by Elaria Ride
Just to make sure the earlier part of the evening hadn’t been a dream, I bite my lip and peer over the edge. I breathe a sigh of relief as I lay eyes on him; yep, sure enough, he’s right where he said he’d be — on a makeshift blanket pallet on the hardwood floor. Asher’s on his stomach, his head propped on his muscular arms. He must not be as cold as I am, because the dude looks downright peaceful.
A smile flits across my face, and I allow myself a few moments to study him from the safety of near-darkness. It amazes me how people transform while they’re asleep. Slumber subtracts years from the worry lines and wrinkles, smoothing out the stresses of the day. Asher’s more relaxed now than I’ve ever seen him awake. His brow isn’t furrowed, his lips aren’t drawn. Slow, even breaths inflate his chest as his eyes shift behind his closed eyelids.
He looks adorable.
I swallow, looking away; no need to go there. Not now. I push down the part of my brain intent on reminding me of the other parts of last night.
After dinner, Asher had told me he’d be taking the floor. It had been a simple statement, one not up for debate. Not that I’d fought him. As it turns out, head injuries make you pretty damn tired.
I’d been so exhausted I’d only dimly noticed that Asher definitely lacks the extra sleeping linens for this type of situation. As is, he’s only covered with a thin blanket as he sleeps on a pile of coats. Tisk tisk, Asher Bosco — that’s a great way to catch a cold!
I need to sort out this blanket situation, but now I have a more pressing issue: I really need to pee.
I bite my lip, peel the blanket off as quietly as I can, and gently lower my toes to the ground. Asher is a big dude — and he’s sleeping right next to me. Seeing as how I’m vertically challenged, getting around him isn’t exactly easy.
Somehow, I manage with a few carefully placed steps between his legs and over his hips. As I creep across the hardwood floor and enter the bathroom, I muse that a full bladder must give you ninja skills. My existence in this cabin (in the first place) should be enough to tell you I’m uncoordinated.
I close the door behind me, and — shit, somehow it’s even colder in here! I vow to make it quick; I love the outdoors more than the next person, but I much prefer them when they stay outside!
A cutting gust of wind waits until I’m standing up (and half-naked) to rip through the gaps in the wood paneling. Fuck, that’s miserable; I quickly pull up my pants, not that they’ll help much. Underneath, I’m only wearing my underwear from yesterday — and lightweight spare clothing Asher had offered me last night. At least I’d gotten to quickly wash and dry my underthings before I’d gone to bed, but Lord knows I’d prefer a fresh set.
I creep to the sink to wash my hands, but the sight of the soap gives me pause. I giggle despite the cold. There had been one awkward part of last night, and it had transpired after dinner. Asher had helped me to the bathroom to change, and with an odd flush, he’d handed me a little bag of toiletries from under the sink.
Because I’m oblivious, I hadn’t understood his discomfort — to the point where I’d actually opened the bag, ignoring Asher’s halfhearted protests (“You don’t have to… um…”) as I did.
As soon as I’d gazed down into the bag’s contents, I’d promptly let out a very unladylike snort: Not only had the bag contained standard overnight supplies (toothbrush, hairbrush, tampons), but it had also contained condoms. And lube.
I don’t know how long I’d stood in the doorway of his bathroom staring at the travel-sized clear bottle (which we both knew was there, but both refused to acknowledge publicly)… but when I’d finally panned my eyes up to his, Asher had been the first to cut the tension with a laugh.
And just like that, any awkwardness had evaporated.
Asher had offered me a shrug, told me that bag “probably had everything I might need — and a lot I didn’t,” and then promised to wait outside as I got ready for bed. After that, we’d settled down to sleep without a hitch.
It’s only now, as I creep back to his (my?) bed, that I even consider why he’d had this bag prepared… and honestly, I’m not sure I need to know. Asher’s lack of bed linens suggests he’s not used to having anyone sleep on the floor, but a ‘guest’ could just as easily sleep in bed. With him.
Oh, well. The less I know, the better.
And besides, I’ve got much more pressing issues right now — like the fact it’s so fucking cold my nipples could cut glass. I tiptoe back across the floor, still trying to determine my options for getting warm without falling flat on my face. It’s so cold... I need to ask him for a pair of sock, at least...
Unfortunately, being this focused on getting back to bed also means I’m blind to things right in front of my face.
Like Asher, who’s sitting up at the fireplace.
“Hey,” he rasps, stoking the fire… and despite how calm and even his greeting is, I let out a little scream and jump about a foot in the air.
“Shit!” I shout, clutching my chest.
I’d like to blame my semi-concussed state for the three words I blurt next — but I think we all know my injury is only partly to blame.
You see, my knee-jerk reaction to Asher’s voice was to scream and defend myself. Then, I’d realized what was going on (but I’d still been alarmed), so I’d let out a startled swear… and then finally, the rational part of my brain had kicked in to apologize.
As such, here is what I blurt: “You — fuck — ME!”
Aaaaand now the two of us are standing in dead silence as I contemplate the merits of seppuku.
Just as I’m considering which kitchen knife would be best, Asher’s rumbling laugh interrupts my thoughts.
Without another word, he’s on his feet, wrapping his arms around me, laughing as he does. I ignore my embarrassment as he presses me to his warm chest, my eyes fluttering shut.
Damn. I’ve never known I needed a hug that badly.
“Sorry,” Asher breathes, his head chin resting on my head. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
But I won’t let him take the fall (ha) for this one. “No! I was the one who should’ve been paying attention, and—”
Asher cuts me off, pressing me closer to his chest; I relent with a silent shudder. He feels so fucking good…
“Nah,” he rumbles. “This one’s on me. You’re in a strange place. It’s freezing.”
He pulls back, his hands are still wrapped around my upper arms. “At least you didn’t hit your head this time. I don’t have another cabin we could run off to.”
I giggle, shaking my head. How the hell have I found someone who is willing to ignore the half-request, half-Freudian slip I’ve all but screamed at him?
He just bites his lip and looks down at me, and before I know what’s happening, I feel my lips curl into a soft smile… and then we’re doing that weird stare thing.
For a few seconds (or perhaps an hour, I have no earthly idea), we just look at each other in the low lighting. His eyes twinkle in the darkness as a vein ticks in his jaw; this time, I’m less capable of convincing myself there’s nothing here.
Suddenly, Asher licks his lips as if he’s about to speak. My mind involuntarily fills with images of those lips caressing mine, of that tongue descending my neck. I stop a whimper from creeping past my lips.
Fortunately, nature intervenes to prevent me from making an even bigger ass of myself: a huge wind burst slams into the cabin, one so powerful that it forces me to rip my head away. The gust rattles the windowpanes, slipping through the cracks in the wood paneling.
“I um… hate to do this.” Asher shoots me a guilty look through his dark eyelashes. “But would it be ok if we shared?”
“Yes.”
It’s out of my mouth so fast he barely has time to finish asking. Not that you could blame me: It’s cold. He’s hot. Simple math.
Asher sighs in relief. “I’ll do my best to be professional, but it’s just so cold, and I don’t want you to have another bad dream, and the f
ire isn’t up to full blast yet, and—”
“—Asher,” I say plainly, blinking up at him. “Can we please talk specifics later?” My teeth rattle, punctuating my point. “I’m c-cold.”
“Thanks, Autumn, I’m… I’m not trying to make you—”
“I know,” I assure him, laying a gentle hand on his forearm. “I trust you.” It’s the truth; Asher would rather put himself between a mama bear and a cub than make me uncomfortable.
“I need to build the flames up a little,” he says, nodding towards the fireplace, “but I’ll be there in a second.”
I march over to the bed, crawling beneath the covers with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll do my best to make room, I suppose.”
Asher laughs and stokes the fire. I wrap his blanket over my shoulders and prop myself upon my left arm. He tosses a match into the fireplace, and I know I shouldn’t be looking… but damn. That tugging from between my legs only intensifies as I watch him work. I swear, that man could make taking out the garbage look like a porno!
When he rises from the fireplace, brushing his hands on his pants, I swiftly turn to face the wall, my stomach a flurry of giddy excitement.
I hear Asher take a step towards the bed before another gust of wind forces him climb in beside me. He covers us both with the blanket just as the wind sears through the window overhead. The warmth of his body is a welcome distraction from the biting chill.
With a shudder unrelated to the cold, I relax against his muscular form until we’re not quite touching. I feel his the warmth emanating from his body. I hear his ragged breath against my ear; it’s the most delicious kind of torture to know that if I inched back, just a bit, we’d be properly spooning.
“So. How did you know I had a bad dream?” I blurt.
I’m grasping at straws, but I’ll do anything to take my mind off the sensation of his muscular forearm on my hip. His arm is above the blanket, of course. Not that it matters when I’m already this turned on.
“Oh.” I can tell he wasn’t expecting the question. “I… used to have a lot of bad dreams.” He shifts behind me, moving his arm as he does; I miss it more than I thought.
“Oh?”
“Mm,” he confirms, propping his head on his arm. “I recognize the signs.”
I crack a smile he doesn’t see. “And what are those signs, oh wise one?”
Asher chuckles. “Well, hearing you screaming and running to the bathroom were pretty good hints.”
Oh. I snort. “So you were just—”
“Pretending to be asleep?” I hear him grin. “Guilty.”
Another burst of wind roars through the cabin. I let out a whimper; being closer to the window is chillier than I’d thought. Asher’s on it in a heartbeat; he drapes a protective arm over my waist and edges even closer to my body, only stopping when his warm chest is right against my back.
“Is this… ok?” he rumbles a second later.
I bite my lip, nodding; it’s more than ok.
“Is it… ok for you?”
A dark chuckle vibrates through Asher’s chest. “Yeah,” he responds, his voice thick. I’m about to press him for more, but he changes the subject before I get there.
“So. You had a nightmare. You need to give me all the details, ‘cause probably won’t feel better 'til you do.”
I laugh. My parents had used that trick, too; it makes you realize how silly the nightmare is about halfway through a retelling.
Now, though, I don’t really care about the snake or the canyon.
I care about him.
Maybe I’m emboldened by the darkness. Or still half-concussed. Or overly exhausted.
But I choose to relax against his body as much as I dare… and I dare to do a lot. I gently ease back until the curve of my ass is about two millimeters away from his hip — which only increases the pounding between my legs.
With a strangled noise from Asher’s throat, and his left settles on my stomach.
Shit.
This time, I know I’m not imagining the way his breath hitches in his chest — because mine does, too.
In retrospect, I’m not sure what might have transpired if another gust of wind hadn’t barreled through the cabin… but as soon as it does, I seize my chance, abandoning absolutely all pretense: I rock back against him, in part to avoid the wind, but in part because I just fucking want to.
However, this is about when my lack of experience rears its ugly head: I’d been expecting to spoon against him, to feel Asher’s arms wrap around me as we were finally, finally pressed together.
But I hadn’t been expecting to feel something long and hard prodding me as I rocked back.
Oh.
I gasp, and Asher lets out a swear, angling his hips away. I can’t pretend I don’t know what I’ve felt, though. I’ve felt a boner or two in my lifetime… but only in the darkness. Only under the sheets. Just like now.
But even so, Asher is hard. For me.
That knowledge sends a jolt liquid heat through me; I whimper as I grow even wetter, doing nothing to hide how aroused I am.
Asher doesn’t notice, though; he’s too busy trying to apologize.
“This is so unprofessional. Fuck. I’m so sorry, Autumn, I never meant to do anything to make you uncomfortable! This is 100% my fault, you did nothing wrong, and—”
“Asher.” I place a patient hand on his shoulder.
But it’s no use: he’s stammering now, his words running together — and I know I have to do something drastic if I don’t want him charging out in the snow.
As if he can hear me, Asher gives me one last beseeching look as he flings the blankets off, swearing even more.
Just as he’s about to step down on the floor, I finally put my foot down, too. I summon confidence and courage I’ve never had, the sort of gumption that would put my mother to shame. But it’s now or never: He needs to know.
It all happens quickly.
In one fell swoop, I stare Asher dead in the face, grab his hand, and guide it below the waistband of my pajama pants. We both freeze as his fingertips graze my soaking curls — and yessss. He lets out a deep groan as his hand slips, just a little… and holyfuckingshit, that feels amazing.
“I’m wet,” I whisper, my head thrown back against the pillow. It’s amazing I’m capable of a cogent thought, really, when his hand is beginning slow, even circles around my clit.
Asher chuckles, finally taking my high-pitched whimpers as encouragement. He removes his hand to hoist himself back up, and I cry out at the loss.
“Just for a second,” he amends, pressing my shoulders against my pillow. I blink at him through lust-addled eyes as he settles himself halfway on top of me, propped on his elbow.
When he strokes a hand down the side of my face, I understand.
Asher swallows, a vein ticking in his jaw. “I only want to make you feel good,” he promises, his voice low and rumbling. “Ok?”
I cock my head, confused, but meet him with a resolute nod. I’m not sure what he wants… but he can have it. Whatever the hell it is, he can have it.
Then Asher winks as his lips descend onto my neck. Worries about my inadequacy evaporate as if they’d never been. I gasp beneath his mouth as his hand draws slow, even circles on my hip. Fuck, I’m wet… I’m so impossibly, unbelievably wet, wetter than I’ve ever been. His mouth nibbles and kisses and I cry out, arching my back.
Asher groans and continues kissing, but doesn’t push me — not at all. My shirt’s ridden halfway up my belly, but he doesn’t remove it the rest of the way. Instead, he grazes his hand over it, caressing my soft curves… and for the first time in my life, my belly doesn’t make me self-conscious.
To the contrary, Asher’s worshipping the skin he finds as he gazes at me in adoration, his chin resting on my hip. I ignore the self-conscious screaming from the recesses of my brain, the parts of my past that have conditioned me into believing in my physical imperfections.
I draw a deep breath, cross my arms ov
er my stomach, and pull my shirt over my head. As the fabric hits the floor, a growl crawls up Asher’s throat. The look on his face tells me all I need to know.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, his right hand coming up to cup my breast through black lace.
I whimper. Fuck, that feels good… I’d never thought someone just touching my breasts could feel this good. I’d assumed breasts existed for the benefit of men.
It’s taken me 26 years to realize I was wrong.
Asher’s right hand grazes my nipple through the thin lace of my bra, his left coming up to lovingly caress the other. I moan as he pinches my nipple to a stiff peak, my thighs clenching.
My startled cry snaps him out of whatever trance my breasts hold over him. “Sorry,” he chokes, staring down at my stomach again.
I’m about to tell him his apology is wholly unnecessary and that I like what he’s doing… but then he shifts until his body is cradled between my thighs.
Oh. I give a sharp exhale and take in his position. My inexperience has made me slow on the uptake, because until now I hadn’t realized what he actually wants.
Not that Asher is pressing the issue — or taking advantage, even a little. I stroke the side of his face, and when he tilts his head up to meet my gaze, he arches an eyebrow.
He’s asking permission.
I bite my lip and stare back down at him. On any other night, I might try to persuade him against this. I might let my hangups with my body take precedence over the arousal thrumming through us both.
But now, I just swallow, meet his gaze, and reply with a curt nod: Yes.
My unspoken acceptance reverberates through the air, somehow even louder than if I’d offered it aloud. Asher responds with a leer that’s downright predatory… one that only sends more moisture pooling between my thighs.
And then — with a controlled urgency, like he actually wants to do this — Asher gives me a final nod, hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of my pants, and eases them down over my ass. I arch up to help him, but I hardly need to; it’s like he already knows my body. Like he knows exactly where he needs to dip and turn to get the fabric down.
Thank God I shaved yesterday.
