Page 49 of Love Under Snowfall

“Fine. I was about to hit my stride, but whatever.”

His gritty chuckle scraped down her spine, and she squirmed in her seat. “Don’t you think it would be wise to get some rest?”

“I suppose.” Frankie sighed and rose from the table. “Thanks for playing with me.”

“You’re welcome, Francesca.”

After tucking a few more logs into the stove, she made her way to the small bedroom and shut the door behind her. Now what? Wide awake, she paced across the threadbare rug. Her body was exhausted despite the cogs and gears cranking furiously in her brain.

Frankie removed her bra and flipped back the covers with a huff. She should be having dinner with Clint, not dancing and playing cards with Benjamin. If she was going to make out with anyone, it should have been with that massive surfer boy in a uniform, not her former professor.

But, holy hell, that man could kiss. Had he been anyone else—and still able to make her melt into a puddle of lust—she would have happily bought a ticket to ride that ride. Her self-imposed celibacy had been brutal, even if it was necessary for her studies, and she was ready to kiss it goodbye. Or, rather, fuck it goodbye.

She crawled into bed and fluffed one of the pillows, accidentally knocking the other off the edge and onto the floor. With a grumble, she leaned over and blindly reached. Snagging a fistful of the flannel case, she considered giving it to Benjamin to use tonight. He’d already offered up the bed and sequestered himself to the hard cabin floor. Fortunately, they’d found extra quilts for him to lay on, but the likelihood that the pile of blankets would be as comfortable as the small mattress was slim. Giving him a pillow would be a show of goodwill or . . . or camaraderie or—screw it, it would be nice.

She stepped through the bedroom door, clutching the pillow to her chest, and stopped dead as she entered the living room.

Laying on his back on a makeshift pallet of quilts, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a relaxed expression, was the most perfect specimen of the male species she’d ever witnessed inperson. His head, with a swirl of rumpled black tresses, settled onto one arm with an elbow splayed out to the side. The other rested on an ice cube tray of abs sporting a trail of matching hair that Frankie would have happily followed down beneath his waistband. She watched him as he gazed at the glass pane of the stove, staring into the flames that flickered across his olive skin. Perhaps she imagined it, but she could have sworn she smelled the heady scent of cinnamon and sandalwood from where she gawked like a creep across the room.

Shame prickled her neck, and she cleared her throat to either make her presence known or will words from her throat. Benjamin snapped his head in her direction and propped himself up on both elbows.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, sounding gruff and slightly . . . hopeful?

“I-I.”Words, Frankie. Say words.“I have an extra pillow. I thought . . .” She swallowed the lustful lump in her throat. “Maybe you might want it.”

He stood, put on the glasses that had been resting beside him, and stalked the half-dozen steps it took to reach her. Her eyes raked down the line of his chest. A black and gray tattoo spanned the entire left side of his ribcage. The woman in a gossamer robe, blindfolded and holding a sword and set of scales, looked real enough to jump off of his skin and saunter around. Of course he’d have a massive tattoo of Lady Justice. Anything else would be out of place on his sculpted core.

Benjamin reached out, and Frankie noted that when accepting the offering, he was careful not to touch his hand to hers. The pillow dangled from his fingertips until he tossed it onto the nearby chair.

“Thank you.” Why did those words sound like a warning? “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she croaked but stood frozen to the floor.

His eyes dragged as heavily over the front of her thermal shirt as if he’d used his hands. Even in the dim cabin, illuminated only by firelight, Frankie clocked the dilation of his pupils.

No bra.

She’d forgotten about taking it off a few minutes before. Her nipples beaded in response to his awareness of her exposure. Closing his eyelids tightly, he shook his head and looked back up to Frankie’s face.

“Go to bed,” he rumbled low in his throat, taking a step forward.

Instinctively, she took a step back, but only one to match his. He advanced another, and she retreated in kind. A few more, and they reached the open door of the bedroom. Benjamin raised a hand to either side of the doorframe. Her own curiosity and desire stood heavily at her back, caging her into the threshold just inches from his nearly naked body.

She licked her lips; he tracked the swipe of her tongue like a cat following its next kill. She worked up the nerve and said, “What if we . . .”

“Francesca.” Another warning, but this one held indecision.

Benjamin lowered his hands, reaching one out to delicately trace her collarbone from shoulder to neck, where her pulse bashed violently through her veins. He settled his palm at the point in the center and urged her back toward the bed. Two steps. Three. The back of her knees hit the mattress, and she sat, unwilling to tear her gaze from his darkened face. He twirled a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger as she sat transfixed. Memorizing his outline, backlit from the roasting fire flickering in the next room. She squeezed her knees tightly together in an effort to satisfy the ache growing between them.

“Go to bed.” He wrestled the words out, but Frankie wasconvinced of their absolution.

Before releasing her hair, he gently tugged, coaxing a tiny whimper from her lips. He groaned in response but turned and left the room, closing the door without a backward look.

A thousand hours later, Frankie still hadn’t managed to drift off to sleep. How could she after that . . . that . . .

What the fuck was that?

She thought she was horny before, but now her meter hovered squarely between blazing inferno and all-out combustion. The mattress spring squawked as she flopped around to get comfortable and squirmed from overstimulation.

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