Page 8 of His Untamed Craving

My jaw tightens as a new wave of recollection washes over me—the way she damn near tumbled off that ridge, only my grip anchoring her to safety. Just the memory of her curves crushed against me has my pulse kicking up a notch.

Easy, Croft. Getting tangled up with a woman like this is a sure recipe for complications.

But as my stare traces the delicate curve of her shoulder, I can't deny the simmering craving still pulsing through my veins. Christ, this woman's like a drug—the more I get, the more I need a hit.

Daisy stirs beside me with a throaty murmur, eyelids fluttering. For an instant, she goes rigid, every muscle pulled taut. Then her gaze meets mine, and her body instantly softens, melting back into me as realization dawns.

"Well, good morning to you too, Grumpy." Her voice is low and raspy, still thick with sleep.

I grunt in response, not about to admit how her tousled curls and sleepy smile are doing things to me they definitely shouldn't. "Sleep okay?"

She lets out an exaggerated groan, stretching in a way that has those soft curves pressing against me from shoulder to hip. "Like a rock."

I force myself to shift back just an inch, putting some much-needed space between us before I do something stupid. "I'm surprised the storm didn't wake you."

As if on cue, the roar of howling wind and pounding rain redoubles in a deafening onslaught against the thin nylon walls.

"Shit," she says. "Sounds like Mother Nature has other plans for us this morning."

I can't resist a low, rumbling chuckle at her nonchalance, even in the face of this hellish maelstrom bearing down on us. "Yeah, sounds like it."

Another thunderous gust shudders through the flimsy shelter, the entire structure flexing and groaning in protest. I instinctively tighten my grip around Daisy, anchoring her against me as the storm rages.

She doesn't resist, her body melting into mine as she meets my stare, eyes dark and smoldering in a way that has my pulse hammering triple-time.

"What do you say we find a way to pass the time?"

There it is again—that mischievous spark dancing in her eyes that I somehow can't resist, no matter how hard I try. My body's already betraying me, arousal thrumming hot and insistent as my stare drifts from that coy smile down to the swell of her breasts rising with each breath...

"You're trouble, you know that?" The words come out more gravelly than I intended.

Rather than looking deterred, Daisy simply quirks one dark brow higher. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Then, she sits up and scoots to her pack, retrieving a worn deck of cards.

A low, rumbling chuckle rises unbidden from my chest.

"What's the game?" she asks. "Go Fish? Crazy Eights?"

The question hangs thick between us, the air practically crackling as the storm howls and roars outside our tiny sanctuary. Part of me knows I should shut this down before it goes any further.

But another part, a bigger and much more primal part, is intrigued despite my best efforts. This woman has been baiting me since the second she strutted into that gear shop, with her wild curls, audacious curves, and untamed spirit.

Well, two can play at that game.

Reaching out, I pluck the deck from her fingers and begin laying out the familiar spread. "Strip poker."

Daisy's eyes widen a fraction before that devilish grin stretches across her face. "Deal me in."

There's no going back now.

I deal the first hand. Daisy studies her cards, biting her lip again as she mulls her next move. The simple act has heat unfurling low in my core. This woman is a living, breathing temptation.

A sly smile plays across her lips as she lays down a card. My jaw tightens as I match her bet, the game officially underway. With each discarded card, the stakes grow higher, the tension building like a coiled spring between us.

Soon, the tent grows stifling, our layers of clothing gradually being shed one by one. A flannel here, a thermal top there—each article hitting the floor with a heavy thud that seems to echo through the cramped space.

By the time we're stripped down to our base layers, sweat beads across Daisy's brow despite the chill still whipping outside. My stare traces her chest's rapid rise and fall, lingering on the dusky nipples straining against that thin fabric. It'd be so easy to reach out and cup one in my palm, to brush the pad of my thumb over that pebbled peak and watch her breath hitch...