Page 6 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Just there—undeniable.

My stomach dips. My breath catches. I follow him, heart thudding, every nerve wound tight.

His private lodge looms ahead, smaller than the main building but still impressive—modern lines, warm cedar, and windows that gleam with reflected firelight. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, gesturing me inside.

Our gazes lock and simmer.

Warmth hits me like a blanket. The fireplace is already lit, casting golden light over thick wooden beams and worn leather furniture. The space is cozy—almost too intimate. Like the kind of place you bring someone when you want to blur lines.

There's a sleek kitchen tucked into one corner, the countertops gleaming in the firelight. A spiral staircase winds up toward a lofted area, open and shadowed, while the main floor remains dominated by one thing: the bed.

A king-sized, four-poster bed.

Flannel sheets, thick comforter, pillows stacked like he's expecting someone to stay. The posts are thick—dark wood, polished smooth—and at the top, just beneath the crossbeams… rings.

I blink. Look again.

Definitely rings. Metal. Anchored into the frame.

There's no door to the bedroom. Just a wide, square opening that leads straight into the sleeping area like a dare. The ceilings stretch high above, and my eyes lift instinctively—catching on something else.

Hooks. Bolted into the beam overhead.

Oh my God.

My brain is spinning before I can stop it. Those rings at the top of the bed… the hooks in the ceiling… restraints?

I'm probably imagining it. I have to be imagining it. Right?

But the moment the thought enters my mind, it stays—taking root, unfurling into a vivid, inappropriate fantasy I can't unsee. Ropes. Wrists bound above my head. His hands on my hips, his mouth on my skin, that voice—deep and steady—telling me I'm not allowed to come until he says so.

Heat floods low in my belly, sharp and instant.

I swallow hard, eyes dragging back to the bed like it's trying to tell me a story my body already knows by heart.

I am in so much trouble.

It's perfect.

Too perfect.

He shuts the door behind us. The lock clicks.

My pulse spikes.

"This is it," he says, voice low and smooth, like he's welcoming me into something more than just shelter. "It's not much, but it keeps the cold out."

Lucas tosses his gloves onto the entry table with a quiet thud. Then he unbuttons his flannel jacket, slow and unhurried, like this is just another night—like he brings strange women into his private lodge all the time and never thinks twice.

He drapes the jacket over a chair and straightens, revealing the fit of the dark sweater beneath. It clings to his torso, outlining thick shoulders and a chest built for carrying weight—literal and otherwise.

My fingers twitch. My brain screams don't stare, but that's a battle I'm already losing.

"Living room, kitchen," he says with a nod, gesturing like he's giving me a tour of a hotel suite. "Bathroom's through there. My bed." His voice dips slightly on the last word, rough around the edges.

He meets my eyes when he speaks again. "Blankets are in the chest. I'll take the couch."

I turn in a slow circle, trying not to visibly short-circuit. The whole place smells like pine, woodsmoke, and him—clean and masculine with a sharp, underlying edge that makes my skin prickle. A scent that should be bottled and weaponized.

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