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Table of Contents
Table of Contents 2
Sierra Simone 3
Chapter 1 5
Chapter 2 10
Chapter 3 14
Chapter 4 18
Chapter 5 21
Chapter 6 26
Chapter 7 29
Chapter 8 31
Chapter 9 33
Also by Sierra Simone 37
About the Author 39
Red & White
Also by Sierra Simone
About the Author
Snow has a perfect, bow-shaped mouth, and I want to trace it with the tip of my tongue.
Outside the snug Montana cabin, a bitter wind screams and howls. Ice and snow pelt the windows with unmatched fury—but inside, all is warm and dry, with just the perfect amount of firelight flickering out over the living room. Snow and I are cuddled on the sofa, whiskey burning brightly through our veins, and we’re close enough for me to count the tiny creases in her full lower lip, near enough that my arm wraps entirely around her slim shoulders. We’ve gone from a friendly kind of cuddle to something…more than friendly. Which was exactly what I’d prayed for when I asked if she wanted to come to my family’s cabin at semester break, and she’d agreed with a bashful kind of smile. And then when we’d gotten snowed in, there was nothing else to do but snuggle close together for warmth…
“Scarlett,” she murmurs, her eyes falling to my own mouth. “Do you…” She trails off, her cheeks going dark.
“Yes,” I say. I can’t resist the urge to brush a fingertip over her mouth, and her eyes flutter shut. “Whatever you were about to say, the answer is yes.”
Her lips curl into a smile underneath my touch.
“I’m new to this,” she admits, opening her eyes. “I’m nervous.”
I lean forward, the curve of my breast pressing against hers, “I’ll tell you a secret,” I whisper. “I’m not new to this, and I’m still nervous.”
She blinks those wide dark eyes at me. “Really?”
I laugh a little. “I want to get this right.”
“Well, I’ll tell you a secret,” she responds breathlessly. “I don’t think you can do anything at this point to screw it up.”
I cover her lips with a kiss.
Her mouth is so soft under mine, so lush and yielding, and it pulls a low noise out of me, a ragged exhale of desire too long suppressed. I nudge her onto her back as gently as my shaking hands will allow. I follow her and spread my body over hers, wedging one knee between her legs and then purring with approval when I feel her hips rock up against my thigh.
I kiss that lush mouth deeper and deeper, parting her lips with my tongue until our tongues can slide and stroke together, and she moans up into my mouth with a noise so sweet that it sends shudders up my spine and heat bolting between my legs. I’m already so wet for her, and I need to know if she’s wet for me, I need to know where else she is lush and yielding, and—
The front door crashes open, sending in a whirl of snow and a blast of cold air. The wind gusts in, and as I scramble up—both terrified that I’m about to be eaten by a bear and also not a little irritated that my kiss with sweet, perfect Snowdrop Lewis has been interrupted—the fire gutters to the point of near darkness. For a moment, even the pale shapes of my hands bobbing out in front of me while I fumble for a nearby lamp switch are lost to darkness. And then the fire swells back up, fed anew by the influx of fresh oxygen, the glow casting a sudden fierce glare over a huge figure hulking in the doorway.
Bear, I think, in an insensible moment of panic. Behind me, Snow screams.
And in front of me, the bear staggers a step forward, then another step, and I take an equal step backwards, my mind frantically rifling through options. Run to the back room and barricade ourselves in? Try to defend Snowdrop and me with a lamp or a fire poker? I think my dad said something about a shotgun in a safe in the bedroom closet…
The bear lumbers forward once again, framed by furious sprays of snow and infernal-looking firelight, all shaggy and frost-covered and massive. I take another step back, reaching for the fire poker propped against the wall.
“Go to the bedroom,” I tell Snow in a low voice. “Lock the door. I’ll try to be right behind you.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with that thing—”
The bear makes a loud noise—a cracked kind of groan—right as my fingers close around the poker handle, and something about it slows me down just long enough for the bear to move closer.
“Help,” the bear says. “Please.”
And then he collapses in front of me, snow still blowing in over his hulking, unconscious form.
A few minutes later and we’ve got the front door wrestled closed and the shotgun discreetly stashed close by—just in case this bear-man ends up being more bear than man. And then Snow and I finally approach the person prostrate on the floor, nudging at his shoulders with our feet and finally squatting down to get a better look at him.
“Is he breathing?” Snow asks worriedly. “Oh, God, what if he’s dead? What are we going to do with a dead body in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a blizzard?”
“Hashtag Montana problems,” I joke absentmindedly, already searching through the layers of wet and frozen fur to find his neck.
“Ohhhh,” Snow breathes, rooting for his wrist on the other side of him. “It’s a fur coat and mittens.”
“And a beard,” I add, finally finding his neck through all the layers of hair. The skin of his neck is warm—but not nearly warm enough. There is a pulse thrumming thready and weak under the pads of my fingers, and I’m a little relieved. I don’t want a dead body in the middle of what was supposed to be my romantic getaway with Snowdrop Lewis.
On the other hand, I don’t necessarily want a strange, possibly dangerous man in the middle of my romantic getaway, either.
Although when Snow and I roll him over, I almost have to revise that assessment, because even under the layers of fur and beard, there’s no denying that there’s a certain rugged handsomeness to him.
He’s got the kind of severe—almost craggy—features one would associate with the term mountain man: the high forehead with the heavy brows; the obligatorily once-or-twice-broken nose; the lean cheeks disappearing under his beard that convey a certain amount of austerity and asceticism. But all those harsh features are balanced out by the dramatic eyelashes fanning over his cheek and the glimpse of soft, well-formed lips under his beard. Lips that are a little bit bluish with chill.
Like me, he’s white, with the kind of fair skin that gets red and flushed in the cold. Snow drops a booping finger on his ruddy nose before starting to unbutton his coat.
“He’s like a sexy Santa Claus,” she says, and I wait for a spike of jealousy to come, but strangely I don’t feel jealous in the least.
Because we’ve finally kissed? Because I think he’s sexy, too? Because Santa Claus can only be so sexy?
I let out a breath and decide to chalk it up to being the cheerfully ravenous girl I am.
“We should put him closer to the fire,” I say, unwinding his ice-crusted scarf. Now that we’ve unwrapped him, it’s easy to see that he’s shivering violently. “Do you think we can carry him over?”
Snow stands up, tapping her finger against those perfect lips. Lips I was just devouring. She catches me staring, and the dark silk of her cheeks turns even darker. But she’s fighting a smile, too.
Gah. She’s so pretty. I want to put every knuckle of hers in my mouth while my knuckles are occupied elsewhere. I want her navel under my tongue, I want her riding my fingers, I want her braids swishing against my thighs as she crawls down my body. I want her, her, her.
But first, this bear-man, who’s still completely unconscious and now leaking snowmelt all over the wide wooden planks of the cabin.
I take his arms, as the taller of us, and Snow takes his feet, and together we shift his huge form the ten feet onto the cushy rug in front of the fireplace.
“Fuck, he’s heavy,” I wheeze out as we finally drop him. He still shivers uncontrollably, eyes closed, breath rapid.
Snow uses a gold-ringed toe to ease up the hem of the thick sweater he wears, revealing a flat stomach, ridged with abs and dusted with dark brown hair. The sight is overwhelmingly delicious. Not just his perfect stomach—masculine as hell and practically inviting teeth and tongues—but also her delicate brown foot arching above it. Her curious little toes now stroking at his stomach, as if to test the firmness of his abs and tickle her feet with the crisp hair there.
This is the problem with being ravenous. Now I’m shuddering with arousal at the sight of a damn foot on top of a stomach of a man I don’t know.
“Yeah, he’s heavy. Heavy with tons of muscles and probably a giant you-know-what, too,” Snow says.
We both look, we can’t help it. And even just coming from a blizzard, even unconscious, there’s a sizable bulge distending his zipper.
“Dang,” Snow mutters. “They sure make them good up here in the mountains.”
“His jeans are wet. Is it creepy if we take them off?”
She nudges at his waist with a toe, and the black band of a pair of boxer briefs rises above his belted jeans.
“He’s got underwear on,” she says. “So only like medium-creepy?”
I try to rouse him before we take them off, but he’s really down for the count. I try testing his pulse again, not that I can tell anything from it, but it reassures me to feel it still going. But shouldn’t he be waking up by now? Shouldn’t he be shivering less?
That decides it for me. I’d rather risk this stranger having his own #metoo moment at the hands of two graduate students than have him actually die of hypothermia.
“You take his sweater and shirt, I’ll take his jeans. Then we’ll wrap him in some blankets, too.”
We get to work peeling the half-frozen, half-sodden clothes off his massive frame, and it becomes more and more apparent that Snow was right. This man is built out of pure muscle. It’s not sculpted, gym-style muscle, either—it’s heavy, delicious layers wrung from hours of wrangling cattle or fallen logs or bales of hay. He’s come by these muscles honestly, and they’re further set off by the dark dustings of hair along his chest and legs. A line of hair leads down from his belly button like an arrow right to his dick, which, even nestled softly into his boxer briefs, promises to be a monster.
I resist the urge to ogle, and instead, I get up for a blanket. Snow tugs off his wet socks, wrapping her slim hands around his bare feet to warm him.
“What is it about a man’s bare feet?” I ask, mostly to myself, because I’m riveted by the sight of them, looking so pale and vulnerable compared to the rest of his big, sexy body. Or maybe I’m riveted by the sight of Snow’s hands on them.
Or maybe I got interrupted in the middle of fooling around with my crush and I’m just at full-on levels of horny frustration.
“It’s just his bare feet,” Snow says, taking one edge the blanket and helping me tuck it around him. She carefully tucks in his feet, making sure to layer extra fabric around his lower legs. “We wouldn’t be so happy to see Professor Stoller’s feet.”
I think of our graduate advisor—a very old man with a very indifferent relationship to personal hygiene—and shudder. Nope, those are definitely not sexy feet.
Soon, we’ve got the man all bundled up and his clothes in the washer, his fur coat hung up near the fireplace to dry out. The fire does its job, and the man’s shivers gradually begin to ease.
I catch Snow’s eyes on the other side of him. “What now?”
She chews on her lower lip a moment, thinking. Then perks up.
“I have an idea.”
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