She was struck again by how much younger he looked in sleep. His mouth wickedly tilted, his frown smoothed out, his jaw, covered in delicious whiskers, relaxed. She wanted to touch those whiskers, to trace her finger along his mouth and his cheekbones, to run it down the hard ridge of his throat and lower, to the ridges of his abs and lower again to the flaccid fullness of his cock, still impressive.

A tingle of desire squirmed through her belly. She knew she’d only have to touch him and it’d spring to life. But…the man needed sleep. He hadn’t exactly had a lot of that last night, not to mention the previous two nights, and she’d bet her mom’s most expensive piece of art that Grady had rarely, if ever, slept the day away.

So she’d leave him be for now.

Judging by the unrelenting noise of the wind, they had all day to, how had he put it? Making you come as many times as possible. She shivered at the carnal eloquence and deliberately rolled away from the temptation of Grady, getting to her feet and heading for the bathroom.

Returning fireside a few minutes later, she stepped into her underwear and put on her pajama shirt, planning to check on her parents but getting distracted, once again, by a naked Grady, whom she blatantly ogled. Her muse, which had been MIA since her parents had arrived, suddenly perked up. Now that she could paint. Grady reclined and, in the buff, his work-honed body looked all long and loose and relaxed, that slight uptilt to his mouth suggesting the kind of satisfaction that came only from the type of carnal activities in which they’d indulged.

The title? Waiting out the weather.

Her muse whispered heady sweet nothings in her ear, which Suzanne steadfastly ignored—painting Grady had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Turning her back on him, she crossed to the window near the Christmas tree. It was blindingly white outside, from the foot of powdery snow that had fallen overnight to the stuff that was currently being whipped around by the relentless wind, but Suzanne could still make out the cottage door and was relieved to see no red cloth tied to the knob.

Leaving the window, she made her way across the cabin to the one opposite that overlooked the porch and the front field. It was, as expected, a total whiteout. The dark line of fencing and the bare trunks and branches of trees were the only flashes of muted color visible through the windswept flurry of horizontal snow.