Page 8 of Rough Marshal Daddy
“Not until you’re dry,” he replies firmly. One of his hands slides the towel down my back, pressing it against my spine. The pressure feels so good I have to bite my lipto hold back a small sound. His other hand works through my hair again, fingers combing gently to separate the strands. The sensation is intimate and soothing, sending tingles across my scalp and down my neck.
The cabin feels smaller with him so close. The wood stove crackles loudly, warming me up. The slow rhythm of his breathing brushes against my spine, each inhale lifting me slightly before settling me back into the cradle of his arms. My nipples tighten against the cold wet fabric, visible and sensitive, and I know he can see it. The thought makes my cheeks burn.
“You’re important too,” I murmur, leaning into him more. “I don’t like seeing you hurt because of me.”
His hands still for a moment. Then he turns me around to face him, the towel now draped over my shoulders. His eyes are darker, heated as they move over my face and down my body. The wet t-shirt clings to every curve, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. I should cover myself, but I don’t. I like the way he looks at me. Like I’m something precious and desirable all at once.
“You’re not the reason I am hurt,” he says, voice rough. “The storm is. And I would walk through worse to keep you out of danger.”
He lifts the towel again and gently dries my face, his thumb brushing my cheek through the fabric. The touchis so tender for such a big, rough man that tears prick at my eyes. No one has ever taken care of me like this. Not with this kind of focused intensity. His fingers move to my hair again, squeezing water from the strands and letting them fall damp against my shoulders. Every movement builds the heat between us, slow and undeniable. The chemistry crackles like the fire in the stove, making the air feel thick and charged.
I reach up and touch his injured arm lightly, feeling the warmth of blood against my fingertips. “Mason, please. Let me look at it now. I can’t stand seeing you bleed.”
He looks down at me for a long moment, saying nothing, but the silence between us feels charged. Then he nods once. “Fine. But you stay close where I can keep you warm.”
He finally shrugs off his heavy jacket, wincing as the movement pulls at the gash. The shirt underneath is torn and bloody, the fabric dark with moisture. I grab the first aid kit, my hands shaking slightly as I clean the wound. The antiseptic stings sharply, and he doesn’t even flinch. His eyes stay on me the whole time, watching every movement I make with that intense focus that makes my pulse race.
While I work, he keeps one hand on my waist, thumb stroking slow circles through the damp fabric of myshirt. The touch is possessive and soothing all at once. His palm settles against me, and warmth spreads through the cold material as though it isn't there at all. Every brush of his fingers sends sparks straight through me. I like this. I like being taken care of by him. I like how he puts me first even when he’s the one injured.
The tension between us keeps building as I bandage his arm. Our faces are close, breaths mingling in the warm air. His scent wraps around me, masculine and strong. I can see the pulse beating in his neck, steady and powerful. When I finish tying off the gauze, my fingers linger on his skin longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking up at him through my lashes. “For letting me help. And for drying me off.”
His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me a fraction closer. “You come first, Riley. Always. Get used to it.”
The words settle deep inside me, warm and certain. The storm continues to howl outside, but in here the air feels electric. Full of promise and heat and something neither of us is ready to name yet. I stay pressed against him, letting him take care of me, and for the first time since the nightmare began I feel truly cherished.
Mason Cole is dangerous in the best possible way. And I’m starting to think I don’t want him to stop taking care of me anytime soon.
8
Mason
The towel in my hands still carries the faint scent of her as I watch Riley move toward the bathroom. Water drips from the ends of her dark hair onto the wooden floor, leaving small dark spots that catch the firelight. Her soaked t-shirt clings to every curve of her body, the thin fabric translucent in places and outlining the soft swell of her breasts and the tight peaks of her nipples from the cold. The sight makes my cock throb painfully against the front of my jeans, hard and heavy and demanding attention I’ve got no right to give it.
She needs to warm up. And I need distance. Being this close to her, drying her hair while her body presses back against mine, pushed me right to the edge. My mouth waters and my hands itch to touch more than just wetstrands of hair. I’m rock hard, the thick length of my dick straining uncomfortably against my zipper, aching with every heartbeat. This is an assignment. She’s a witness under my protection. I can’t let myself cross that line no matter how badly my body wants her.
“Take a hot shower,” I tell her, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. “Get warm. Stay in there as long as you need. I’ll make something hot to drink.”
Riley pauses at the bathroom door, looking back at me with those wide, trusting eyes. Her cheeks are still flushed from the cold and from the tension that crackled between us while I dried her off. “Okay. Thank you, Mason.”
The door clicks shut behind her and I hear the water turn on a moment later. The sound of the spray hitting the tile fills the small cabin, a steady rush that does nothing to calm the blood pounding in my veins. I grip the edge of the counter hard enough that the wood creaks under my fingers, willing my erection to settle down. It fucking doesn’t. My cock stays thick and painful, pressing insistently against my jeans as images flash through my mind. Her wet skin. The way the towel felt in my hands as I worked it through her hair. The soft sounds she made when my fingers brushed her neck.
I force myself to move, turning toward the small kitchen area. Distance. I need to focus on something useful. I pull out a pot and set it on the stove, the metal clanging softly. Powdered cocoa, sugar, and a can of condensed milk from the supplies. I add water from the kettle I set on the wood stove earlier, the liquid hissing as it hits the hot surface. I stir slowly, the wooden spoon scraping against the bottom of the pot, watching the mixture thicken and turn glossy brown. The heat from the stove warms my front while the memory of Riley’s body against mine keeps my back tight with tension.
The shower runs on, the water sound constant and soothing. I imagine her under the spray, head tilted back, water cascading over her bare shoulders and down her curves. My dick twitches hard again, leaking against my boxers. Fuck. I haven’t been this turned on by a woman in years. There’s something about her innocence mixed with that quiet strength that hits every dominant part of me. I want to pin her down, spread her open, and show her exactly how a man like me takes care of his girl. But she’s not mine.
I pour the hot cocoa into two large mugs, the steam rising in fragrant curls that fog the air in front of me. The scent is deep and sweet, chocolate with a hint of cinnamon I added. I set the mugs on the small table nearthe fire and add a couple more logs to the stove. The wood catches quickly, flames licking higher and throwing fresh waves of heat across the room. The crackle and pop of the fire mixes with the steady sound of the shower.
When the water finally shuts off, I sit down on the couch, adjusting myself discreetly. My cock’s still hard, throbbing with unmet need. I hear her moving in the bathroom, the rustle of clothing as she changes back into dry things. A few minutes later the door opens and Riley steps out, wearing another one of my large t-shirts and the rolled-up sweatpants. Her hair’s damp but no longer dripping, falling in soft waves around her face. The shirt hangs off one shoulder again, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone. She looks warm and soft and far too tempting.
“Feel better?” I ask, voice low.
She nods, offering me a small smile as she walks over. Her bare feet pad softly on the floor. “Much warmer. Thank you for the towel and for… everything.”
I hand her one of the mugs. Our fingers brush and that small contact sends another jolt straight to my groin. The cocoa’s still hot, steam curling up between us. She wraps both hands around the mug and inhales deeply, eyes closing in pleasure.
“This smells amazing,” she says, taking a careful sip. A tiny sound of satisfaction escapes her, soft and sweet, and my cock jerks again. I shift on the couch, trying to ease the pressure.
