More than that, I want to plan for her. The thought hits without warning. I want to stock the cabin with the tea she likes, want to show her the hidden trails when the snow melts and wildflowers bloom. When the retreat reopens for the spring season, I want her there. Not as some guest passing through, but as mine.
I've guided couples before. Watched the mountains either bond people or break them apart. The women who thrive up here aren't the ones looking for Instagram shots. They're the ones who understand that real beauty requires work, who find magic in simple moments and shared silence.
Claire could be one of them. I see it in how she moves through my space, how she doesn't flinch from rustic accommodations. She's treating my home like a sanctuary, not a backdrop.
The other guides have wives who've found their place in our world. I never understood the appeal until now. But beyond practical considerations, I want to keep her. Want to wake up every morning to her curled in my bed, want to come home from long trail days to find her here waiting. The possessiveness is immediate, primal. Something dormant in my chest finally roars to life.
She's still looking at me with those dark eyes, lips slightly parted. She can read the hunger in my expression. I've guided enough people to recognize when someone's about to make a dangerous choice. The smart thing would be to step back, give her space to think clearly.
But Claire isn't some client I need to protect from bad decisions. She's the woman I want to make every decision with. Every choice that keeps her close and safe and mine.
I let my fingers brush her jaw. Her skin is impossibly soft under my fingertips, warm despite the cold still clinging to the windows. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into the touch, eyes going heavy in a way that makes my blood surge.
"You sure about this?" I ask. Even through the haze of want, I need to give her the choice.
"I'm sure about you," she whispers. The trust in her voice nearly undoes me.
I trace her cheekbone, watching her breath catch. Watching how her pulse flutters beneath the delicate skin of her throat. She's curvy, but so much smaller than me, so much softer. Every protective instinct I've ever had screams at me to be careful. To worship instead of take, cherish instead of claim.
But there's steel in her spine. Strength in how she holds my gaze. She's not fragile, she's precious. There's a difference.
"One more inch," I say, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, "and I'm not letting you go."
Her lips curve in the faintest smile. "Good."
That single word breaks something loose in my chest. I stand and step closer, eliminating the last whisper of space between us.
One more inch, and she's mine.
I should pull away. I should take a step back, go outside, clear the snow off the roof, do anything that doesn’t involve breathing her in. I don’t move. All I can think about is how easily she fits here. I watch the way her eyes keep dropping to my mouth and then back up again, like she’s unsure whether this is something real or something she’s imagining.
She speaks first, voice soft. “I’m not sure what to do with one more inch.” She says it like a challenge. Like she’s not afraid of the way I look at her, and maybe she should be. Her smile tugs at the corner of her lips, slow and curious. “But you’re always watching.”
I don’t deny it. I can’t. I’ve been watching her since the moment I saw her stumbling through the snow, cheeks pink, lashes coated in snowflakes, muttering to herself like she was too stubborn to be afraid. I hadn’t meant to carry her. But I had. I hadn’t meant to let her stay, but the thought of sending her back out in that cold? Impossible.
And now she’s here. In my shirt. In my space. In my head.
Her breath catches, but not in fear or discomfort. Her awareness rises like warmth between us, as steady as the fire.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to decide something.
So I do. I shouldn’t. It’ll mean too much, but her eyes ask the question I’ve been trying not to answer.
She doesn’t pull away. Her eyes don’t close, but they go softer, hazier, like she’s already falling into whatever this is.
She shifts forward slightly, almost imperceptibly. I feel it. The answer is in her body before it reaches her mouth. She tilts her head, breathes in. The space between us barely exists now. One more inch, and I’m lost. Her breath brushes my lips. Her scent fills the space between us. One more second and I won’t be able to stop myself.
I lower my head and kiss her.
It starts light, little more than pressure and breath. But the moment I taste her softness and warmth, something in me gives. I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, and deepen the kiss. She makes a sound low in her throat, not quite a gasp, more like ayes. She leans into me, her hands curling in the front of my shirt. Her body fits against mine like it was always meant to. I feel the curve of her soft hip through the flannel, the warm press of her tits against me, and it takes everything I have not to back her against the wall and allow my cock to learn her all at once.
I don’t rush. I let the kiss deepen slowly, let her lead because if she asked me for everything right now, I’d give it to her.
She kisses like someone who feels everything too fast but doesn’t want to miss a second of it. Her lips part under mine. The kiss turns hungry. Still slow and careful, but there’s no question now. No space between what we want and what we’re doing.
I pull her closer. Her hips brush mine, and I force myself to stop. It isn’t because I don’t want to keep going, but because I do. Too much.
I break the kiss and rest my forehead against hers. My hand stays at her waist, fingers pressing into her softness. I feel the rise and fall of her tits against my chest, the way she exhales like she’s just stepped out of the wind and into something safer. All I can think about is keeping her here. Keeping her warm. Keeping her mine.
