Chapter 2

Ava Hart's Point Of View.

The inside of the lodge was warm. The walls were made of dark, polished wood, that smelled faintly of pine. A stone fireplace with burning flames at the far end, across the room. Above it hung a large wreath decorated with tiny warm fairy lights that glowed like stars.

Thick rugs covered the hardwood floor, soft under my boots, and every corner of the room held cozy expression. There were a stack of blankets, lantern-style lamps, framed photos of mountains, old snow trips, and Mia as a child with missing front teeth.

The air smelled like cinnamon, roasted garlic, and something buttery baking in the oven.

We sat at the long oak table for dinner. It itself was long and sturdy, with mismatched chairs that somehow looked perfect together. A few candles flickered in the center, making the entire room feel warmer, softer almost intimate.

Mia rambled about classes and dorm drama, oblivious. I nodded, while each and every nerve in my body zeroed in on the man sitting at the head of the table.

Blake Carter, on the way his throat worked when he swallowed wine, on the thick vein that ran along his forearm when he reached for the bottle, on the way his sweatpants stretched when he shifted, outlining. My lord.

Every time he passed the garlic bread, his fingers brushed mine, once, twice, three times and each touch was lingering a fraction longer.

The first time I thought it was an accident. The second time his eyes met mine on the garlic bread and held a half-second too long. The third time my pulse was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. His gaze kept finding mine across the candlelight, holding until I had to look away or risk moaning out loud.

“I am dead. Night, losers.” Mia yawned, hugged her dad, punched my shoulder playfully, and disappeared upstairs leaving me alone with him.

“I will help,” I blurted, the words tumbled out too fast, betraying every filthy thought swirling around my skull.

He paused mid-reach, raised his one dark brow, and said, “You don’t have to do that, Ava,” He said, his voice was velvet-rough, that made my knees want to buckle.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, already leaning in to snatch the stack of plates closest to him.

Anything, literally anything, to keep my trembling fingers busy and my gaze off the thick, obscene outline pressing against the front of his low-slung sweatpants every time he shifted his weight because if I kept staring at the way the soft gray fabric clung to that heavy, half-hard ridge, I was going to drop to my knees right here in his kitchen and beg him to let me choke on it. He's your best friend's dad for god's sake, Ava.

We worked in silence for a moment, the clink of silverware was the only sound that could be heard and then we both reached for the same lasagna pan at the edge of the table.

He reached, up there first. Now, instead of pulling back, Blake stepped in, close, impossibly close, guiding me backward until the edge of the heavy oak table pressed into the small of my back. My heels lifted, I was up on my tiptoes, trapped between the table and six-foot-three of hard, warm male.

His thighs bracketed mine. I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the unmistakable ridge of what had to be a half-hard cock brushing the front of my jeans for one dizzying second before he shifted just enough to cage me, not enough to let me escape.

His chest was almost touching mine. The moment, he leaned in to reach the pan behind me, his stubbled jaw grazed the shell of my ear. His breath fanned hot across my throat. Every inch of my skin lit up like a live wire.

I could not breathe, could not think. My nipples tightened painfully against my bra, and between my legs I was suddenly, achingly wet, like my body had decided on its own that it belonged to him.

He did not grab the plate right away. He stayed there, suspended over me, while his one forearm braced on the table beside my hip, and the other hand was hovering inches from my waist. His knuckles brushed the bare strip of skin where my sweater had ridden up, barely a touch, barely anything and still my clit pulsed so hard I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

“You okay, Ava?” He asked, while his voice was low and rough, lips almost pressed on my temple and the way he said my name sent a fresh rush of slick heat into my panties.

“Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Just tired, I guess.”

He did not move back, not yet. His hips shifted again, deliberate this time, letting me feel exactly how hard he was now, thick, and pressing against my lower belly through two pathetic layers of fabric.

I whimpered. I could not help it and that tiny sound seemed to snap something in him.

His jaw clenched, his eyes dropped to my mouth and closed his eyes like he was imagining it wrapped around him. Slowly, he straightened, taking the plate with him and said, “Night, Ava,”

I did not answer, I could not. I spun and fled up the stairs, while my thighs were trembling, my panties were not just soaked through, they were ruined and my heart were slamming against my ribs.

I slammed my bedroom door, back pressed to the wood, panting like I had sprinted miles instead of one flight of stairs. Fingers already sliding under my waistband before the click of the lock even finished, because I knew, there would be no sleep tonight.