She is breathing hard. Her chest heaves violently against mine.
The drop is right there. Two feet away. One wrong step and the mountain would have swallowed her. The thought of losing her—this woman I barely know—is not survivable.
"Santi," she breathes. Her voice is a tiny, ragged sound in the suffocating darkness.
I do not answer. I cannot speak. The quiet discipline I have carried for twenty years is gone.
I press closer. My hips grind flush against hers. The layers of our survival gear cannot mask the desperate, electric heat sparking between our bodies. She is soft and curved in all the places I am hard and unyielding. The contrast is a revelation.
I lower my face until my lips hover a millimeter from her ear. My breath is rough against her cold skin.
"Do not move," I command. The words leave me gravel-rough.
She does not move. She does not push me away. She does not demand personal space.
Instead, she turns her chin, exposing the long, delicate line of her neck to the darkness. It is an act of total, agonizing surrender. She trusts the man pinning her against the wall more than she trusts the mountain.
The restraint I have been holding frays hard.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck. My nose drags along the cold, sensitive skin just beneath her jaw. I inhale her. The scent registers in every nerve I own.
My hands release her collar. I grip her waist. My long fingers dig fiercely into the fabric of her jacket, memorizing the flare of her hips. She is agonizingly curved. A masterpiece of soft flesh and undeniable strength.
"You're safe," I say against her pulse point.
Reese shudders. A soft, breathless sound escapes her lips. It is not fear. It is arousal.
The sound destroys me.
I shift my stance, spreading my legs wider to bracket hers. I slide my right thigh deliberately between her legs.
She gasps, her hips jerking forward automatically.
The thick seam of my suit-clad thigh presses directly against her center. Through the canvas of her flight suit and the thermal layer beneath, I feel her body answer mine.
I grind my thigh upward. A slow, agonizing application of pressure and friction.
Reese arches her spine, pressing her hips violently against my leg. A whimpering moan tears from her. Her hands, previously trapped between our chests, fly up to grip my shoulders. Her fingers dig into my muscles with desperate strength.
We are isolated from the universe. The storm raging outside the bark walls is nothing compared to the violent need inside this shelter.
I need her bare skin.
My hands move with ruthless efficiency. I grip the zipper of her winter jacket. I rip it downward. The teeth part with a sharp sound. I shove the lapels aside, exposing the thermal Henley she wears underneath.
My knuckles graze the underside of her breasts.
She bucks against my thigh again. The friction is maddening. My own cock is rock hard, straining violently against the zipper of my trousers. The pressure is a dull, throbbing ache. Each time she moves, each time her hips grind against my leg, the ache sharpens into pure, blinding necessity.
"Santi," she gasps, her fingernails biting into my shoulders. "God."
"Quiet," I say, my lips grazing her jawbone. I bite lightly at the skin just beneath her ear. My teeth scrape over her pulse. "Let me."
I slide my hands under the hem of her Henley.
The shock of her bare skin against my calloused palms stops my breathing. She is burning hot. Her skin is silken, quivering under my touch. I map the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the tense muscles of her abdomen. My thumbs drag upward, following the curve of her ribs until I find the aching weight of her breasts.
I engulf them. My hands easily swallow her generous curves. Her thin cotton bra is the only thing between my hands and her skin beneath the thermal layers. Her nipples are hard points pressing through the fabric.
