I tilt my head. “And I…?”
She shakes her head quickly, but the movement only draws attention to the flush rising in her cheeks. “Nothing. You just…you make it easy to forget that a world outside this cabin exists.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I glance toward the window. The last light of day bleeds through the ice still clinging to the glass, but it’s easy to see the storm has passed and the snow has stopped falling.
A strange calm settles in its place, quieting me and my wolf.
It’s peace.
No, more than that. I’m…happy. Really, ridiculously happy for the first time in longer than I can remember.
Emme and I eat quietly for a while, the scrape of forks and knives soft against the plates. Every so often she laughs at something I say, and when she does, it catches somewhere behind my ribs.
When we’re finished, I take her plate before she can move. She protests half-heartedly, as I rinse them in the sink and slide them into the old dishwasher that barely fits beneath the counter.
“You don’t have to doeverything, you know,” she says, pouring herself another mug of wine.
“For you, I do,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I want to.”
Emme goes quiet. When I turn back around, she’s watching me over the rim of her mug, gaze soft and unreadable. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“I believe you.”
Something about the way she says it knocks the air from my lungs. It’s the trust in her tone, the quiet certainty. My chest tightens, and I don’t know what to do with all of it—the warmth, the want, the ache that feels a lot like need.
I clear my throat, trying to pull myself back to something solid. “Storm’s stopped,” I say, nodding toward the window. “I’ll be able to take you home in the morning.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
The quiet stretches, and a shadow that looks a lot like sadness crosses her face.
She sets her mug down and slides off the barstool, my t-shirt swishing around her thighs. “But it’s not morning right now,” she chimes. “And there’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”
I arch a brow as she crosses the cabin to her bag. “Should I be worried?”
“Trust me,” she laughs as she rummages through its contents. She pulls out a small plastic container. Hot pink vanilla frosting.
She points to the leather armchair, and I immediately comply, dropping into it as she walks toward me with a sway in her hips that punches all the air out of my lungs.
“You’re going to like this.”
She drops to her knees between my legs, unbuttons my jeans, and tugs my zipper down. My cock springs free, already hard just from the way she’s looking at me.
She dips her fingers into the sticky, glossy frosting and paints it across the head of my cock with a slow, teasing swirl.
“Oh, fuck,” I grind out between clenched teeth.
Emme leans in and swipes her tongue over the tip, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. The frosting smears across her lips, glistening hot pink as she takes me in deeper.
Warm, wet suction wraps around me and I groan, hand dropping to her hair.
Sticky frosting clings to her lips, her chin, the corners of her mouth as she bobs her head. It’s messy and enthusiastic and perfect. Her hands grip my thighs for leverage, and her moan vibrates around the base of my cock.
“Shit,” I rasp, hips bucking. “I’m close, little fox.”
She pulls back and runs her tongue under the base, licking up stray streaks of sugar with a pleased little sound.
