Page 114 of And Now, Back to You

Smooth, creamy skin. The tumble of her hair over her bare shoulders. The spill of her breasts over the material of her bra. How for once, she did exactly as I asked. How delicious that felt paired with her jagged exhales and sharp whines.

I press out a slow breath, feeling the heat of it against the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I rasp. “It was good.”

So good it defies logic, actually. So good it’s burned through at least eighty percent of my core memories and taken up the headliner role.

“I know we agreed that things could be casual while we’re here, but . . .” Delilah pokes around at her pastry. “Maybe we can do that again?”

My wild flare of hope dims. I thought that sentence was going in a different direction. I thought she was going to say she wanted to do this when we’re home too.

I think I wanted her to say that.

I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I manage, trying to consolidate my hopes and expectations and find the best-case scenario somewhere in between. “Yeah, of course.”

Her eyebrows pinch together. “Do you—is that something you want? With me?”

I yank myself out of my own head and reach across the table for her hand. “Of course I want that.”

I want it again and again and again. I want to see how good we fit together. I want to see what other secrets she’s holding on to. I want to be the one to rattle them free. I want my teeth against her neck and her thighs spread wide. I want everything in between.

“Well, good,” Delilah says, relief in the curve of her body. She squeezes my hand.

“Yeah. Good,” I repeat. Our eyes catch and hold. Hers soften. “Good,” I say again.

It’s still blistering cold inside the lodge. The worst of it is chased away by the roaring fire in the lobby, but it lingers in the corner of the room we’re situated in. Our room this morning felt like stepping directly into a meat freezer, even the carpet cold beneath my socked feet.

Delilah shivers.

“I should have made you put on a hat,” I murmur.

“In addition to the two sweaters and scarf you manhandled me into?”

“Should have forced the gloves too.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re cold.”

“It’s not so bad down here, and Lottie says they’re working on getting another generator from one of the boathouses down at the lake.” She finishes the rest of her pastry. She wiggles her eyebrows. “Maybe it can inspire you to warm me up again later.”

A tempting thought.

“Does she know why the one here failed?”

I’m not particularly interested in the answer, but Delilah seems to be, because she already has a theory. She also, apparently, has already discussed it at length with Lottie, somewhere in between her two trips to the pastry table.

“Probably something to do with the sheer amount of snow, and the plunging temperatures. The cold wave is well below the averages for this region. It’s possible the fuel gelled, preventing it from flowing properly through the lines. Or, more likely, the cold just zapped the battery completely.” I make a winded sound. Her forehead wrinkles, a little line right between her brows. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She stares at me.

I rub my hand across my jaw. “Something about you talking about fuel lines, I don’t know.”

What I do know is I’m hard as a rock beneath this little breakfast table, and I’m going to have to sit here and think about something—Aiden’s karaoke performance, the winter Penelope and Adeline got the stomach flu at the same time, the molting habits of geese—to get control of myself.

Another loud laugh bursts out of Delilah. One of the truck drivers bundled in a parka by the fire turns to give her a curious look. Delilah waves happily, then pushes her chair back from the table.

“Where are you going?”