Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
He catches me instantly, his hand closing around my elbow. It’s hard to tell if it’s support or restraint. Maybe both.
He’s quick to unlock the door to the cabin, and when he throws it open and guides me through it, I forget my name.
Because inside… It’s breathtaking.
The walls are paneled with slow-grown wood, rich and warm, polished smoothly. The furniture is handcrafted perfection with clean, classic lines that suggest obsession with symmetry and pride in detail. It’s not rustic kitsch. It’s art. Living, breathing, masculine art.
My mouth parts in a silent gasp of awe.
This isn’t a cabin. It’s a cathedral to craftsmanship.
My clients in Aspen would sell their souls to replicate this.
Nixon guides me into the center of the open-plan room and closes the door behind us. The sound of the latch clicks.
And just like that… I realize I’m trapped.
Not by a man with cruel eyes and yellow teeth...
But who is Nixon, and what does he want with me?
3
SCARLET
“Come and sit over here,” Nixon says, guiding me gently by the arm toward the deep navy corduroy couch. I hop awkwardly on one foot until I reach it, then sink into the cushions with a relieved sigh.
I clutch my purse to my chest, acutely aware of the phone tucked inside. Knowing it’s there provides a thread of control in a situation that’s slipping through my fingers.
Nixon lowers himself onto the polished wood coffee table directly in front of me. His thighs spread slightly for balance, his body solid and broad, and before I can object, he lifts my injured foot into his lap and slowly peels away the sock.
“Don’t,” I say. “I can do it.” I try to jerk it back, but he continues.
“Why don’t you want me to help?” he asks. “You’re so guarded.”
“You’re a stranger,” I snap. “A stranger who carried me into his cabin in the woods. Forgive me if I’m not swooning with gratitude while you try to undress me.”
He shakes his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Undress you? It’s a sock. A dirty, leaf-covered, damp sock. You think this is my idea of foreplay?”
I flush with embarrassment.
It isn’t. Of course, it isn’t.
But when his fingers slide beneath the fabric and ease it over my swollen ankle, it’s not just pain that floods my nerves, but awareness. His touch is warm and sure, rough in the way that comes from working with his hands, but gentle, too. His focus doesn’t waver, not even for a second.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
The sock peels away slowly, dragging leaves and forest debris with it. When he exposes my foot, he pauses.
“It’s very swollen,” he says quietly, setting the sock aside.
I glance down and wince. He’s right. The bones of my ankle have all but vanished beneath red, puffy skin. It looks angry and injured.
But for some reason, what embarrasses me isn’t the injury. It’s my toes. Painted cherry red, neat and shiny.
Too bold. Too sexual. Too… obvious.
He notices. His eyes flick over the polish and then to mine. There’s no teasing smirk on his face, just that cool, assessing calm again. His gaze is so deep, it seems to touch parts of me I don’t show anyone.
I bite my lip at the intensity within their depths.
His silence is unnerving. His stillness is even more so.
I can’t read him at all.
He’s so damn sexy, from the straightness of his nose to the fullness of his lips, but it’s his eyes that have me shivering. Cool and blue, they’re as pretty as they are empty.
Nixon lifts my foot from his lap and settles it on a thick cushion on the coffee table. Then he stands, walking with quiet purpose to the kitchen, pulling a tea towel from a drawer, and grabbing a plastic bag from the counter. I watch him fill it with ice, fold it in half, and wrap it. The whole motion is efficient and quiet, like he’s done it before. Like he’s used to people being hurt around him.
I reach into my purse and curl my fingers around my phone. It’s there. Warm from my body heat. My lifeline.
But the moment of comfort is shattered when the front door swings open with a loud creak.
A man walks in.
And he’s completely naked.
I freeze.
He’s tall, lean, and broad-shouldered with the kind of body that could only be built in the woods or a weight room. His torso is marked with dark, intricate tattoos that spiral across his chest and arms, curling like ancient script. His hand goes to his cock, which he attempts to conceal but fails. It’s so big that, even though his hand is enormous, there is still a whole lot on show.
My mouth drops open. He blinks.
“Reed,” Nixon growls from behind me, his tone halfway between irritation and warning. “Clothes. Now.”
The naked man, Reed, turns toward the door with a roll of his eyes. “We didn’t know you had company,” he mutters. “A sign might’ve been helpful.”