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The cabin is beautiful inside, far more rustic than I’d imagined it. Every surface is sleek wood and there are rugs everywhere, with gorgeous landscape paintings dotted all over the walls. The exposed rafters give it a super intimate and homely appeal.
Walking ahead of me – with Tanker trotting loyally at his feet – Roman leads me to a door at the very end of the hallway. He opens it and nods inside, revealing a four poster bed carved with various animals running up and down it, with rugs laid over each other on the floor. There’s a door to an ensuite off to the side too, completing the inviting look.
But the best part is the large window at the end of the room, which overlooks the lake, giving me a glorious view of the glittering water and the pine trees all around it.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, wandering over to the window. “Really, really beautiful.”
“Yes.” Roman’s voice is deep and husky, making me think he’s going to leap at me for a crazed second. “It really is.”
He’s talking about the view, of course, and not about me. Because there’s no tension simmering between us, no want, no need, or anything. It’s all in my head and I need to beat it down, to tame my desires before they have a chance to flare up and cripple me.
At least Millie will be here tomorrow, quietening this insane desire spiraling through me.
I turn as Roman drops my bags onto the bed and makes for the door. “I’ll get the rest. And then I’ll leave you to settle it.”
There’s that word again.
Leave.
I almost call after him to come and stand by the window with me, to wrap his arm over my shoulder and hug me close to him as we take in the scene. I almost ask him if I can rest my cheek against his chest, just for a little while, to hear his heartbeat hammering against my ear.
But then he’s gone, and I know it’s for the best.
I can’t let myself want this man. It can only lead to disaster.
Tomorrow, I reassure myself. Millie will be here tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Roman
I pace up and down my office, shadow-boxing and trying not to look at my laptop.
Those words – Chapter One – have been like a noose hanging around my neck for years now, threatening to tighten with each and every day.
Each time I sit down and try to drag some words out of me, diving into the depths of my creativity, and emerge empty handed… it breaks something in me, shatters it so I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to write again.
This evening it’s even more difficult with thoughts of Rayla surging around my head, flooding my mind until she’s all I can think about. I remember the way she looked standing at the window in her bedroom, the sun framing her body, her dress falling enticingly over her ass and setting something deep inside of me on fire.
Tanker makes a whining sound from his bed in the corner, tilting his head at me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “Do you really think I’d let myself fantasize over my daughter’s best friend?”
He tilts his head even more as if to say, Yeah, yeah I do.
I glance at the clock and see that it’s time for his dinner anyway. And I should probably eat something, instead of pacing around this room and pretend that I’m going to write when the only thing I can think about is Rayla.
How is she doing this to me?
It’s like she casting a goddamn spell on me or something, thoughts of her perfect thighs and her round ass and her large breasts, made for feeding our children, for palming, for grabbing as she creams… won’t stop bouncing around my head.
My manhood is stiff as I push the door open, biting down as insane primal desires hammer through me.
Tanker pads ahead of me and then stops, tail pricked, head tilted. I pause and listen. I can’t not listen as her voice drifts over to me from the open-plan kitchen, rising in a light song, soft notes shimmering in the air.
Something almost like a smile touches my face, but I can’t remember the last time I truly smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that was untinged by darkness, by introspection, by something other than happiness.
Some of my critics have said I can be a bit grim, and there’s not much I can say to argue against them.
The setting sunlight casts orange rays across the kitchen as I enter, pausing in the doorway to watch Rayla as she floats around the kitchen island. That’s what it looks like, floating, as her perfect summer dress cascades around her ankles and dapples her thick thighs.
Tanker pads over to her when she opens the fridge. The little rascal is always ready for a treat. Rayla is so consumed with her singing and her food preparation that she doesn’t even notice me standing in the corner.
