“I did.”
“I’m not trying to.” A lie. We both know it.
His gaze flicks to my mouth again. It lingers. “You’re doing a shit job of not trying.”
My breath catches. “Then maybe stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already decided I’m yours.”
He goes motionless. For one long second I think I’ve gone too far. Then he leans in—just enough that I feel the heat of him, the scent of pine and woodsmoke and something darker, hungrier. “Maybe I have,” he says, voice so low it vibrates through me. “Question is… you gonna fight me on it?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I should say yes. Should say I don’t do this—don’t fall into bed with men I just met, don’t trust anyone this fast, don’t let myself want things that feel this inevitable. But the storm is still raging outside. The doors are locked. The world can’t reach us. And Beck Ironwood is looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
I lift my free hand. Slowly, and I press my palm to the center of his chest.
His heart is pounding as hard as mine.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not going to fight you.”
Something raw flashes across his face—relief, hunger, possession all at once. Then his hand slides from my wrist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my damp hair, tilting my face up.
He doesn’t kiss me yet. He just holds me there, forehead almost touching mine, breathing the same air. “Too late,” he murmurs, echoing what I said earlier. And God help me, he’s right. Because the second his mouth finally closes over mine—slow, deliberate, claiming—I know I’m not leaving this mountain the same person who drove up it.
And I don’t want to.
Not anymore.
THREE
BECK
Her mouth tastes like coffee and cinnamon and something sweeter I can’t name. I kiss her slow at first like she might vanish if I move too fast. But the second her lips part under mine, the careful snaps. My hand tightens in her hair, tilting her head exactly where I want it, and I take. Deep. Hungry. Like I’ve been starving for this exact taste my whole damn life and didn’t know it.
She makes a small, surprised sound against my tongue. Then her fingers curl into my shirt and she kisses me back like she’s been waiting just as long.
The couch creaks when I shift, pulling her closer until she’s half in my lap. Her thighs bracket one of mine. The flannel rides up. Bare skin against denim. Heat. Soft. Fuck.
I break the kiss long enough to drag my mouth along her jaw, and down the side of her neck. She tips her head back, breath hitching, fingers threading into my hair and tugging just hard enough to make me growl.
“Beck—” My name sounds wrecked coming from her. Ruined already.
I bite the spot where her neck meets her shoulder—not hard, just enough to mark. She gasps, arches, and presses herself tighter against me. My cock jerks behind my zipper like it’s trying to get closer. “Too much?” I rasp against her skin.
She shakes her head fast. “Not enough.”
Christ.
I slide my hands under the hem of my shirt and find warm, smooth skin. Up her ribs. Higher. Her nipples are already tight peaks against my palms. I thumb one, slow circle, and she moans—soft, needy, straight into my mouth when I kiss her again.
The storm outside chooses that moment to slam the cabin like it’s jealous. Windows rattle. Wind howls. Doesn’t matter. Nothing outside this room exists.
I pull back just far enough to look at her.
Her lips are swollen. Cheeks flushed. Eyes glassy and dark. Hair a wild halo from my hands. She looks wrecked. She’s beautiful and mine.
“Tell me to stop,” I say. Voice like gravel dragged over iron. “Right now. Before I can’t.”
