Page 89 of Curvy Cabin Fever
“Move,” he says, the word somewhere between command and plea.
I withdraw slightly before pushing back in, establishing a rhythm that starts maddeningly slow. He feels tight and hot and perfect around me, his body gradually softening, accepting me deeper with each careful thrust. But I can tell from the way his hands clutch at my back that he needs more.
I don’t hold back, knowing instinctively that gentleness isn’t what he craves. This isn’t about treating him delicately—it’s about giving him the intensity he needs, the only time he truly allows himself to let go. I adjust my angle, driving deeper, harder, watching as pleasure overtakes discomfort on his face.
“Like that?” I question, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, hips rising to meet my thrusts, finding our rhythm together.
His head tips back, exposing the strong column of his throat, and I can’t resist leaning down to taste the salt of his skin there. The change in angle makes him cry out, a broken sound of pure pleasure that I feel more than hear. His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me impossibly deeper, urging me to move faster, harder.
I brace one hand beside his head, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks, and give him exactly what he’s asking for—what we both need. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by his increasingly desperate moans and my own ragged breathing.
His body tightens around me with each thrust, a velvet fist that threatens to push me over the edge too soon. I reach between us to wrap my hand around him, stroking in time with my thrusts, and his whole body goes rigid.
“I can’t—” he starts, but the words dissolve into a groan as his release overtakes him, spilling hot and slick between us, his body clenching rhythmically around me.
The sight of him coming undone—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry, body arched in perfect abandon—is all it takes to send me following after him. My orgasm hits me hard—pleasure crashing through me as I drive deep one last time, his name a whisper on my lips.
We remain joined as the aftershocks ripple through us both, my forehead pressed to his shoulder, his hands still gripping my back as though afraid I might pull away too soon. Only when our breathing begins to slow, do I carefully withdraw, causing him to wince slightly despite my gentleness.
I collapse beside him, our sweat-slick bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle. For a long time, we just lie there. The only sound is our gradually slowing breaths.
Then, in a gesture more intimate than anything we’ve just shared, he rolls toward me and drapes an arm across my chest. His face finds the hollow of my neck, and I feel the warm rush of his breath against my skin. Without a word, he wraps his arms around me and holds on tight, as though afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
And I understand completely, because I have no intention of ever letting him go again.
32
ARIA
Ifind the rental car paperwork in the bottom of my duffel bag, crumpled and creased, shoved between a rolled-up hoodie and the unopened book I thought I’d read when I got here.
I don’t even remember packing it.
But there it is. And at the top of the page, in bold type:
Return Date: Two Weeks From Pickup–Feb. 12th
Tomorrow—Tomorrow is Day Fourteen.
I sit on the edge of the bed, holding the paper like it might burst into flames if I look at it too long. I’d forgotten, honestly. Or maybe I let myself pretend I had more time. But now the snow is melting, the roads are open, and the town is spinning back to life, one coffee shop and delivery truck at a time. The world beyond our little snow globe is waiting expectantly, demanding my return to reality after this brief respite from everything I was running from.
And I have to go.
Right?
When I walk into the kitchen, the coffee’s already brewed, and the guys are scattered throughout the space, each absorbed in their morning routine that has somehow becomecomfortingly familiar in such a short time. Morgan’s barefoot in one of Rhett’s old t-shirts, humming something off-key while he stacks pancakes on a plate by the stove. The domesticity of it catches in my throat—how easily he’s slipped into this role, how natural it feels to watch him move through this kitchen as though he’s always belonged here.
Rhett leans back in his chair, barefoot, silent, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup like it’s ticking out a countdown only he can hear. His hair falls across his forehead, still damp from the shower.
Damien’s at the window, watching the snow drip from the trees, creating tiny rivers down the glass panes that catch the morning light. He’s always watching, always noticing everything. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me—if he can read the conflict written across my face or sense the heaviness of the paper I’ve left crumpled on the bed upstairs.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and hold it between both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms, hoping it might somehow prepare me for what comes next. The liquid swirls dark and fragrant, promising comfort I’m not sure I deserve. Taking a deep breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs, I gather my courage.
And then I say it. “I have to take the rental car back tomorrow.”
The words fall into the room like a grenade. No one moves.
