Page 5 of S'more of Silas
"Still there," he murmurs, voice lower than before.
He leans in, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, rough skin against sensitive flesh, warm and gentle.
The air between us crackles hotter than the fire.
Something flashes in his eyes. A moment of indecision. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, and then Silas’s mouth is on mine.
His lips are hungry. Certain. Like he's been thinking about this for as long as I have, like he's been holding himself back andfinally decided to stop. My fingers curl into his shirt without conscious thought, tugging him closer, and heat floods through me in a rush that has nothing to do with the fire.
When we finally break apart, I'm dazed, lips tingling, my entire body humming. He clears his throat, and I can see his jaw working like he's trying to decide something.
Then he pulls back just enough to nod toward the cabin. "Come inside.”
He rises, holds out a hand for me, and pulls me to my feet. I follow him up the two steps to his porch, my legs feeling oddly unsteady, like the kiss rewired something fundamental in my nervous system. He opens the door for me, gesturing me to go inside.
The cabin's interior is exactly what I should have expected and somehow still surprising. It's spare but not austere. Clean lines. Wood and stone and exposed beams. Everything in its place, but in a way that suggests this is a space that works, that serves its purpose.
A kitchen area with simple cabinets and a wood stove. A table with two chairs. A comfortable-looking couch facing a stone fireplace. And along one wall, a bookshelf.
My breath catches.
There is an entire shelf dedicated to my books. All of them. Every single one I've ever published. Spines creased, pages soft with reading, the kind of wear that comes from actually being opened and loved rather than sitting pristine on a shelf for show.
I turn to him, and I can feel my eyes going wide. "I thought you said yourmotherwas a fan of my books.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek, but he doesn't look away. Doesn't make excuses. "I’m the fan. Mom prefers romances.”
"You..." I move closer to the shelf, running my fingers along the spines.A Graveyard Gala.A Latte to Die For.Autumn’sEnd.Murder Most Cozy.The shelf goes on. He really has all of them. "You’ve read all my books?”
"More than once." He's moved to stand behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. "First one I picked up wasA Latte to Die For. Found it at Joy's store three years ago. Figured I'd give it a shot since you were local."
I turn to face him, and there's maybe six inches between us. "And?"
"And I read it in one sitting." His voice has gone rough, lower than before. "Then bought the next one. And the next one. You spin whole worlds out of nothing, Cassie. Make them feel real even though they're completely made up. Created characters I actually cared about. Gave me something to think about that wasn't..." He trails off, jaw working again.
"Wasn't what?" I prompt softly.
"Wasn't the things I spent too much time thinking about after I left the Army." He's looking at me with an intensity that should probably frighten me but doesn't. "Your books kept me sane when I didn't have much else to hold onto. Something bad happens in every book, but the mystery always gets solved. Everything is all right in the end."
Something in my chest cracks open at that. This man—this quiet, self-contained man everyone whispers about—has been reading my books. My cozy little mysteries about pumpkin patches and small-town secrets. And they meant something to him.
"Silas," I breathe, and I don't even know what I'm trying to say.
He steps closer, erasing those last six inches between us, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. His palm is warm and rough, callused from work, and I lean into the touch without thinking.
"I'm not good at this," he says quietly. "Not good at pretty words or knowing the right thing to say. But I know what I want. And what I want isyou."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "Then take me."
Chapter 4
Silas
Ibackheragainstthe log wall, my mouth finding hers with more urgency this time. She melts into me, and her fingers fist in my shirt like she's been waiting for this too. Like I'm not alone in whatever this is.
She tastes like marshmallow and something uniquely her, sweet and perfect, and I can't get enough. My hands find her waist, slide up her sides, feeling the curve of her ample breasts through her sweater. She makes a small sound against my mouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and it snaps the last thread of my control.
I scoop her up and her legs lock around my waist immediately, like her body knows exactly what to do even if her mind hasn't caught up yet. I carry her across the cabin to my bed, the one I built myself and tucked against the far wall.
