The mere thought of his name makes my pussy give a hard, demanding throb, a heavy, pungent musk rising from between my legs that smells of nothing but raw, helpless arousal. It’s a betrayal of every survival instinct I have, but my body is no longer mine; it belongs to the mountain of a man downstairs.
I slide my hand down, my palm dragging over the cotton of my sleep shorts until I hit the soak-spot already blooming between my thighs. I don’t wait. I shove the fabric aside, my fingers diving into the slick, over-sensitized mess of my pussy.
I’m fucking drenched, my pussy lips engorged and weeping for a friction I can’t provide myself. I hook two fingers deep inside, stretching my tight walls, trying to mimic the sheer, devastatingscale of Shane’s cock. I close my eyes and I can almost feel him behind me—his massive, scarred chest pressing into my back, his rough, grease-stained hands gripping my hips so hard he leaves bruises.
I find my clit, hard and pulsing like a second heart, and I begin to grind against my own hand with a punishing, frantic rhythm. I imagine the weight of his heavy balls slapping against my ass, the sound of his grunt as he rams that thick, uncompromising cock into me, bottoming out and marking my very soul with every thrust. The mental image of him watching me—those storm-gray eyes tracking the way my pussy clenches around my fingers—sends a jolt of pure electricity through my spine.
"Shane... please," I whimper, burying my face in the pillow to stifle the scream as the first wave of a messy, violent orgasm crashes through me.
My pussy spasms in a series of rhythmic, soaking contractions, milking my fingers as I pour cream and juices onto the sheets. I’m a literal puddle, my internal walls twitching and begging for the heavy fill of his seed.
But as the tremors fade, the release provides no peace. The void he’s carved into me only feels wider, a hollow ache that only his total, brutal claiming can ever hope to fill.
I lie there for several long minutes, my chest heaving as the biting mountain air turns the sweat on my skin to ice.
The heavy, pungent scent of my own arousal hangs in the room, thick and undeniable, mixing with the faint smell of woodsmoke clinging to the curtains.
I stare at my hand, my fingers still slick and glistening with the messy evidence of how easily Shane Gunnar dismantled my composure without even laying a finger on me.
I wipe my palm against the coarse wool of the quilt, the abrasive texture a harsh, grounding reminder of the jagged world I’ve just stepped into. I’m a vibrating, desperate disaster, caught between the pulsing throb of my pussy and the cold, hard logic of my bank account.
I shouldn’t be here. I’m a city girl, a painter who breathes exhaust fumes and acrylics, not pine needles and woodsmoke. But my bank account hovers in the red, my yellow Beetle is on its last leg, and the sheer, magnetic pull of this place anchors me.
I throw off the covers.
Gooseflesh ripples across my bare legs as the mountain air bites. I grab my oversized knitted cardigan—a chaotic explosion of teal and mustard yarn—and wrap it around my sleep shorts and tank top. Armor. Bright, loud protection against the monochrome masculinity of this house.
Downstairs, the house breathes like a sleeping beast. I creep down the wooden staircase, wincing when the third step groans under my weight.
I freeze.
Nothing but the low hum of the refrigerator answers. I need coffee. The kitchen is a cavern of slate and stainless steel. Spotless, terrifyingly so, until the details emerge—a heavy set of keys on the counter with a skull keychain, a black leather vest draped over a chair like a shed skin.
The Broken Halos MC patch peeks out, white embroidery stark against worn leather. I give the vest a wide berth. Shane made the boundaries clear yesterday: This is his territory.
I find a tin of dark roast that smells like earth and caffeine. As the machine gurgles, I lean my hip against the granite and look out the massive window. The sun bleeds over the jagged teeth of the tree line, painting the snow in shades of violet and bruised gold. My fingers itch for a brush to capture the violence of that sunrise.
"You're loud."
The rumble of thunder sounds directly behind me. I spin, my heart thudding against my ribs. My hands grip the edge of the counter to keep my knees from buckling.
Shane stands there.
He consumes all the oxygen in the room. Grey sweatpants hang low on his hips. Nothing else. His chest is a landscape of hard muscle and scars, a roadmap of violence I ache to trace. A fresh bruise blooms purple on his ribs, contrasting with the hard, cut slabs of his pectorals that lead down to a stomach so defined it looks carved from the very timber of this house. Messy hair falls into his eyes, his jaw shadowed with morning stubble. Feral. He looks like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat . And part of me wants him to try.
"I… the floor creaked," I manage, my voice thin.
Shane doesn't move. He blocks the only exit, arms crossed over his massive chest. The massive muscles of his arms flex and shift as he breathes. His dark eyes weigh me, an assessment of a predator deciding if the rabbit in his kitchen is food or a toy.
"Wasn't talking about the floor," he grunts, pushing off the doorframe. He stalks toward me. The floor wouldn't dare creak for him. He moves with a predatory grace that belies his size. "Your sweater," he says, stopping two feet away. "It's loud."
"I like color."
"I can tell." His gaze travels down my body, slow and deliberate. A physical touch, heavy and hot. He lingers on my bare legs, then the thick wool socks. When his eyes snap back to mine, the air crackles with static. "Coffee's done."
I turn back to the machine, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact. My hands shake as I reach for a mug.
"Grab one for me," he orders. I pour two mugs of the black sludge. I turn to give Shane a cup and realize he hasn't moved an inch. I’m pinned between the cold granite and the massive, hot wall of his chest.
