He leans in and presses a kiss to my temple, then settles on his back with a soft grunt. His arm finds its way around my waist, pulling me into him like gravity. Like I was always meant to be tucked against his side.
I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, his hand drawing slow circles on my hip.
“Good day,” he murmurs.
“Perfect,” I whisper back.
The cats doze. Muffin snores. And for the first time in my life, I feel full.
Safe.
Wanted.
Loved.
Home.
Later, back home, the sun has dipped low, casting the cabin in a moody, golden haze. The scent of pine and rain clings to the walls, to the sheets, to him.
I’m halfway to the bedroom when I feel his hand curl around my waist.
“Bend over,” he growls, voice like gravel. “Stomach flat on the table. Now.”
My breath catches.
I turn to look at him, but the expression on his face makes my knees weak. Pure heat. Possession. Hunger that’s been simmering behind those eyes all damn day.
“Mason,” I whisper.
He steps closer, all heat and leather and coiled tension. “Now, baby.”
I move.
The dining table is solid wood, cool beneath my palms. I bend over it, heart pounding, anticipation humming through every nerve ending. Behind me, I hear the soft sound of his belt sliding free. Then the quiet thud of his boots hitting the floor.
Clothes follow. Mine and his.
Rough fingers skim up the backs of my thighs. He doesn’t rush. Just palms my ass, spreading me open, running his thumb along the seam of me.
“You been wet for me since the ridge?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“I could smell it on you.”
He sinks to his knees behind me, mouth hot and wicked. He devours me like he’s starving. Tongue stroking deep, nose brushing my clit until I’m panting, my hands clawing at the table for something to hold.
Then he rises. Lines himself up behind me.
“Hands flat. Don’t move,” he growls.
I nod.
A second later, he thrusts in, deep, hard. My cry echoes through the room. He doesn’t let me adjust, just sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against mine. One hand fists in my hair, the other grips my hip tight enough to leave marks.
Every stroke knocks a moan out of me. The table creaks beneath us. He’s relentless, filthy with the way he talks. Telling me I’m his. That I was made for this. That no one will ever touch me again.
My body burns. The orgasm builds fast, sharp and wild.
