My mouth seeks hers in a kiss, then she starts to mewl, and her hips move restlessly over mine. She runs her fingers over my chest, making me hiss when her nails scrape my nipples. Slowly, she rocks into me, moisture flooding the spot where our bodies meet.
Mine.
That single thought fuels a dangerously possessive thought inside of me, and I go blind with need. My hands grip her ass as I thrust upward, fucking into her like a man set on possessing his woman. And maybe she became mine the moment I spotted her in that store. Maybe it’s when she walked into my cottage like she belonged there. Or perhaps it was the night she used her bet to seduce me.
Mine.
The truck rocks around us as she rides my cock, head thrown back and eyes glassy. She cries out as our bodies rock against each other in fevered strokes. Her thighs begin to tremble against mine, and she starts rolling her hips frantically over mine, sobbing. Her nails dig into my shoulders, whimpers escaping her mouth.
And she’s the most beautiful goddamn thing in the world.
“Wyatt,” she sobs, her pussy trembling around me before she goes still, squeezing me hard as she comes. Her back arches with a scream as she presses her tits against my chest, her pussy pulsing hotly around me. Clenching and releasing around my cock.
“Fuuuck!” I bellow as my own climax tears through me with enough strength to nearly cause me to pass out. My muscles and balls strain painfully before releasing in a violent shudder. She trembles in my arms as I thrust upward, filling her with my cum. Marking her as mine..
It terrifies me a little, the possessive thoughts Sylvie brings out in me. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before. Never wanted one so much it bordered on insanity. And how fucking messed up is it that even with my cock buried inside of her, I still want her. Heart, soul, and body.
She collapses against my chest afterward, breathing hard. Sabaak has migrated to the front seat at some point and has the dignity to keep his back to us. I feel her laugh against my collarbone.
“Poor Sabaak,” she murmurs.
“He’ll recover.”
She tilts her head up to look at me, cheeks still flushed, and there’s something in her expression that’s softer than anything I know how to answer. I press my mouth to her temple instead of trying.
She settles back against my chest. I keep my arms around her. The emergency blanket crinkles when she shifts, and I reach back to pull it over us both. She makes a small, satisfied sound that does something I’m not going to examine right now.
Outside, the Alaskan dark holds. Inside, I am, against every intention I’ve had for sixteen years, exactly where I want to be.
Chapter Seven
Sylvie
It was supposed to be for a few days.
That was what Wyatt said when he suggested I move into the cottage—easier for research, safer after the tires, more practical than driving out every morning. I agreed, and neither of us said what we both knew: neither of us was ready to stop. That was four days ago. Now I have one day left, and I still haven’t found a way to say any of the things I need to say.
The days have been full. We’re out early and back late, hitting rookeries near and far—on foot, by 4-wheeler, once by boat when the colony we needed was on a smaller neighboring island. Sylvie-the-researcher has been in her element, and I’ve been grateful for it, because Sylvie-the-woman in love with a man who hasn’t said a word about what happens next is considerably harder to manage.
We’ve talked. That’s the strange thing. More than I expected, more than I’ve ever really talked to anyone. We talk about the sea lions, obviously—he knows this island like a second skin and his observations have made their way into my notes more than once. We talk about his parents, carefully, in the way you talk around a wound you’re not sure is healed. We talk about my parents, about the non-profit, about what I want my work to look like in ten years. One night, he told me about the first winter he spent here alone after they died. I told him aboutthe field trip to Baja when I was eleven that made me certain I’d spend my life near the ocean. Small things. True things.
What we haven’t talked about is this—whatever this is. What it means that I’ve been waking up in his bed every morning for four days. What it means that he makes coffee before I’m awake and leaves it black because he’s been paying attention. What happens in three days when I board a plane to Anchorage and stand in front of a Senate committee with whatever’s left of my research.
Whether there’s any version of after where I come back.
I have fallen in love with him.
When Wyatt offers his hand for me to take, I don’t hesitate. I sigh when his larger and warmer hand closes over mine, and now, I’m starting to see why my mother forgot her gloves on that trip with Dad. Sure, it could be chalked up to her clumsiness, which I seem to have inherited, but the warmth of a glove does not hold a candle to how much the man warms me.
I glance up at him as we walk hand in hand down the trail and back to his cottage. I can’t help but think how darn comfortable this moment is. With Sabaak running ahead of us, we feel like a family, and a part of me wants it to be so. However crazy the thought, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like living on Adak Island. I only have a day left before I need to leave, and I wonder if I could come back after all this is over.
Would Wyatt even want me here?
What if this is something he does with other women who visit the island. Sure, Acca assured me that the man is an antisocial grump, but she can’t be certain that he doesn’t entertain other women in his cottage. Maybe he’s…
Stop!
“What?”
