Penelope
"Maybe if I drive slow, it won't be so bad." I drag my gaze away from the disaster unfurling outside and give Wolfie a sideways glance, which he meets with one of his famous scowls.
"I can't let you drive in this," he mutters, gesturing toward the window. "You wouldn't make it back to Chicago. Hell, you wouldn't make it out of the driveway."
When I left Chicago, a few gentle flurries were coming down, sure, but hardly anything to worry about. The snowflakes melted as quickly as they hit the pavement, nothing that gave me cause for concern on the drive. But now, the view from the window is nothing but white. It looks like a freaking blizzard out there.
"Maybe I can wait it out. It can't snow forever, right?" I pat my pockets to locate my phone and pull up the radar. But one look at the all-red screen makes my stomach tighten. "Oops. Maybe I spoke too soon."
When Wolfie lifts a brow in my direction, I turn my phone toward him, letting him see this nightmare for himself. He lets out a long breath, slowly shaking his head in disapproval.
I can't help but be affected by him. His nearness. His bulky masculine form. The scent of his cologne that hangs lightly in the air.
He said we should forget about the little incident we had on my work retreat, but so far, I'm not doing the best job. I fully blame those smoky dark gray eyes. One look into them, and all my better judgment disappears. And somehow, I don't think a cozy evening trapped in a snowed-in lake house together is going to help the situation.
With a huff, Wolfie stalks toward the fridge, tugging it open with more force than seems necessary. "I'm having a beer. You sure you want to stick to tea?"
I bite my lower lip, thinking back to the last time we were at the lake house in June. I seem to remember stowing away a certain bottle of bourbon that my friends refused to drink with me. "Actually, I think I may have something stronger."
A quick trip to the downstairs bedroom proves my memory right. In the closet, tucked behind a plethora of vintage jigsaw puzzles and sleeping bags, I dig up a half-empty bottle of bourbon from its four-month-long hiding place.
As I march proudly back into the kitchen, I lift the bottle high in the air. "Ta-da! I knew nobody would ever look behind those dusty old puzzles."
Wolfie chuckles, giving me a crooked smile. "Where the hell did you get that?"
"I brought it here last summer. No one would drink it with me, so I hid it for a rainy day. Or a snowy one, I guess."
His brow furrows, but the look in his eyes is pure amusement. When I strut with the bottle toward the kitchen, it earns me yet another one of his low, gritty laughs. I've never heard him laugh as much as he has the past two weekends with me. If I'm not careful, I could get used to it.
It takes some light digging, but I find two rocks glasses tucked in the far back of a kitchen cabinet, and Wolfie pours a generous shot of bourbon for each of us. Brown liquor is quickly becoming our thing.
"Should I get a fire going?" He tips his head toward the living room. "I know where they keep the firewood."
"And I know where they keep the snacks. Sounds like teamwork to me."
While Wolfie gets to work building a fire, I scrounge up two unopened boxes of club crackers from the pantry. Not exactly a dinner of champions, but if I don't get something in my stomach before I start sipping this bourbon, bad decisions are pretty much guaranteed. I arrange the crackers on a plastic plate, and at the first crackle of a log, I carry it into the living room, where I find Wolfie crouched over the redbrick fireplace, stoking an impressive fire.
"You got that going fast."
He nods, his gaze still fixed on the flames. "I've always been good with my hands."
His tone is so plain, so matter-of-fact, that I'm certain he didn't even notice his own innuendo. But that doesn't stop my mind from racing toward a dozen sinful places. I give my thigh a pinch through my jeans to chase that dirty thought away.
"Should we sit on the couch?" I ask, trying to steer my mind toward logistics rather than fantasies.
"Or the floor. Closer to the fire." He pauses, then looks over his shoulder to meet my gaze. "I mean, if that's okay with you."
"Of course," I squeak. "Wherever it's warmest."
And wherever I'm closest to you.
We pull all the pillows and blankets onto the floor, forming a perfect cocoon next to the fireplace. Just enough room for the two of us, plus our plate of crackers, which I strategically place between us in the hope of keeping my distance.
Between sips of bourbon, we work our way through the plate, chatting about everything from snowstorms to Spencer, sharing a laugh as we recall what an awful shot he was on the retreat.
But the more we talk, the more I find my gaze lingering on Wolfie's lips a little too long. Maybe bourbon wasn't such a good idea after all, because it has me feeling gutsy enough to ask the question I've been turning over in my head for a full week now.
"You look like you're lost in thought," he says when I grow quiet.
I pull in a breath, gathering my courage. "I'm sorry. I'm just thinking . . . Will you tell me why you turned me down?"
The words spill from my lips quicker than I can catch them, and the shock in Wolfie's eyes is proof that I should have kept that thought to myself. But I can't just sit and wonder all night. Maybe if I understand his reasoning, the rejection won't sting so much.
Wolfie is silent, apart from the long, slow breath that leaves his lips. His eyes remain fixed on the fire, as if the answer is hidden in its flames.
"Is it me?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "No."
It's not much of an answer, but it's a start.
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't say another word. Instead, he stares at the fire, watching the flames lick away at the blackened edges of the logs.
"Listen, Wolfie, if you're not attracted to me, you can just say so and I-"
"Stop." He scrubs one hand through his dark hair, heaving an unsteady sigh. It takes a long, tense moment, but his dark gaze finally returns to meet mine. "You're gorgeous, Penelope. Absolutely stunning. It has nothing to do with that."
Warmth shoots from my chest to my fingertips. I don't know if it's from him or the bourbon. Maybe both. But I've never been called stunning before. It's a rush.
"So, is it Connor then?" I ask. My brother must be the reason Wolfie won't act on our mutual attraction.
He shifts, meeting my eyes briefly. "No, that's not it. Although, fuck, it probably should be."
"Then what?" By now, I feel like I'm practically begging. What could possibly be so bad that he can't just tell me?
I shift closer until we're knee to knee, our faces only a few dangerous inches apart. I'm playing with fire and I know it, but I don't care. I want to know. I want to understand him.
"What is it, Wolfie? You can tell me."
But he doesn't speak. Instead, he closes what's left of the space between us, one hand floating to the back of my neck as he presses his lips to mine in a slow, featherlight kiss.
At once, everything within me warms, and I know for certain it's not just from the fire or the bourbon. It's the heat of his lips as he brushes them against mine a second time, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as we find a slow, sweet rhythm.
He tastes like bourbon and smoke, the perfect rugged contrast to his tender touch.
Slowly, he moves one hand to my thigh, resting it on the spot where I pinched myself in a desperate effort to keep my distance from him. Now that's the very place he strokes with his thumb as he nibbles softly on my lower lip, exploring how we move with each other.
I've thought about kissing Wolfie a hundred times, but when I pictured it, it was never like this. I'd imagined something hot and heavy, an urgent scrambling of limbs and lips. But this is softer. Sweeter. Hypnotic. I'm quickly learning that when it comes to Wolfie, I should always expect the unexpected.
Brushing my hair to the side, he exposes my neck to the warmth of his breath, pressing delicate kisses behind my ear and gentle nuzzles against the column of my throat. I'm surrounded by his earthy, masculine scent, breathing it in with each quick, unsteady breath. When he finally pulls back, I want to beg him to kiss me again, to pull me into his arms and keep his lips fused to mine all night. And I would, if I didn't have twice as many questions as I did before.
"Well," I say breathlessly. "That was . . ."
Soft? Sweet? Delicious? A perfect moment plucked straight from a daydream?
"Surprising," I finally say, sweeping my tongue along my lower lip in hopes of tasting him again. "I, um, I guess that confirms the whole are you attracted to me thing."
"Glad to hear it." There's something different, softer, about Wolfie's eyes, but the tic of his jaw is a surefire sign he has a whole lot more to say, only I'm not sure he will. But the last thing I want him to do is close himself off again.
Cautiously, I reach out and lay my fingers over his knuckles. "Tell me, Wolfie. I want to know what you're thinking about when you're quiet like that."
A storm is brewing in his eyes, more powerful and unforgiving than the one outside. But I don't care if it's dangerous. I want to walk right into it. That is, if he'll let me.
After another unbearably long silence, he murmurs something under his breath and turns his attention back to the flames. I guess it's easier to look directly into the fire than into my eyes.
"How casual you were about sex . . . it surprised me," he says, his voice slow and careful, as though he were stepping on eggshells with every word. "Sex for me has never been . . . easy."
I nod slowly, processing his words, then I take a deep breath. "Okay. What about it is difficult?"
He lifts a shoulder. "It seems to come naturally for other guys. My friends . . . the way they talk. I guess I'm just built differently."
That's for sure.
Everything about Wolfie is unlike anyone I've ever met. He's guarded and distant one moment, then warm and comforting the next. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. It's jarring, but every time he freezes over, I find myself chasing the next flame. Which is exactly what I'm doing now.
"So, you don't like sex?"
The question earns me a scoff. "I like sex. But I don't generally do the casual thing. I don't get naked with somebody just because."
"Okay. That's not such a bad thing."
Not my personal preference, but certainly not bad.
"That's not it, though," he says, his shoulders growing tense as he finds the words. "It's more than that."
I shift toward him, erasing the distance he just created. "You can tell me, Wolfie." I sound like a broken record, but I want him to know that whatever it is, I want to hear it. I want him to know he's safe with me.
He shakes his head. "I probably shouldn't."
Getting this man to open up is like trying to pick a splinter out of your finger. Just when you think you have it, it slips out of your grasp again.
I take his hand in mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We've been honest with each other so far. Let's not stop now."
He nods once, which may be as good as silence from other guys. But from him, it's a sign that he's willing to keep this conversation going. He's not throwing me out in the snow just yet.
Prompting him, I say, "So, you like sex, but . . ."
"But it usually takes me a long time to come. I get anxious sometimes. About a lot of things, but mostly sex."
Slowly, I nod, weighing his words. "Well, lasting a long time doesn't sound like a bad thing. Most guys seem to have the opposite problem."
"And certain things just don't work for me."
"Like what?"
Part of me can't believe he's opening up like this, and the other part can't believe I'm pushing him to. Wolfie and I don't discuss things like this, but right now, you wouldn't know it. Despite this new topic, it feels comfortable, like we were always supposed to be this open with each other.
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Oral sex," he says, his voice strained, like the words physically pain him to say. "It just doesn't do it for me."
I try to disguise my flinch as curiosity instead of surprise. "Like, at all?"
"I mean, I can get hard from it. But I never come. It's not worth it, so don't even try."
I swallow, then ask on a whisper, "But what if I wanted to?"
He frowns, shaking his head. "I wouldn't waste your time, Penelope."
My heart squeezes. Something tells me it wouldn't be a waste of time with him, whether he finished or not. Just to connect with him in that way would be so entirely worth it. But I'm not going to press him past his comfort zone. Not yet, anyway.
"Well, I guess we're at a bit of an impasse then," I say. "Because casual sex is really all I do. My career has to be my priority right now."
He nods gravely. "I understand."
"But I do like intimacy. I like orgasms, and I can give them to myself just fine. It's better with a partner, though, but . . ."
"But you're not looking for anything serious," he says, completing my thought.
"Right. Not a boyfriend, anyway. Nothing with labels. Just someone I care enough about to be intimate with." I glance back at him, and something close to hope flutters in my belly.
"And you wanted that someone to be me?"
Cautiously, I nod. "I'm attracted to you."
He inhales slowly, his wide chest rising.
"Do you think that someone could be you?"
The slightest smile passes over his lips, but it quickly fades, a tense frown taking its place. "Maybe. I don't know. It's complicated."
"It doesn't have to be. We can take it slow."
Silence again. God, what I wouldn't give to spend just one minute inside this man's head.
I trail my fingertips lightly along his forearm, watching as the hairs stand on end in the wake of my touch. "Maybe we could experiment. If I do anything you don't like, just tell me and I'll stop. Does that interest you?"
"Yes," he whispers, his voice strained with need. "Might be good. Just for tonight."
"Right. Just for tonight."
He doesn't say another word, but the look in his eyes is hungry. Lustful. Ready.
And I know we're not going to get anywhere unless I take a chance.