Page 4 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

I force my eyes to stay on his face. Not his mouth. Not his hands.

"And the other option?" I manage, though my voice comes out thinner than I'd like.

He turns, face shadowed with firelight, eyes steady on mine. "My private lodge. Just behind the main building. Smaller. More efficient. Has its own generator and fireplace."

"That sounds like the better choice," I say too quickly.

He doesn't move. Doesn't smile. Just watches me with that maddening calm. "It only has one bed."

Oh no.

Heat flares low in my stomach, spreading like wildfire. My brain dives straight into dangerous, utterly inappropriate territory.

I imagine that bed—him in it, shirtless, sheets tangled around his hips. Me on my knees. His voice dark and rough, telling me what to do. Yeah, I have particular tastes when it comes to sex.

Jesus, Amelia.

And then, because my brain is clearly trying to destroy me tonight, the fantasy sharpens. His hands, precise and commanding. That calm voice explaining exactly how I'll beg for release—and when I'll get it.

If this unfairly gorgeous man knows how to take control?—

I'd be done. Absolutely, irreversibly wrecked.

I snap my attention back to his face, to the faint scar at the edge of his brow, the steady weight of his gaze. My pulse stutters like it's trying to tap out a warning.

I am so fucked.

The storm has hijacked my schedule, my event, and now my sanity.

I'm about to spend the night in a cabin—one bed, one man—with someone who looks like sin, smells like cedar, and probably knows exactly how to undo a woman with a single word. I check his left hand. No wedding ring.

He's available, and I'm thinking very inappropriate thoughts.

My thoughts spiral—rough hands, heat between my thighs, his mouth everywhere.

Completely inappropriate.

Absolutely uncontrollable.

Dangerous.

I draw a breath. Force a smile.

Remain professional, Amelia.

"It's small, intimate, but comfortable," he adds, voice dry. Amused.

The words snap through the fog like a slap.

I blink. Realize I've been staring—openly, shamelessly—at his hands. His chest. His mouth.

Goddamn it.

Heat floods my cheeks. I tear my gaze away, pretending to find the floorboards fascinating.

When I risk a glance back up, he's still watching me—brows slightly raised, mouth curved at the corners. Not smug. Not mocking. Just... knowing. Like he saw every single place my mind wandered.

My stomach flips.

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