Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
“You feel that?” I growl, breath hot at her ear, one hand gripping her hip, the other sliding up to cup her breast.
“That’s what it feels like to be wanted. To be cherished. To be burned into someone so deep they’d never survive losing you.”
She gasps, her body trembling.
I reach down between us, rubbing her clit in tight circles. Her whole body shakes. She tries to speak but chokes on a cry, her walls fluttering around my cock.
“That’s it,” I snarl. “Come for me, baby. Show me who you’re made for.”
She unravels with a scream, soaking me, breaking apart with my name on her lips.
I grab her hips, both hands tight, and lose the last of my control, pounding into her until I’m gone. My release hits hard, spilling deep inside her while I curse into her skin.
We collapse together, still shaking.
I don’t pull out right away. I stay inside her, still hard, still needing her warmth.
“You’re mine,” I say again, quieter now. “No one takes what’s mine. Not ever.”
She turns her head just enough for me to see her smile. Faint, shaky, but real.
“Yours,” she whispers. “I’m yours.”
I kiss the back of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, then finally ease out of her, gentle now.
I pull her into my chest, wrap us in the blanket, and hold her like I’m never letting go.
Because I’m not.
Epilogue
Grace
OneYearandaHalf Later
The mountain is green again.
Spring’s rolled in soft this year, coaxing wildflowers from the earth and warmth from the trees. The sky above our cabin is wide and clear, and everything smells like pine and sun.
The wind shifts, lifting the edge of my sundress as I step out onto the porch. Diesel’s just beyond the railing, crouched near the garden, coaxing stubborn carrots into growing straight. His shirt’s damp with sweat, his hair falling into his eyes as he works, and my heart does that stupid aching thing it’s been doing every day since I saidI do.
Which happened exactly seventeen months ago.
Yes. We got married less than a month after everything. And no, I don’t regret it. Not for a second. Not when he looks at melike I’m still the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to him. Like he can’t believe I stayed.
He glances back now and grins when he sees me. “You’re barefoot again,” he says.
“I like the grass,” I say, leaning on the post.
“You’re pregnant,” he says, standing to wipe his hands on a rag. “You’re not invincible.”
“I’m pregnant,” I agree. “Not made of glass.”
