“Life has enough pain. Enough drama. Enough… death.” His gaze flicked to hers so briefly she would have missed it had she not been watching him. His expression had gone dark, heavy with some feeling she could not place.

  As if he knew about pain; his family never let him hit rock bottom. And enough death? He’d killed two people—he was the one ushering death in. Spreading that pain like the Grim fucking Reaper.

  Anne followed his gaze to the fire.

  “Your ex is causing us trouble, Anne.”

  She blinked at the abrupt subject change. Was he trying to catch her off guard?

  “That’s why we’re here, right?” she began slowly. “He’s messing with the shareholders.”

  “It’s more than that.” He was studying her face now in a way that made her feel like she was on trial—more intense than any prosecutor. She wasn’t even looking at him, and she could feel his gaze like needles on her cheek. “Rumor has it that he’s getting married.”

  Anne frowned. What? There was no way in hell. “That’s nonsense,” she said. “If he was getting remarried, I’d know.”

  “Why is that?”

  Because he’d stop stalking me. But maybe that wasn’t true. He might get remarried for the will and keep stalking her for fun. Charles had told her that she was the only woman he’d ever love. She believed him. And that scared the hell out of her—it meant he’d never let her go.

  “I’d just know.” But her voice no longer sounded so certain to her ear—higher now. Tight.

  John seemed to pick up on her unease. “I always thought you hated him as much as we do. Now I’m not as sure, and that worries me. Worries… all of us. I just need to know if you’re on our side.”

  She tensed, another shudder racking her body. It was a loaded question and clearly not the one he wanted to ask. He was testing her, priming her for a more critical conversation. Perhaps one about his father. And she would not have that discussion here while fighting to stay alive.

  But there were some things John should not doubt.

  “Charles has done more to make my life miserable than anyone else,” she said.

  And that was saying a lot. She’d spent her formative years as a foster child, which was probably why she’d gotten involved with Charles in the first place. Behaviors that should have been immediate red flags had felt so… normal.

  Until he’d broken out the riding crop and asked her to beat the shit out of him.

  “If he makes you so miserable, then why are you hanging out with him?”

  She tried to swallow, but her tongue was sticky. And John’s arm against hers was so… warm. Fuck, he was so warm.

  “He called and asked me to breakfast. Sometimes, it’s easier to give him what he wants.”

  “It doesn’t sound like that only applies to breakfast.”

  A lump formed in her throat, but she didn’t have to explain herself to him. She shrugged.

  “So… he’s not getting married?” he tried again.

  “I already told you, not that I know of. But in his place, for the voting shares… the real question is, why wouldn’t he?”

  “Okay, so he might be, but not to you?”

  “No, of course not to…” Me? She finally turned John’s way in time to catch his eye—accusatory. Wait, was that what this was about? “You knew we were seen in public together, you heard a rumor that he was getting hitched, and you assumed that I was the one marrying him? You thought I was about to upend the O’Connor stake in the company for Charles?”

  His face did not change. His eyes bored into hers.

  Anne could barely find the breath to answer—too shocked to be angry. “I wouldn’t do that to your family. I’ve always acted in the best interests of the company.” Even if you don’t deserve it. “Whether it’s working late or having breakfast with those we’d rather not see, sometimes, people like me have to do things that we don’t like. But we’re not all traitors.”

  “People like you?” He sniffed. “I see. Unlike me, whose entire life is a cakewalk?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you meant.”

  She rubbed her hands frantically over her arms. Even with the gloves, her fingers weren’t working right, the muscles twitching, vibrating with cold. The only part of her that was warm was her biceps—pressed against John’s side. Why the hell isn’t he shaking?

  “I’d rather we survive, so I’m going to put my arm around you,” he said. “Don’t hit me.”

  She gritted her teeth. But she nodded.

  When John raised his arm, Anne shifted nearer and snuggled against his chest, leaning her face into the heat of his throat. But while the warmth of his armpit against her shoulder did help some, it wasn’t enough to keep her teeth from chattering. Her jaw ached.

  “We should unzip,” he said, the words vibrating against her cheek.

  “We are not going to rub one out, John,” she said into his neck.

  A pause. Then he laughed, so long and loud and raucous that it jiggled her head, made her breath catch. But she was too cold to pull away.

  “What the hell is so funny?” she snapped against his jacket.

  “Not our pants, you horndog!” he sputtered. “Our coats. And if you stick your hands between us, then I can wear the gloves for a few hours. I’m edging toward frostbite over here.”

  She winced in spite of herself. If he lost his fingers, she’d have to make the next fire alone.

  He was still chuckling, the vibration of it somehow soothing. Yeah, because killers don’t laugh while they throw you off a cliff. Or do they? Anne ignored the thought, peeled the gloves from her hands, and passed them over.

  Zippers buzzed as they prepared. The frosty air bit at her skin, but he tugged her close immediately, wrapping her in the warmth of his chest, his yellow coat tight over them both. More intimate than she’d planned, being face-to-face like this, but it was all instinct—survival. She did not want to put her back to his chest, leaving them with a blind side.

  “Mine won’t quite zip behind you,” he said, “but you’ll have the fire at your back. That’ll help.”

  He was right; her shivering was already subsiding. The steady throb of his heart settled her own. She hated him—she was allowed to hate him for what he was, what he’d done—but the heat of his arms around her back, the way he held her close, so gently, so tenderly… It was a kindness. And one he didn’t have to offer.

  “You don’t have a fire at your back,” she said, but her eyelids were already heavy. His breath in her hair was a balm—soothing.

  “I’ll be okay. But if this doesn’t help, I vote we take our pants off, too.”

  “That’s sexual harassment, John.” But there was no malice behind it—no threat.

  “Are you going to sue me?”

  “Not for that.”

  “For something else?”

  Maybe.

  The silence stretched, their breath hissing in the night, the crackle of the fire a steady white noise uncut by wolfish howls.

  “Why do you hate me so much, Anne?” he asked into her hair.

  Anne screwed her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

  Hopefully, he believed it.

  Chapter 12

  John

  The night stretched before them like a blanket of ice—deep and heavy and endlessly cold. But inside the cocoon of their jackets, they were warm. Anne had stopped shaking mere minutes after he wrapped her in his arms.

  Her presence soothed him. He might be happy to be here with anyone, though. Who wanted to be alone in the wilderness with the threat of wolves on the horizon and the cold stabbing at your ass? He’d heard the lonely howls twice more since she’d fallen asleep. Not close enough for them to leave the fire and run, but each bout of canine wailing seemed nearer than the last. That was certainly of concern, especially if Anne was correct about the tendencies of animals in these mountains. A wild landscape full of vicious creatures, all intent on destruction.

  Sometimes, dead is better. The quote from Pet Semetery poked at him. Despite what he’d said to Anne, he did, in fact, watch horror movies. He just didn’t want to think about them now. The isolation in Misery, The Shining, Wrong Turn 4… the pervasive darkness of As Above, So Below… No, those thoughts were not comforting.

  He sighed and buried his face in her hair, their scarves offering additional protection around their faces, the fire keeping his feet from freezing. She smelled like coconuts. She smelled of sweat and ice. He didn’t want to like that, but he couldn’t help it. It was the scent of life—of another human who would help him get back to his family.

  But Anne was still lying to him. Wasn’t she?

  He had seen the glint of terror in her face when she talked about Charles. She was not marrying that man for a second time—that much he believed. But he also believed that she knew more than she was letting on.

  He cut his eyes at the glowing coals. The flames had petered out around the last time he’d heard the wolves, and he hadn’t wanted to attract them nearer by stoking it. The animals would certainly notice the points of flame, smell the smoke from far off in the distance. A beacon, shouting: Dinner! Dinner! Dinner! Dawn would be here soon, anyway.

  He shifted his arm, holding her tighter, and she stirred against his chest, her breath on his nipple. Tingly through his thermal underwear, making his insides vibrate. But this was not sexual. This was staying warm, not rubbing one out.

  He frowned. She was right; that phrase was kinda… gross. Like the word moist. Or porridge.

  Especially porridge.

  She moaned, raising her lips from his chest toward his neck. He breathed deeply, trying to relax enough to rest, but sleep had proven elusive. He and his ex, Rebecca, used to lie like this under the blanket of night, watching the way the moon tipped her head back to part the clouds, the way the stars blinked on one by one. There was a sweetness in the surrender, in the way Anne’s breath hit his throat. The way he just had to… hold her as he’d held Rebecca. As if he loved her.

  They might be enemies in the morning, but tonight, they were comrades, their breath a hissed symphony on the breeze. Somewhere beyond the veil of darkness, a lone cry broke the night. Another wolf answered. Closer now—definitely closer. The creatures knew they were here.

  Dinner! Dinner! Dinner!

  As if she’d heard his thoughts, Anne stirred, nuzzling her face gently into his chest, away from his throat. Her lips pressed against his nipple once more. She groaned.

  “It’s okay,” he said into her hair. “I think they sound closer than they really are because of the echo over the mountains. We’ll head out at first light.” The light was a sticking point for reasons that superseded the wolves. Tripping over that dark cliff had to be at least as bad as being eaten alive.

  Anne shifted closer, her thigh rubbing against his pants. Between his legs. His spine stiffened, the tingling heat from his nipple surging lower. An accident, surely an accident.

  He took a deep breath, thinking about gross words like mucus and sputum and creamy and ointment. Porridgeporridgeporridge.

  They were pressed together. Of course they’d accidentally brush some… sensitive bits. And it wasn’t her fault that his dick was just looking for a reason to perk up. He hadn’t had a woman touch him in half a year; hadn’t had so much as a date in months. He’d lied to Desmond’s face about that—acted like every weekend was just another romp in bachelor-ville. He did not need to give Desmond another reason to worry about him.

  But that pressure of her thigh between his legs… that was going to end with a physical reaction she didn’t intend. He shifted back, his hip grating against the rocky earth, but she pressed forward, this time with her palm. The heel of her hand rubbed against his dick.

  Despite the chill in the air, warmth seeped through his veins, creeping between his legs. He inhaled the smell of her hair once more—coconuts and ice, a musk that was undeniably feminine. Erotic.

  Stop, John. You can’t do this. The thought was bright and sharp in his brain, as poignant as the cold. He tried to pull away again, but once more, she moved with him, keeping her fingers pressed against his cock.

  “Anne? What are you doing?”

  Stupidest question ever. In response, she drew her face back from his chest, her eyes open—staring. She brought her lips to his.

  He froze as her tongue traced his lower lip, then skated over his teeth. She hated him, didn’t she? But there are only so many ways to interpret someone grabbing your johnson. And when her tongue entered his mouth, twining with his own in a sultry dance, he forgot who he was and where they were. The night wrapped them together—the ice bound him to her.

  She unzipped him and slipped her hand down his pants.

  He moaned, a low keening sound like that of a wolf, a nearly unrecognizable feeling rising in his belly—primitive. Feral. It had happened so swiftly, this slide into blind need. But it was not the pulsing pressure between his legs that felt foreign. It was the black night above them marred by pinpricks of stars, the craggy rocks, the smell of the ice, the inexplicable familiarity of her body.

  This was not reality but some strange land that only seemed real. He was not himself, but a character in a world made of snow and lust. And when she began to stroke him, working her hand up and down his shaft, he let himself melt into her. Everything inconsequential except the heat of her mouth on his.

  “Do you like it when I touch you?” she whispered against his lips.

  “Yes,” he whispered back, hating the desperation in his voice but having no ability to temper it. He’d thought her beautiful in the past, but now she was so intensely sensual that he could barely stand to look at her. A gray-eyed goddess, smooth porcelain skin, pink lips, cheeks flushed with desire.

  “Do you want me?”

  God, he wanted her so badly he could taste it. He should be concerned about what might happen later, but the stranger inhabiting his body cared nothing about consequences. He cared only about the easy pressure of her lips, the wet sound when she dampened her palm before shoving it back down his pants, the feeling of her fingers against his hardness.

  “Yes. Oh yes. I want you, Anne.”

  “Touch me,” she whimpered. “Please, please, please….” Her words trailed off into a long, luscious moan that made his heart throb low in his abdomen. “I want your fingers in my pussy.”

  The words sent lightning through his veins. He groaned. He tugged the glove off his top hand, slid his fingers down the front of her pants, and found the wet, slick heat between her folds. She widened her top leg, giving him access. John slipped two fingers inside.

  She cried out as if she hadn’t been touched in years, her pussy tight around his knuckles. John moaned back, their breath trapped between them. The chill air hissed, trying to breach their cocoon, trying to attack them, but they were in a world all their own. Where the ice could not reach.

  “You’re so fucking wet.” He rubbed her clit with his thumb, then added a third finger, relishing the way her breathing accelerated and the soft, high-pitched “Yes, yes, yes!” when he found her sweet spot.

  “That’s it,” he said. “I want to feel you come.” Had he ever wanted anything more?

  “Shut up.”

  The words cut into his brain. He blinked, the illusion faltering. She had never told him to shut up. Had he ever heard Anne tell anyone to shut up? And… no. Wait. This wasn’t right. She spent all day yesterday lying to him, had been lying to him and his family for months while she hung out with her ex-husband, and now she was… what? Trying to seduce him?

  At least he knew she wasn’t with Charles—there was no way in hell that man would let her fuck an O’Connor. Charles wasn’t the sharing type.

  Anne’s teeth clamped down on his lower lip, and he gasped, startled—it brought him back to his body and out of his head. Her hand was locked on his dick, working him inside his snow pants, the scratchy tips of her injured fingers sending electrical impulses through his legs to his toes and up, up, into his chest.

  Stop this, John, his brain whispered to him once more. But he could no sooner do that than he could stop breathing.

  For months, he’d shut this side of his brain off, avoiding closeness like the plague. So why did this feel okay? Because it was an insane situation? Because it was only physical? She hated him—she’d made that exceptionally clear. The risk of losing his heart was nonexistent. But…

  They still had to work together. They shouldn’t do this. Yet that didn’t stop his body from responding to her, his toes cramping, the pressure inside him building with every desperate noise she made.

  Anne ground her hips against his hand, pumping her fist faster, harder, and John followed her lead. He rubbed frantically at her clit, the slick heat of her urging him on as he worked her with his fingers.

  “You’re so tight, baby. Does that feel good?” Tell me it feels good.

  She moaned again, a noise that built into a thin shriek, high-pitched and wild. Sopping wet. Deliciously fucking wet. It drove him on, speeding his pace until she was panting, matching the strokes of his fingers with her breath, hot air from her lungs whooshing over his aching lip.

  “We need to get out of these pants,” he grunted.

  Anne did not answer. Her eyes were screwed closed.

  “Anne?” Blood pounded frantically in his temples, his muscles taut. He didn’t want to come yet, but the electricity from her palm, her thumb running up and over the head of his dick… She was driving him crazy. He accelerated the pressure on her clit, making her squirm—making her squeal. He could hear her desire in every pressured gasp.

  “Annie”—Annie?—“I want to taste you. I want every inch of your tight pussy wrapped around my dick.”

  Anne shuddered, her entire body rigid, and then she was screaming, contracting around his fingers. His breath hitched, his teeth ground together—Porridge! Porridge! Porridge!—but it was too late. John went over with her, stars exploding behind his eyes, pleasure racing through his veins in a flood of pure euphoria. And still, she did not stop, the frantic pace of her hand keeping him high, keeping him moaning at the stars.

 

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