Page 21 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
The implication hits hard—like a dropped match in dry grass.
I feel it. The heat. The sharp, electric awareness curling tight behind my ribs.
“I’m not exactly dressed for a sleepover.” I cross my arms, defensive, battling the flush crawling up the back of my neck.
“I’ve got clean shirts.” His voice drops an octave, dark and lazy. “Pick one.”
“You’re not even going to pretend to offer the couch?”
“No.”
Blunt. Final. Not cruel—just fact. A line drawn in stone.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
The tension stretches between us, sharp and alive, a cord pulled too tight to last.
He’s not joking.
He’s not asking.
He’s already decided.
And some reckless, aching part of me doesn’t want him to back down.
Doesn’t want space.
Just wants to know how it feels when he finally stops pretending distance is the right choice.
“I’ll sleep on the very edge,” I murmur, the words barely scraping out.
“Suit yourself.” His mouth curves, slow and lethal. “Just don’t expect me to sleep on the floor to protect your modesty.”
The way he says it—it’s not crass. Not even seductive.
It’s just true.
An unmovable fact, like gravity.
"Relax." He steps closer, a deliberate invasion of space that leaves me rooted in place. His fingers brush my wrist lightly—barely a touch, just enough to brand me. “I told you before, sweetheart.” His voice is all smoke and steel. “When I decide to take you…” His mouth skims close to my ear. “It won’t be in a goddamn bed. Consider the bed asafeplace.”
I swallow hard. The room spins around the molten center he creates.
“And you should be grateful,” he adds, that wicked glint sparking to life behind his eyes.
"Why?"
“If I were that caveman, you’d already be stripped bare, stretched out in front of that fire downstairs, and I wouldn’t be asking you what youwanted.”
He steps back then.
Slow. Controlled.
The master of the moment—and of me.
“Get changed, Elena.” His voice roughens, scraping low in his throat. “You’re soaking wet.”
