She does. Hard. Shattering. Clenching around me so tight I see stars.
I follow right after—thrusting deep, burying myself as far as I can go, coming with a groan that feels like it’s ripped out of my soul.
We stay like that. Panting. Sweaty. Tangled.
I drop my forehead to hers, and kiss her slowly. Lazy. Like we have all the time in the world. The storm keeps raging outside. But in here? In here, the world is quiet. And Sabrina Hart is in my bed.
In my arms.
In my blood.
And I already know I’m never letting her go.
FOUR
SABRINA
I wake up to the smell of pine smoke and coffee, and the heavy, delicious weight of Beck’s arm draped across my waist like it’s always belonged there.
The storm is still raging outside. It’s lower now, more of a steady roar than the screaming fury of last night but inside the cabin it’s warm, quiet, safe. My body feels tender in places I forgot could feel this good. A sweet, lingering ache between my thighs. A faint soreness in my shoulders from the way I’d arched and gripped the headboard when he’d flipped me onto my stomach sometime around three a.m. and taken me slow and deep until I’d begged him to go harder.
I shift, just enough to feel the crisp hair on his chest brush my back, the solid heat of him pressed along every inch of me. He’s still asleep—or pretending to be. His breathing is slow, even, but the arm around me tightens a fraction when I move, instinctive, possessive.
I smile into the pillow. Who knew grumpy lumberjacks were cuddlers?
Carefully, I turn in his hold until I’m facing him. His face is softer in sleep—still all sharp angles and dark beard, but the perpetual scowl is gone. Long lashes. A small scar cutting through one eyebrow I hadn’t noticed before. He looks almost peaceful. Almost boyish.
Almost mine.
The thought hits harder than it should.
I trace one finger lightly down the center of his chest, following the line of dark hair that disappears under the sheet bunched around his hips. He doesn’t stir, but I feel the subtle hitch in his breathing.
“Morning,” I whisper.
His eyes stay closed. “Not morning yet. Storm’s still dark.”
“Feels like morning.” I lean in, press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You smell like sex and woodsmoke.”
One eye cracks open. Hazel-green, sleepy, amused. “You smell like me.”
Heat floods my cheeks—and lower. “Is that a complaint?”
He rolls us in one smooth motion so I’m underneath him, sheet tangled between us, his weight braced on his forearms. He’s already half-hard against my thigh. My legs part automatically, welcoming him.
“Never,” he murmurs, voice still rough from sleep. He kisses me slow, lazy, morning-deep. No urgency yet. Just tasting. Savoring.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “You sore?”
“A little.” I smile. “Worth it.”
His gaze darkens. “Good.”
He kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. Takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks gently. I arch, fingers sliding into his hair. He switches sides, gives the same slow attention, then continues down my stomach, kissing every freckle he finds like he’s memorizing them.
When he reaches the apex of my thighs he pauses, looks up at me through dark lashes.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
