"Because I found you."
The only explanation she’s going to get. I straighten up and look at her body. The flannel shirt she’s wearing is soaked, clinging to her breasts. Her remaining pant leg is heavy with mud.
"I need to get these wet clothes off you," I state.
She doesn't argue. She doesn't have the strength. I take a pair of trauma shears from the kit. I could unbutton the shirt, but the fabric is ruined anyway, and I don't want to jostle her by manipulating her arms too much.
I slide the cold steel of the shears under the collar of her shirt.Snip.The fabric gives way. I cut down the center, the sound of tearing cloth loud in the quiet room. I peel the wet flannel back, revealing a pale pink lace bra. The flimsy fabric is a joke, a thin barrier barely holding back the heavy, lush spill of her tits. My breath hitches; she is magnificent—all soft valleys and skin that begs to be marked with my teeth. Her nipples are dark, hard peaks straining against the lace, begging for the heat of my mouth.
I work with a predator’s efficiency, stripping the wet fabric away until she lies there in just her bra and panties, shivering for me. I soak a towel in steaming water and wring it out.
"Warm," I promise. I start at her face, wiping away the mountain mud until her skin flushes pink under the heat. I move down to her neck, cleaning the hollow of her throat where her pulse thrums with jagged electricity, then trace the line of her clavicle. I press firm enough to claim her, gentle enough to soothe. When I reach her arms, I dab antiseptic on the scratches from her fall. She watches me with a wary curiosity that makes my gut tighten.
"You're very… thorough," she whispers.
"I don't do things halfway." I drag the steaming cloth over the heavy, lush swell of her tits, letting the moisture soak into the pink lace until it’s translucent, exposing the dark, engorged circles of her nipples.
I want to rip the flimsy lace away and bury my face in her cleavage until I can taste the mountain air and her arousal on my tongue. I want to see her bare, to see the way her breasts bounce and heavy tits sway when she gasps under the rhythmic thrusting of my cock. I want to watch my thick seed dry on her flat stomach while she’s still shaking from the force of her climax.
I restrain myself for now, but the air in the loft is already thick with the localized scent of her pussy getting slick and ready for me. I move to her midriff, wiping away a smear of mud from her navel. My knuckles graze the waistband of her panties, and her stomach muscles contract sharply.
"Tristan," she breathes out. A warning.
"Quiet," I murmur. "Almost done."
I clean her good leg, running the cloth from her thigh down to her toes. Her foot is small, arched high. I wrap my hand around her ankle, feeling the delicacy of the bones. I could crush her so easily. My gut tightens. The fragility calls to the monster in my blood, urging me to squeeze, to possess. I would never hurt her, but the power dynamic intoxicates me. She is entirely at my mercy.
I toss the dirty towel into the basin. The water has turned brown and red.
"You're freezing."
I go to the wardrobe—a heavy oak thing I built myself—and pull out one of my hoodies. Black, worn soft, smelling like gun oil and pine. I grab a thick wool blanket.
"Sit up," I instruct, sliding my arm behind her back to help her.
She groans as she moves, head lolling against my shoulder. She feels tiny against me, her softness yielding to my hard muscle. I maneuver her arms into the hoodie. It swallows her whole. The hem comes down to her thighs, the sleeves hanging past her hands.
"Better?" I ask, laying her back down.
She nods, burrowing her nose into the collar of my hoodie. She inhales deeply. I watch her take my scent into her lungs. Good. Let her get used to it.
I pull the wool blanket up to her chin, tucking it in tight around her sides, cocooning her. She looks small in my bed, surrounded by my things, wearing my clothes. The sight settles something jagged inside me.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Thirsty."
I grab a bottle of water from the crate near the bed. I unscrew the cap and hold it to her lips. She drinks greedily, water escaping the corner of her mouth and trickling down her chin. I catch the droplet with my thumb, pressing the calloused, grease-stained pad against the plush center of her bottom lip. She doesn't pull away. Instead, her tongue darts out, wet and warm, licking the water from my skin with a slow, deliberate stroke. The tip of her tongue grazes the roughness of my thumb, and I feel the jolt of it straight in my cock, making it throb painfully against the zipper of my jeans. It’s a taste of what’s coming—the slick heat of her mouth wrapping around me, the way she’ll choke on my length when I claim her throat.
We stare at each other, the air thick with the scent of her arousal and the metallic tang of my need. The rescue is over. The hunt is finished.
Now, I’m just a man with a female in his nest.
Rescue stopped being the objective the second I picked her up.
"Thank you," she whispers, breaking the spell. "For… for coming for me."
"I heard you. You were screaming."
