Like I was chosen.
My fingers trail over the ink on his chest, over a scar I haven’t asked about yet. He watches me carefully, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll retreat now that the heat has cooled.
I don’t.
I lift my head and meet his eyes.
“Yes,” I say.
His brows rise slightly.
“Yes?” he repeats.
My pulse jumps, but I nod.
“Yes. But…”
He goes still at that.
“But?”
I glance toward the couch near the fire, the cushions soft and deep, shadows flickering over the leather.
“Not the table,” I say, cheeks warming even as I hold his gaze. “The couch.”
Something dark and pleased shifts in his expression.
“You giving orders now?” he murmurs.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
That low sound he makes in his throat sends a shiver through me.
He moves without warning, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
My legs circle his waist on their own.
His hands grip under my thighs, firm and sure, making me bloom all over again.
“You’re bold,” he says, voice rough against my ear as he carries me across the cabin.
“You said you don’t do gentle,” I remind him softly.
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
He lowers us on the couch, the leather cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the fire's glow flickering nearby. His body settles beneath mine, strong and unyielding, his cock still half-hard against my thigh, stirring fresh heat in my core.
I straddle him, knees sinking into the cushions, my hands bracing on his tattooed chest. The scars under my fingers feel like maps of his past, rough and real, drawing me closer even as they remind me of his edges.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and intense, that possessive glint making my heart stutter.
He grips my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, guiding me without taking over. The trust in his touch unravels something deep inside me, a mix of vulnerability and power that makes me bold.
I shift forward, feeling his cock twitch against my slick folds.
The remnants of our earlier linger, my pussy still sensitive, swollen from his claim. But the ache isn't pain; it's hunger, pulling me toward him.
