes. So safe.
“You know I can use a knife too,” I say, lifting my chin.
He raises a brow, slightly amused.
“We used to go fishing,” I reply carefully. I don’t say my ex’s name… not in front of Owen. Not in front of anyone. He doesn’t deserve it.
“I had to learn how to gut and clean them too.” I shudder. My god, what I did for that loser…
“God,” Owen mutters, crossing his arms over that godlike chest of his. “I thought you feckin’ hated fishing.”
“I do,” I say, scrunching my nose.
His grin is huge and proud. The lights are still out, and the wind howls again—quieter now, softer.
And I like it.
I like being snowed in here.
With Owen.
No notifications. No buzzing.
No distractions from my work.
The world outside is a frozen dream, with the scent of cinnamon in the air, and the only light in the cabin from the glowing fireplace. Moonlight glints on the snow outside.
But in here—it’s warm.
He climbs back onto the couch beside me, and his arm wraps around my shoulders.
I melt into him. It’s warm and comfortable… and my eyes begin to close.
“Alright, to bed with you,” he murmurs, bending to lift me. And I let him. My hands go around his sturdy neck, my legs nestled in his arms. I savor every second of this.
I’m already dozing by the time my head hits the pillow.
I fall asleep with his chest pressed to my cheek.
And I sleep like the dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emma
When I wake, Owen’s between my legs.
“Owen,” I hiss, my cheeks flaming hot.
Oh my god.
My hips rise before I’m even fully conscious.
His mouth is everywhere, and his tongue is relentless.
My knees are over his shoulders, his beard rough against the inside of my thighs.
My pussy is spread wide for him—his tongue fucking me slow, then fast, then slow again until I’m clawing at the sheets, grasping for something to hold on to.
“You taste like mine,” he growls into my skin. His voice is muffled, low and deadly.
“You can’t…” I gasp. “Oh god. What are you— I can’t—Jesus—”
“Oh, I do believe I can…”
Two fingers slide inside me, curling… just right.
He sucks my clit hard, and I explode.
I scream.
My body convulses. I’m boneless and wrecked, and still—he doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking.
Keeps devouring.
Keeps breaking me apart until I’m limp and ruined beneath him. Then he pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Good morning, lass,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Now you’re ready to write. Unblocked, as it were?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper, dazed. “I think so.”
“You better be,” he warns, his voice playful but edged with something serious. “Are you hungry?”
I blink up at him, still trembling.
“That,” he says, his Irish brogue thick as honey, “was the breakfast appetizer.”
He disappears down the hall and returns a few minutes later with an actual tray, filled with eggs, toast, and fruit. There’s a frosted Christmas cookie and a steaming mug of tea with cinnamon sticks. It’s festive and sweet.
“You made me breakfast?” I ask, stunned. Someone was up early.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You need to fuel up. Time to write. You’re on a deadline, remember?”
I pout. “Are you really gonna be that strict? It’s Christmas.” And I’m here with you.
He cocks his head. “Would you rather I not hold you accountable?”
I hesitate.
His voice drops low—dangerous.
“Did you forget what I told you would happen if you missed your word count?”
Heat flashes through me, and the image hits hard: Me, bent over the couch, panties at my ankles, his hand across my ass, marking me.
When we were younger, I used to imagine what it’d be like to get in trouble with him.
But never like this. I didn’t let my mind go that far.
I was too ashamed of how excited I got when he was all stern and bossy. It felt strange, and I didn’t understand why.
But now? “Yeah, so…” I want this, but I’m afraid of what this means about me. Finally, in a rush of words, I admit, “That might work.”
“It better,” he murmurs. “Because I’m tracking every word. And I’m ready to make good on my promise.” He winks. I bet he is.
I sit up in bed—still naked, still flushed—fueled by breakfast and a toe-curling orgasm. He hands me my laptop.
And I write.
For hours.
And oh my god—it feels good.
Sex does make me write better.
I just don’t always know how to reach that space, not when I’m distracted and hurt and confused. But now?
The words come fast.
My body is loose, and my mind is awake in a way it hasn’t been in months.
I glance at the word count. He said 3,000.
I’m at 2,998.
Heh.
I double-check, then grin—shutting the laptop with a snap.