Page 87 of Curvy Cabin Fever
MORGAN
Rhett’s standing in front of the fire, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching the flames like they insulted his mother. The way the light plays across his shirtless torso makes my throat dry, and I know I’m going straight to hell for the way my eyes linger on his chest, tracing that scar on his ribs before drifting lower. I’ve wanted him for years, craved him with a hunger that never quite faded, but now with the storm finally passed and Damien and Aria off to town, I’m done pretending otherwise.
“Can you stop staring at the damn fire and talk to me?”
Rhett remains motionless and silent, but the slight shift in his shoulders tells me he heard. We’ve been circling each other for days, tension building while we waited out the worst of the weather, and now that we have the cabin to ourselves, all that remains is this unspoken thing between us.
I set my drink down on the coffee table and move closer until I’m standing behind him, near enough to feel the tension radiating from his body like heat off a furnace.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask, keeping my tone casual though the question is anything but.
He glances over his shoulder. “Why would I be mad?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I kissed you in front of everyone? Or maybe because you liked it.”
That gets him. His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare, yet he still doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of wind outside.
“You gonna pretend this isn’t happening?” I question, moving closer until my chest brushes against his back, the heat of his skin palpable through my thin shirt.
“I’m not pretending shit,” he growls, his voice rough with something that sounds like resignation.
“So do something about it.”
He turns with unexpected speed, and before I can catch my breath, he’s backed me against the wall, his forearm braced beside my head, his body crowding mine in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
Oh my.
His face hovers inches from mine, eyes wild with conflict, mouth twisted as though he’s teetering on the edge between violence and desire. “You think I don’t want you?” he snarls, his breath warm against my lips.
“Iknowyou want me,” I reply, keeping my voice low and steady despite the hammering of my heart. “I just don’t think you know what to do with it.”
“I’ve been tryingnotto want this.”
“Don’t.”
He stares at me with an intensity that might have made a lesser man look away, then crushes his mouth to mine in a kiss that feels more like a confession than anything else. Nothing about it is soft or sweet—it’s all teeth and tongue and years of pent-up longing. Rhett kisses like a starving man, like someone who’s denied himself for so long he’s forgotten how to take without breaking.
Yes, baby, give it to me. Give in to yourself.
I welcome the onslaught, letting him press me harder against the wall, his hands gripping my shirt, yanking it up and over my head with an urgency that borders on desperation.
“Fuck,” he mutters when he sees me bare-chested, his hands running down my torso as though committing every line to memory. “I shouldn’t want this.”
“But you do.”
Instead of arguing, he sinks his teeth into my neck, marking me in a way that sends heat coursing through my veins. We make our way toward the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing, leaving a trail of evidence behind us. By the time we tumble onto the mattress, we’re breathless and half-naked, well beyond the point of no return.
I climb atop him, straddling his thighs, and what I see in his eyes nearly knocks the wind from my lungs—not just desire, but a complex tangle of confusion, longing, rage, and underneath it all, something that looks remarkably like love.
“Rhett,” I whisper, my voice gentler than before. “You don’t have to fight it anymore.”
He grabs my wrist with enough force to leave marks. “I don’t know how to want this and survive it.”
I lean down until our foreheads touch, sharing the same breath, the same space. “You don’t have to survive it. You just have to feel it.”
When he lets me kiss him again, something fundamental has shifted between us. This time he opens for me, surrenders the lead, allowing me to set the pace. My hands wander down his chest, across the sharp ridges of his abdomen, and when I finally wrap my fingers around him, the groan that tears from his throat is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
“Fuck, Morgan...”
