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Anna - Ember in the Pines (458 photos) (Patreon)
Content
The cabin smelled of cedar, cinnamon, and the faint crackle of the fireplace. Outside, autumn leaves bled gold against the frost-kissed windows; inside, Anna had traded her coronation gown for something far less regal: a set of butter-yellow lace lingerie that clung to her freckled skin like sunlight on snow.
She hadn’t planned on seduction. Not at first.
The trip was meant to be a quiet retreat—three days away from Arendelle’s endless meetings, from Elsa’s worried glances, from the weight of a crown she still wasn’t sure she wanted. She’d packed flannel, cocoa, and a stack of dog-eared romance novels. But when he showed up—Kristoff’s old climbing partner, Rowan, broad-shouldered and quiet, with calloused hands and a voice like gravel over honey—plans melted faster than the marshmallows in her mug.
He’d come to fix the chimney. One look at her in that doorway, hair loose and wild from the wind, cheeks flushed from the cold, and the job turned into something else entirely.
Now, the firelight painted her body in warm amber. Anna lounged across the velvet chaise, one leg draped over the arm, yellow lace riding low on her hips. Rose petals—her doing, scattered earlier in a fit of nervous mischief—clung to the fabric, to her thighs, to the curve of her breast where the bra cupped her like a secret.
Rowan stood in the doorway, flannel shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes dark as the forest outside. “You always answer the door like that?” he asked, voice rough.
“Only when the handyman’s late,” she teased, rolling onto her stomach, the lace stretching tight across her ass as she reached for her cocoa. Steam curled between them like a dare.
He crossed the room in three strides. She didn’t flinch when his hands found her waist, thumbs tracing the lace edge, rough against soft. “This place is supposed to be off the grid,” he murmured against her neck.
“Then turn off the lights,” she whispered, and did it herself—flicking the switch with her toe. The fire was enough.
She tasted like cocoa and mischief when he kissed her. The chaise creaked as she pulled him down, lace tearing just enough to make her gasp. Petals stuck to sweat-slick skin as they moved—slow at first, then urgent, like the storm building outside. She rode him with the same fearless grin she’d worn sledding down the North Mountain, fingers tangled in his hair, hips rolling until the only sounds were the fire’s pop and her breathy, broken moans.
Later, wrapped in nothing but his flannel and the glow of dying embers, Anna traced frost patterns on the window with one finger. Snow had started to fall.
“Stay,” she said. Not a question.
Rowan’s arms tightened around her. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
Some fires, she decided, were worth letting burn all night.
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