Page 5 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

He knows.

He definitely knows.

I picture him above me. Not just in that bed—but owning it. Hands braced beside my head, his body pinning mine, that mouth rough and hungry. The kind of kiss that leaves bruises. His hips thrusting deep, punishing. The kind of dominating sex that ruins women.

Criminal and forbidden.

So far past inappropriate, it should be illegal.

I blink hard, trying to scrub the image from my brain, but it's already branded there. Permanent.

My self-control is officially circling the drain because the last thing I need is a man like him—built like a threat, quiet like a storm—occupying my thoughts.

I stare at him. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. That slow, unreadable gaze. I square my shoulders, trying to salvage what's left of my dignity.

"Well?" Lucas raises an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

"Lead the way."

His smile deepens—just a fraction. My thighs clench, and my thoughts remain firmly in dangerously unprofessional territory.

The real risk tonight isn't the blizzard.

It's him—and all the things I shouldn't want him to do to me.

I'm not afraid of the cold. I'm scared of what will happen when he closes that cabin door behind us.

Chapter 2

Heat Index

Lucas leadsme through the lodge in silence, our footsteps echoing softly across polished wood floors. The distant crackle of the fire fades behind us as we reach the back door. He pushes it open, holding it for me, and the sound of the wind surges in like a living thing.

We step under the covered walkway, and everything narrows. The world is white and shadowed, the edges of the structure crusted with snowdrifts that creep in beneath the slats. Wind whistles through the cracks, sharp and relentless, but in here it's just the sound of his boots against weathered planks—and the pounding rhythm of my pulse.

The walk to his lodge is short, but it feels like miles. Snow whips around us, cold needles against my cheeks, but the heat under my skin makes it bearable. Or maybe it's adrenaline.

Each step drives home just how alone we are out here.

Cut off.

Sealed in.

I tell myself it's just the cold. Just exhaustion.

Just survival.

But the heat beneath my skin says otherwise.

I focus on the rhythm of his footsteps in front of me. He walks ahead, his pace unhurried, every movement precise. Controlled. That kind of effortless strength that comes from a man who never second-guesses himself.

It shouldn't be hot. But it is.

He glances back once, and our eyes catch in the dim light. No words. No smile. Just heat.

Not imagined.

Not one-sided.

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