You're not supposed to be here. You shake your head sadly as you watch the steam rise from your mug of hot chocolate. The hot chocolate he made for you. The hot chocolate that he called his mother for help with because the first batch got scorched when he was telling you how much fun snowboarding down a certain trail was.

Or maybe it scorched because you kept asking him to repeat some words, too busy focusing on the snug thermal shirt stretching over his chest when he gestured to care about what he was saying.

Right. Like you really came up here to snowboard.

Of course you did, you remind yourself. You went on a shopping spree with the man at your side so you could get everything you would need for a weekend in the mountains. You had no idea why you needed so many sets of thermal underwear, considering you only plan on going out on the slopes once. If at all. You'd be perfectly content to stay wrapped up in a thick fleece blanket next to the fireplace with his hot chocolate warming your hands and wearing his baggy sweats as you try to thaw out. The bastard had the nerve to knock you down into the snow and even though it had been freezing and your jeans had gotten soaked you made snow angels.

Because he asked. And because he had laughed and told you that his was bigger you had shoved a snowball down his shirt.

But that's forgotten now. He made you hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate. You smile and take a sip and though it's not the best in the world it's warm and sweet and you know things will be okay. Because someone cared enough to make you real hot chocolate.

The one you miss would have dumped a packet of Swiss Miss into a mug with too much water…

This trip is supposed to cheer you up. Your mind kicks you and you look over to the man at your side. His best friend. Your best friend, really. The only one who gets why you're so depressed when you have to stay at home. Alone.

The only one who ever tries to make you feel better. Whether it's a lunch date or a night of sappy chick movies that he hates or dragging you along to whatever he's going to do, he obviously hates to see you moping around.

"How is it?" he asks and you realize that he's already asked that three times.

"Perfect," you promise with a smile. Even though it isn't, really. But he's there and he's really trying and that makes up for the lack of marshmallows.

"If you've thawed out later maybe we can drive down to that diner we passed," he suggests. He's sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, sprawled out and perfectly comfortable. You didn't even know until just now that he's got one of your feet in his hands, gently rubbing it between his palms.

"I thought this joint had a pantry full of food," you remind him. You want to pull your foot away. Despite your years of playful flirting he's never touched your foot. You assure your conscience that it's not like his hands are on your breast.

Your breast… A moan unexpectedly escapes you and you take a sip of hot chocolate. Your eyes close as you picture his large hands cupping your breast. His long fingers are rough from years of playing guitar and lifting weights and you know they would fell so damn good against your skin.

What the fuck is your problem? You've never had such thoughts about him before and even when your girlfriends vocalize their fantasies about him you always laugh and say the thought disgusts you.

You fucking hypocrite.

"You're gonna fix me a big supper right? I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

You have to laugh because when he gets away from the paparazzi and the fans he turns into such a big country bumpkin. You playfully push at his chest with your foot and immediately wish you hadn't when his hands slide to rest on your calf. He doesn't seem perturbed about the fact that his fingers are against your skin but damned if your heartbeat hasn't accelerated.

"What do I get out of cooking you supper?" you ask.

He grins. That cocky grin that you love to hate. The one that tells you he's about to say something inappropriate that would have your boyfriend cussing. "What would you want to get out of it?"

You. You're surprised at the thought because you've never wanted him before. And before you can stop yourself your mouth opens and you murmur, "You."

"Me? In what way?" One hand slides up to rest behind your knee and fuck when did that become an erogenous zone?

"Naked," you blurt before your censor kicks in.

"Naked, huh? You wouldn't be rolling my ass out into the snow would you?"

He's so fucking smug. You can tell it in his voice and in that grin. "No, I wouldn't throw you outside."

"What then?"

"Justin," you breathe, surprised when his fingers graze your thigh and he kneels in front of you. The movement is so quick you're powerless to stop it. Not that you would but you would've liked the opportunity. You whine when his hand slides back down your leg and he leans close, supporting himself on the hearth. "You know…"

"Don't go getting' shy now." His stomach is against your knees and when he wets his bottom lip you part your legs so he can move closer. "He ain't here."

"I know." You hate him for pointing out the obvious. "If he was I wouldn't be with you."

"Would you?" he murmurs and he's moving closer. Suddenly you've slipped into dangerous territory and you have no idea how to get out of it.

Or if you even want to.

"Well?" he asks. "Would you be with him? Would you have stayed in L.A. in that rambling fucking mansion while he messed with songs downstairs or would you have come up here to hang with me?"

You don't even think. "You. I'd be with you." Your mug is shaking in your hands and you're grateful when he takes it away from you. God what are you doing?

"I don't want to take you away from him," he whispers. "I just want…"

"This weekend. That's all I want too," you whisper. Just this weekend without studio sessions and movie shoots and voiceover work and things that are more important than you. A weekend without cell phones ringing and emails pouring in and waiting in bed for the man your love.

"You really want this?"

He would fucking ask you. He would put it all on you. The bastard. The amazingly sexy bastard that's smoothing your hair from your neck. "Do you?"

"If I didn't I wouldn't be asking you." His lips are against your ear. His fingers are doing delicious things to your neck and his breath against your skin is warming you better than all the blankets, fires and hot chocolate in the world ever could.

"I want it Justin."

Apparently that's all he wanted because now he's kissing you. It's not the short sloppy kiss that you've seen him give his girlfriends. It's slow and sensual and his lips keep pulling at yours and his hands are at your waist. You break the kiss long enough for him to pull the baggy sweatshirt away from your body and when his callused palms spread over your back you lean against him, eager for more.

The blanket is pulled away but you don't see where it lands, too busy nipping at his lips. His thermal shirt is bumpy under your fingers and you whimper softly when he tugs you from the hearth. You keep your lips against his as he falls back onto the rug, flicking your tongue over his. You barely feel the floor beneath your knees.

"Fuck," he gasps when you settle over him. His hands smooth over your back before gripping your ass. Pressing you down against the hard cock straining inside his jeans. You're momentarily amazed that you can feel it through the sweats that are cinched to your hips but you've seen him naked before and smirk at the memory.

"I want to," you tell him. One hand finds your breast and it's better than you thought it would be and your forehead falls to his shoulder. "Damn..." You grab hold of his thermal shirt and tug. "Off."

He chuckles and sits up. You gasp; he's harder than you thought. You let him take off the shirt and skim your fingers down his chest. You want to take time, to examine each contour of muscle but you're impatient. You trail one finger along the line of fine hair that leads to the waistband of his jeans and grins when he shivers. Next time, you tell yourself, you'll go slower.

You've got his jeans unbuttoned when he tweaks your nipples. The sensation has you rocking against him and when he arches up you shove the offending denim down his hips. His cock lays against your stomach briefly before you're being rolled to your back. The rug covering the hardwood floor is warm against your back and you arch up eagerly when his hands move to your waist.

"Anxious much?" he asks, that smugness in his voice. Like it's an honor that you get to fuck him. But when you look into his eyes you can tell that he's the one feeling honored.

"Please," you gasp, shaking your leg free of the sweatpants. After your hot shower you ignored any form of undergarments and you're glad when he looks down and licks his lips. One finger trails your slit and you arch towards it.

"So fucking wet," he whispers. His lips cover yours before you can make a sound. Your hands move to clutch at his shoulders but he catches your wrists in one hand, stretching your arms against the floor above your head. You whine in protest. You want to touch him.

"Justin…" His finger is driving you crazy. He keeps tracing your slit but avoids your clit each time and his thigh is resting over your hip, keeping you from moving. "Fucking… Shit!"

"I kept thinking about what I'd do to you if I ever got to fuck you," he tells you. He alternates between sucking on your bottom lip and licking the curve of your neck. Between his tongue and his finger you're already at the brink and his words are only pushing you closer. "I had all these fucking plans about eating you out until you couldn't stop screaming and taking you from every position I knew."

"Fuck, Justin," you gasp. He'd thought of being with you before? You can't form that many words though so you settle for a simple, "Fuck me."

"I am baby, I am." His face looms over yours and you groan when you feel his finger slide away. You focus on his face - normally blue eyes nearly black and moist lips parted and cheeks flush. He tilts his head back and sucks his finger into his mouth. Your eyes widen at the unexpected eroticism of the movement and when his grip on your wrists loosens you sit up, catching his lips in a fevered kiss as soon as his finger his gone.

His hands fall to your waist, pulling you into his lap. You try to reach down and stroke him but he shakes his head.

"If you do I'll blow like a fucking teenager," he warns when he sees the question in your eyes.

You smile because the words are almost endearing. Like he's wanted you so bad for so long and now that he has you he can't last very long. It's empowering. It scares the shit out of you.

He slides the tip of his dick along your slit and you manage to stay still, whining when he presses against your clit. Your gaze slides down and you watch his fingers squeeze his cock and wish he would just get it over with. He's going to kill you. People have died from too much stimulation, right?

Just as you're about to start begging for him to fuck you his hand moves to your hip and he pulls you closer and…

Fuck.

Your body shakes and you struggle to hold onto his shoulders and try to slide down until he's in you completely. But he's moving slow. Fingers digging into your hips he's guiding you the way he wants you to move. He's going too fucking slow.

"Justin," you ground out, feeling his muscles bunch beneath your fingers. Your nails are probably digging in too sharply but he doesn't seem to care. You try to ease your grip. Then all of a sudden he's fully buried inside you and you're allowed to move.

"Fuck babe," he gasps. His hands slide over your body, fingers pulling at your nipples and palm cupping your neck. He manages to caress and manhandle at the same time and you love it. Teeth bite at your lips and a tongue flickers over your earlobe.

You rock against his thrusting hips, surprised at the noises that escape your mouth. You don't remember being this loud before but sex has never been this intense, this needy, until him. You don't stop to think about that fact, though.

He keeps whispering how tight you are, how slick you feel. His words are just another way of pushing you closer and you move faster, your need to get off more urgent than anything else at this point.

"That's it, ride me hard," he entices. He stops moving his hips and you growl in protest, hating the smirk on his face. "C'mon baby, ride me."

You push at his shoulders, squealing sharply when he leans back. His skin glows in the light of the fire and you're briefly transfixed at the way his eyes glitter. But then his cock twitches deep inside you and you comply with his request. You marvel at your sudden switch to wanton and know that he could ask for anything now and you'd gladly say yes. Anything. As long as he keeps letting you fuck him.

His hands keep grabbing your ass, squeezing and urging you to move faster. It's all you can do to remember how to breathe and when he suddenly bucks beneath you, reaching deeper than before, you're certain you see stars. You tense up, clutching at his chest and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream. You're vaguely aware of him arching beneath you and his short, satisfied growls as your body begins to shudder.

When you fall against him he catches you, chest sweaty beneath your cheek and arms trembling as they wrap around you. You manage to tilt your head slightly to receive his kiss, moaning at the friction his body creates as he continues to work his hips against you. If you could move a muscle you would gladly roll over and let him take over but even drawing a breath is almost too much.

He tenses suddenly and growls long and hard, fingers digging into your skin and you feel him come inside you. Your name is a tortured gasp and you're surprised at the tenderness he exudes after such frantic sex. His hands cup your cheeks and he whispers your name and you begin to worry.

You're worried because you wait for the guilt to creep between you and him. You wait for it and even after you're able to move and he's pulling the blanket over your cooling bodies it still hasn't come. You're worried because you haven't felt the urge to push him away and seek the solace of your room.

You're worried because you're boyfriend is thousands of miles away and you just fucked his best friend.

And you want to do it again.

You're not supposed to be here. But you don't care anymore.