"I’m here." I brush a strand of dark hair away from her forehead, my thumb dragging against smooth skin. "How do you feel?"
She blinks, taking stock. A flush rises up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. She remembers. Every second. The stretching. The claiming.
"I’m… sore," she admits, biting her lower lip.
"I know." I run my hand down the curve of her spine, resting my palm on the swell of her hip. "I was too big. I didn't stop."
"I didn't want you to stop."
My cock twitches, heavy and half-hard even now.
"Good," I growl. "Because I’m not done. I’m never going to be done, Savannah."
She pushes herself up slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at tender muscles. The sheet falls away, exposing her breasts. Full, creamy, perfect. Nipples peaked from the chill. I track the movement with a hunger that should alarm me, but rational thought left the building hours ago.
"The storm?" she asks, glancing toward the window.
"Still raging." I lie. It’s slowing down, but she doesn't need that information yet. "Roads are buried under six feet of drift. We aren't going anywhere."
"My car…"
"Forget the car." My tone comes out sharper than intended. I moderate it, stroking her hip. "Tristan will haul it out when the pass clears. Blake can fix whatever’s broken. You don't need to worry about a thing."
She searches my face. "You talk like this is normal. Me being here. You taking care of everything."
"It is normal now."
"Logan, I have a life. A job. I’m a travel blogger. I have a schedule to keep."
I sit up, the cold air hitting my bare chest. I turn, caging her between my arms, leaning over to block out the rest of the room. She needs to understand the gravity of this.
"You had a life," I correct her. "Now you have me."
Her breath hitches. "That sounds… crazy. You know that, right? We met yesterday."
"Time doesn't mean shit." I lean down, brushing my nose against hers. "My grandfather met my grandmother on a Tuesday and married her on a Friday. When a Gunnar finds his mate, the clock stops. Don't lie to me, Savannah. When I pulled you out of that car, when you looked at me… you felt it."
She swallows hard, pupils dilated. "I felt safe. Even though you look like you could crush me."
"I could," I admit, voice dropping to a whisper. "I could crush you with one hand. I’ve hurt people, Savannah. I run a club that operates outside the lines. I’m not a good man. But for you? I’m the only man who matters."
I capture her lips. Deep, heavy, pouring every ounce of my obsession into her mouth. I taste her surrender as she opens for me, tongue meeting mine, arms winding around my neck to pull me down.
When I pull back, we’re both breathless.
"Let’s get you cleaned up," I say, retreating before I lose control and bury myself in her again. She’s too sore. I need to tend to the prize I’ve won.
I throw the covers off. She trembles, instinctively trying to cover herself with her hands, but I catch her wrists.
"No," I command softly. "Don't hide. Not from me. Never from me."
I scoop her up. She squeaks, wrapping her legs around my waist.
She’s so small, her skin pale and soft against my tattoos. I carry her effortlessly through the cabin to the bathroom.
The floors are cold, but the radiant heat in the bathroom warms the slate. I set her down on the closed toilet lid and turn on the shower. Steam begins to fill the massive stone stall.
I turn back to her. She watches me, eyes tracing the ink on my chest, the jagged scar running from my ribs to my hip—a souvenir from a knife fight three years ago.
