The words hit harder than the vertigo. Low. Rough. A little too intimate. A little too knowing.
Something inside me flips—tight, hot, startling.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh hell no.
Because the way he says that—like I’ve already pleased him, like he wants more—does something to me I’m not prepared for. My thighs tighten. My pulse drops straight to my core. And suddenly the climb isn’t just about survival.
Suddenly, I want to earn that praise again.
Make him say it.
Hear what other things that voice might do to me when we’re not clinging to a cliff.
His hand comes up beside mine, guiding, steady. “Right hand up to that hold at two o’clock.”
I reach for it, not because the rock feels safe—but because he does.
Because if I move, if I keep going, if I stay in this moment with him pressed against me, whispering in my ear…
Maybe when we reach wherever the hell we’re heading?—
He’ll tell me I’m agood girlagain, and I can explore more than that kiss.
Maybe deeper.
Closer.
Hotter.
Maybe I can see what he sounds like when he saysgood girlin a place where he doesn’t have to hold anything back.
I move when he tells me to, trusting him to guide my feet when I can't see. His body follows mine up the cliff, never more than inches away. When I fumble for a hold, his hand covers mine, guiding it to the right spot. When my foot slips, his thigh is there, supporting me until I find purchase.
"You're doing good, Savannah. Almost there."
His voice becomes my anchor. The way he says my name—like it belongs in his mouth, like he's tasting it—makes heat curl low in my belly despite the terror.
This is insane.
I'm clinging to a cliff face in the dark, and all I can think about is how his breath feels against my neck, how his body fits against mine like we were designed for this.
"Last push," he murmurs. "Ten more feet."
Those ten feet feel like a hundred. My arms shake with exhaustion, my legs are rubber, but his voice keeps me moving.
"That's it. You're amazing. So strong. Keep going."
When we finally haul ourselves over the last ledge, my knees hit solid ground. I’m shaking—adrenaline, exhaustion, the tail end of fear—but the second my palms meet dirt, relief crashes through me so hard my eyes sting.
“You did it.” He drops to a crouch beside me, one big hand rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades, grounding me. “You climbed that whole thing.”
“Only because you were there.”
His thumb sweeps once down my spine, deliberate. “No. I just reminded you how strong you are.”
