North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1)

  Her eyes trailed lower, down from his very fine ass to the thick muscles of his thighs.

  She didn’t just like him, either. She wanted Owen. Craved him. Her body had been asleep these past two years, and he’d woken it up. With a vengeance. Looking at him, she felt like a starving woman at a feast. Warm as she was from hours of exertion, not all the moisture inside her clothes was from sweat.

  “You okay?” Owen asked.

  The blush was immediate. Megan’s gaze flew from his ass to his laughing eyes. Jeez, she was out of practice. Busted. Again. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled it on a chuckle. “Yeah, I’m great.”

  “Mmm, good.” He flashed an infuriating but admittedly sexy smug smile. “Food. Now,” he called as he crawled through the door, good humor infusing his tone.

  On hands and knees, Megan followed, her stomach growling for sustenance. “Come on inside. Take a break. Get warmed up while I pull things together.”

  He hesitated, his eyes shifting between the snow and the cabin. “Uh, okay.”

  Megan trailed across the snowy path to the cleared sidewalk. She stomped across the front porch, then dropped boots, coat, gloves, and scarf into a pile just inside the door. The temperature differential suffocated her. She ripped off the fleece Henley, stripping down to a thin short-sleeved T-shirt she had at the bottom of all those layers. “Phew. Much better.” She tugged her hair into a pony tail and fanned her neck. She turned to Owen, who stood with his back against the closed door.

  His face was bright red, sweat dotted his forehead and temple. The quick rise and fall of his chest revealed his accelerated respiration.

  Megan rushed over to him, cupped his jaw in her hands. He felt cool to the touch, but sweat poured off him. “Owen? What’s the matter?”

  His swallowed hard. “Can I have a drink, a very cold drink?” he rasped.

  She ran to the fridge and returned in an instant with a large glass of cold water and crushed ice. “Here.”

  He grabbed the glass from her hand and tilted it to his lips, chugged the whole thing back in one desperate swallow, ice and all. He blew out a breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Better.” The cup shook in his hand.

  Megan frowned, wished she knew what had happened. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Yeah.” He shuffled to the breakfast bar and dragged himself onto a stool, not at all the energetic powerhouse he’d been for the last three hours. “Mind if I take my shirt off? I don’t do well with heat. Need a minute to adjust to the air in here.”

  Megan gulped. Mind? Not in the least. “No, course not.” She rounded the counter to the kitchen side.

  He ripped the turtleneck off with one hand and tossed it on the counter in front of him. Spreading his arms against the cold granite surface, he leaned forward so his chest pressed into it.

  An idea popped into her mind and Megan whipped a clean dish towel from a drawer. She soaked it in cold water right from the tap, then twisted the excess water out. Turning back to Owen, she found him draped over the counter, forehead resting on the backs of his hands.

  She debated for only a minute, then walked around to him and laid the cold towel over his upper back.

  He groaned, a sound so full of primal satisfaction that the nerves in her lower abdomen twitched and fluttered. Quite simply, she loved taking care of him. Loved knowing that her hands brought him comfort, eased his distress, provided him sustenance. Made him happy. She got a second cloth, wet it, returned and switched out the first, which had already absorbed Owen’s body heat.

  “Thank you,” he said when the second cold towel fell across his bare skin. He lifted his head and eyed her warily. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She grabbed his empty glass and refilled it. Worried he’d feel uncomfortable if she kept fussing, she busied herself with pulling out the fixings for lunch.

  The chicken salad was chunky and hearty, with coarse chopped celery, onions, and some diced grapes for a splash of sweetness. Her mouth watered. She opted to make sandwiches, thinking they’d be easier to eat outside. One for her, two for him, on big crusty Kaiser rolls. She plated them, then added potato chips and salted tomato slices.

  “Looks good.” Owen sat upright again and looked more himself now. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Sorry I worried you. Just”—he lifted one big shoulder—“I’ve lived most of my life in cold places, so I get along better when it’s cool. It’s what I’m used to, I guess.”

  It struck her as unusual, but Megan nodded. “No apologies necessary. Just glad you’re feeling better.” She grabbed a couple of bottled waters from the fridge. “You know what? I have an idea.”

  In stocking feet, she skittered across the great room to the thermostat and reset the program. The digital display read seventy degrees, but her adjustments would lower it to sixty within a few short hours. Easier for her to bundle up than for him to strip down. Though, now that she thought about it… Hmm, yes, all that sculptured back muscle argued in favor of the stripping down. The way he’d turned in his stool to watch her popped his corded lat muscle out all down his left side. Megan licked her lips. Tried but failed to ignore the desire to taste that lean length of skin.

  As she crossed back to the kitchen, an old childhood memory came to mind. She instantly knew he would love it. “I have a treat for you,” she said. “But it’s going to be a surprise.”

  “No fair.”

  “I’ll make it worth it, I promise.”

  “No doubt.” He slid off his stool. “I’ll help carry all this out, but mind if I grab a dry shirt?”

  “Help yourself.”

  He retreated into the bedroom. Her gaze followed him until he disappeared through the door. She quickly gathered two big plastic cups, two spoons, a bottle of strawberry Gatorade and the bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup from the fridge door. A separate plastic grocery bag hid the surprise from Owen when he returned.

  Megan layered back up, while Owen stuck to a single long-sleeved T-shirt. They collected the supplies for their lunch and headed for the door. At the last minute, Owen swooped over to one couch and grabbed a blanket.

  Back in the igloo, he spread the blanket over the floor and they laid everything out on top. She sat cross-legged in the middle to be close to Owen, who leaned with his back against the block wall. He was entirely himself again, teasing, moaning and exclaiming over the food, making her crazy with his little sounds and big heart. She finished her sandwich just as he finished his second.

  The minute his plate was clear, he asked, “Okay, what’s my surprise?”

  “Eager, much?”

  His multicolored eyes flashed from under long strands of black. “Always.”

  “Stay here.” She pointed at him, waggled a finger. “I mean it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Scooping up her plastic bag, she crawled to the entrance, glanced back. “And no peeking.”

  “Cross my heart,” he said, mimicking his words with his hand.

  Excitement simmered under the surface of Megan’s skin, this kind of frenetic energy unlike anything she’d experienced in so long. She chose a spot that hadn’t been disturbed by their earlier digging and brushed away the very top layer, then used spoons to partway fill the cups with fresh, clean, icy snow. She poured strawberry Gatorade over the crystals and squeezed chocolate sauce on top of that. Two more layers of snow, strawberry and chocolate topped off the big, tall cups. Her heart fluttered in anticipation and the strangest sensation of them having done this before washed over her, but that was impossible. She shook it off. She wanted to please him. Wanted to see his eyes light up and hear his satisfied—and ridiculously hot—sounds.

  “Close your eyes,” she called as she knelt at the door.

  ??
?Closed.”

  “Keep ’em closed.”

  “I am, I am,” he groused. “Hurry up already.”

  Megan settled right in front of Owen, a cup in each hand, her knees just inside his spread, drawn-up legs. A thrill rippled through her stomach, in the best possible way.

  “Okay,” she said, her voice higher, lighter. “Open your eyes.”

  Chapter Eleven

  At first, Owen could only focus on the brilliant happiness shining from every inch of Megan’s face. The apples of her cheeks so rosy and shiny. Bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation.

  Something smelled fantastic. His gaze dropped to the enormous plastic cups in her hands. Mounds of icy red and thick chocolate piled over the cups’ edges.

  He sucked in a breath. “You made us snow cones?” His mind reeled. She didn’t realize the significance of what she’d done. Couldn’t have known.

  She smiled and nodded. “I made super-duper deluxe chocolate-strawberry snow cones, to be exact.”

  “Gimme.” He snatched the cup from her hand. Lighthearted laughter spilled from her pink lips, lighting him up inside. He spooned in a helping of chocolaty snow. “Oh my gods,” he mumbled before he’d even swallowed. The weight of her gaze fell on his mouth, pulling his stare back to her. “You put chocolate on snow.”

  “I know, right? It’s fantastic.”

  “It’s”—he gobbled another bite—“genius. Inspired.” And beyond the gooey, icy sweetness of the treat—in itself a revelation—the snow infused his system with a nearly electrical charge of energy, vitality. He shuddered. Goosebumps broke out across his skin. Between his legs, he hardened, forcing him to shift to accommodate the tightness. Each scoop hit him like a jolt of B12, caffeine, and Prozac in one. He couldn’t get enough.

  And she’d been the one to make him feel this way.

  Megan Snow was perfect for him.

  She sat watching him, so full of life. Her cup remained untouched.

  “Why aren’t you eating?”

  She lifted her spoon. “Oh, I was just—”

  “Here.” He held out his spoon without thinking about it, but then his need for her to eat from his hands exploded in his chest.

  Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. Those baby blues flashed up at him, setting off a twisting heat low in his gut. She leaned forward. Wrapped her lips around his spoon.

  Aw, hell. His hard-on throbbed. His breathing tripped and his heart took off at a sprint. He scooped another portion into his own mouth, watched her swallow hers. More. Holding out the spoon, he made the offer again and again. Over and over, she accepted. He leaned toward her, and she scooted on her knees closer, and a little closer again, until one knee finally kissed the back of his thigh.

  He groaned and continued to feed her, nearly panting now. She held his eyes while she ate, her own breathing audible between them, her chest rising and falling under her coat. In his gut, the snow morphed into raw power, ignited his veins, tingled through his muscles, setting off involuntary twitches here and there that felt like being tickled.

  His spoon hit the bottom of the cup, scraped loudly in the confined space of the igloo against the empty plastic.

  Megan didn’t miss a beat. A spoonful of her dessert appeared at his lips. “My turn,” she whispered, her voice breathy and low.

  Tossing his cup and spoon aside, he devoured what she offered, savored the cold sweetness, drank it down into his belly. She was right there ready with more, then took some for herself. In her haste, red crystals spilled from the spoon down over her chin. A thin line of chocolate edged over her lip.

  In a flash, he was on her, powerless to resist any longer. His big hands cupped the back of her neck, tangled in soft curls. Pulled her in. His mouth zeroed in on the flavored snow on her skin, a taste far more heady than the snow alone, all creamy vanilla and soft-scented woman. He kissed and sucked up her chin to the corner of her mouth, her warm exhalation tingling across his cheek. And then his lips found hers.

  The moan she unleashed into his mouth flared in his gut. He dug his fingers into that beautiful mass of silky blonde, held her to him. Urgent, open-mouthed kisses sought her lips, implored her to want him back. When her tongue sneaked forward, flicked his bottom lip, he groaned in triumph.

  For a moment, he let her lead. He wanted her to be the one to breach the physical gap between their bodies. To come to him. Finally, the tip of her tongue curled around his, explored his mouth in the most tentative way.

  It was all he needed.

  He sucked her in, savored the echo of the strawberry-chocolate coldness that graced her mouth. Her shy exploration turned bolder, caught on to his urgency, gave it right back.

  Megan’s weight fell against his chest, the snow cone wedged between them. He pulled back, snatched the spoon from her shaking hand, and held a scoopful to her mouth. Their faces were close enough that her breath ghosted across his lips. “Take it,” he rasped. “But don’t swallow.”

  She sucked the treat in as Owen set the cup and spoon aside. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his eyes trained on hers even as their lips met. She opened to him when his lips and tongue demanded entrance. The sweet snow in her mouth made him dizzy. They both swallowed roughly, not letting go, sharing the dessert between them.

  Megan ran her hands through his hair, pushed it back off the sides of his face. She held as tightly to him as his gentle hands did to her. Her grasp bordered on painful, but he wouldn’t have traded the intensity of it for all the Arctic. When she scooted closer, until her knees burrowed under his thighs, he released her hair, scooped his hands under her bottom, and hauled her onto his lap so she straddled him.

  She gasped. He groaned and pressed up into the cleft between her thighs, unable to heed the receding part of his mind that urged caution. He didn’t want to scare her, push her, but the sensations this body was capable of creating owned him, took over his conscious mind, disabled all rational thought. Yet, she was about more than the physical pleasure firing through his synapses and pulsing between his legs. He needed her like he’d never needed anything in his very long, very lonely, very cold existence.

  “Gods, Megan, you taste so good.”

  He swallowed her whimper and wrapped himself around her, his arms strapping her to his chest, his thighs pushing her forward into him. Her soft moans rang out with approval. Her hands held tight in return, clutching, stroking. Every kiss she gave him, every touch, every needy sound, filled him with the same magical strength as the snow. She’d made him. She’d called him. Now, finally, she was claiming him. And only through her claim would he become real, permanently corporeal and human. Only through her choice could he escape the transience of the North Wind, of the frost, of the snow.

  He’d never wanted that before. Never really cared. But he clearly didn’t know what he’d been missing. Now that he’d had a taste of the wonderful riot of sensation and warmth that was life, he wanted more, wanted as much as he could have. But only with her.

  Through his kisses, he willed her desire. With each groan that rumbled from low in his throat, he begged for a chance. For warmth, for companionship, for love. It was there, between them, the Christmas miracle of his appearance. Now for her to see it, to grasp the silky ribbon of his life force and pull him to her.

  The things he could give her if she would just let him…

  §

  Even though Megan was on top, she felt completely possessed by Owen. His hands secured her against his broad chest. His mouth tugged her lips, stole her breath. Need shot out from him like static electricity—his dark gaze blazed and flashed, his lips sucked and pulled. Between her legs, his erection bucked and pressed. She opened her knees wider, slid forward, ground down against him in return. The friction they created heated her body, jolted her heartbeat. Her scalp prickled and the hair on her neck and arms
raised. Her whole body jangled.

  All that sensation pooled down low, right where she sat atop him. “Owen,” she moaned. She ground and pressed and kissed and rocked against him until she was dizzy with lust and need.

  “Oh, Megan.” Big hands gripped her hips, steadied her rhythm against the long, hard ridge between them.

  “Yes,” she whimpered. Once he’d pulled her into his lap, her body declared there would be no going back. A primal, instinctual need to have him, to claim him, invaded her soul. It had been a long time, but this intense pull to him, the chemistry between them, was so far outside the ballpark of her experience that she couldn’t confine it within reason or logic.

  He bucked his hips against her pelvis just as his mouth devoured hers in a needy, urgent kiss. She unleashed a strangled moan around his exploring tongue, and all at once her body detonated between them. The forceful surprise stole her breath and blanked her mind. Electrical impulses rippled out from the clenching muscles of her core and suspended her body in a delicious stasis, head back, eyes unseeing, mouth open, her cries spilling out against the icy domed roof cocooning them.

  She collapsed against his shoulder, face buried in his neck. His pulse raced against her lips, and she pressed a succession of little kisses there. As she panted, she breathed in his scent—all cool and fresh and male. Around her back, his arms comforted, warm and secure.

  As she lay there, boneless and breathless—and completely stunned—she knew without question something inside her had shifted. While a small corner of her heart panged at the thought of John, her mind was at peace with what she’d just shared with Owen, what more she still wanted to share.

  Just three months ago, she’d let Kate talk her into a double date to a Baltimore Orioles game. A Sunday afternoon in the sun, surrounded by crowds of people—it was supposed to be a low-pressure, low-risk reentry into the world of dating. Kate’s friend had been nice, cute, the quintessential good guy. So much so that she’d felt bad at the idea of turning him down when he’d asked if he could give her a kiss at the end of the evening. The moment his lips touched hers she’d panicked, and icy regret had sloshed through her gut. That night, she sobbed herself to sleep.