The Harley roars beneath us, a beast of chrome and steel tearing up the switchbacks. The snow has stopped, leaving the world painted in blinding white and deep, forest greens. The air bites crisp and cold enough to freeze breath in the lungs, but the heat coming off the engine and the woman pressed against my back keeps the chill at bay.
Savannah’s arms wrap tight around my waist, her gloved hands locked together over my stomach. I feel her breasts pressed against my spine through the layers of leather and denim. Every time I lean into a curve, she moves with me. She’s learning. She stopped fighting the lean; she trusts the gravity, trusts me to keep the rubber on the asphalt.
She shouldn't give me that trust. I’m a dangerous man. I lead a club of outlaws, outcasts, and violent men. But up here, where the air is thin and the law is whatever I say it is, she’s safe.
I downshift, the engine growling as we turn off the main road onto a narrow gravel track winding toward the summit of Grizzly Peak. This isn't a public trail. It’s MC land. The Gunnars have owned these ridges since before the town of Pine Valley had a name.
We climb higher, the trees thinning out until we break through the canopy. I pull the bike to a stop at the edge of the overlook—the highest drivable point in the district.
I kill the engine. The silence rushing in feels absolute. No birds, no wind, just the ticking of the cooling metal and the sound of our breathing.
"Logan," she breathes, sliding off the back of the bike. Her boots crunch on the gravel as she walks to the edge.
Below us, Pine Valley resembles a toy town. I see the grid of Main Street, the tiny speck of Peak Wilderness Outfitters, the sprawling luxury of the Grand Pine Lodge where she was supposed to stay. It all looks insignificant from up here. The mountains surrounding the valley rise like jagged teeth, a fortress of stone keeping the world out.
I swing my leg over the bike and kick the stand down, stalking toward her. I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her—jasmine with hint of honey, cold air, and the underlying musk of a woman thoroughly claimed.
"Look at it," I murmur against her skin, my vibration rumbling through her. "That’s the world down there. Rules. Laws. Expectations. People who think they know what’s best for you."
A tremor runs through her, but the cold has nothing to do with it. I feel her heart hammering against my forearm where it lays across her chest. "It looks so small."
"It is small," I tell her, tightening my grip. "Up here, there’s nothing but the sky and the dirt. This is where I breathe, Savannah. This is where the club was born. We don't bring outsiders here."
She turns in my arms, facing me. The wind whips a strand of hair across her face, and I tuck it behind her ear with a gloved thumb. Her cheeks flush pink from the ride.
"Why did you bring me?" she asks, searching my eyes.
"Because you aren't an outsider anymore." I stare at her, letting the weight of the words settle. "You aren't the travel blogger whose car broke down. You aren't a guest. You’re mine. I claimed you in the cabin, but I wanted to claim you here. On my mountain. Where the ancestors of this club can see it."
Her eyes widen, the irises bright with unshed tears. "Logan..."
"I’m not a gentle man, Savannah. I don't do dates. I don't do flowers. I break things. I protect what’s mine with violence if I have to. You saw that brick. You saw what my life brings to your doorstep." I lean down, my forehead resting against hers. "If you want to walk away, I’ll take you down that mountain right now. I’ll put you in a car and let you go."
A lie. The biggest lie I’ve ever told. If she tried to leave, I’d follow her. I’d haunt her. But I need her to say it.
She reaches up, her hands cupping my jaw, her thumbs tracing the rough stubble. "I don't want to go down," she whispers fiercely. "I’ve spent my whole life traveling, Logan. Looking for... something. I didn't know what it was until you pulled me out of the snow. I don't want to be anywhere else."
The beast inside me, pacing the cage of my ribs since I saw her, roars in triumph.
I kiss her. A collision, not a request. I devour her mouth, my tongue sweeping in to taste her, demanding everything she has. She tastes like whiskey and surrender. She opens for me instantly, her moan swallowed by my mouth as I crush her against the hard wall of my body.
I walk her backward until her hips hit the side of the Harley. She gasps as I lift her, settling her onto the leather seat. It’s still warm from the ride, the engine ticking beneath her. I step between her thighs, spreading them wide, needing access. Needing to be closer than skin.
"Take them off," I growl, breaking the kiss.
She blinks, dazed. "Here? Anyone could see?—"
"No one comes up here but my brothers. And they know better." My hands drop to the waistband of her jeans. "I want to feel you. Now."
Her hands fumble with the button, her breath coming in short, white puffs in the cold air. She shoves her jeans and panties down her thighs, kicking one leg free, then the other. I grab the denim and toss it onto the gravel, ignoring the cold.
The sight of her hits me like a sledgehammer. Lush, pale curves against the black leather of my bike, exposed to the mountainair, her nipples hard against the fabric of her shirt. She trembles, her thighs clamping together instinctively.
"Open," I command, my voice rough.
She obeys, spreading her legs for me. Her sex is flushed, pink and glistening in the winter sunlight. Seeing her like this, displayed for me on my machine at the top of the world, snaps the last thread of my control.
I drop to my knees in the gravel. The rocks bite into my denim, but I don't feel it. All I see is her. I grab her hips, anchoring her to the seat, and bury my face between her legs.
