Page 20 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

I’m choosing him. Right now. In this dusty loft, with Pine Ridge under threat and my father’s reach still somewhere beyond the gate.

"Then show me you’re staying," I whisper.

Cag doesn't wait. He growls, a low, animal sound that starts deep in his chest, and then his mouth is on mine. It isn't a gentle kiss. It isn't a "let's get to know each other" peck. It’s an invasion. He tastes like coffee and desperation, while saddle oil and clean sweat cling to his skin. His tongue slides against mine, and I claw at his shoulders, pulling him closer because this is the first thing I’ve chosen without calculating the cost.

He spins me around, my back hitting the rough-hewn timber of the wall. The wood is cool, but he’s pure heat. His hands are everywhere—mapping my waist, sliding down to my hips, bunching the cotton skirt in his fists until he finds the bare skin of my thighs.

"Mine," he mutters against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear. "You hear me? You aren't his. You aren't Black Aspen’s. You’re mine."

"Prove it," I challenge, my head falling back as he trails kisses down my collarbone.

My hands fumble with the buttons of his flannel shirt. My fingers are clumsy, fueled by an adrenaline spike that makes the world feel like it’s tilted on its axis. I want him out of these clothes. I want to see the man who whittles tiny birds while his world falls apart. When the last button gives way, I shove the fabric off his shoulders, exposing the lean, corded muscle of a man who works for every calorie he burns. There’s a scar on his shoulder—a jagged white line—and I trace it with my thumb.

He doesn't flinch. He just watches me, his breathing heavy and ragged. He reaches for the back of my dress, his fingers finding the simple row of fastenings. Need tightens every line of his body, but he forces those rough hands to slow down.

One fastening.

Then another.

Each one opens beneath his fingers until the cotton loosens around me. He pushes the dress from my shoulders, and it slides down my body before pooling at my feet.

I’m left in my bra and lace panties beneath his predatory gaze. I should feel vulnerable. I should feel exposed.

Instead, I feel like a masterpiece.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you," he rasps. He reaches out, his hand hovering over my stomach before he finally makes contact. His palm is hot, sliding over the curve of my hip, his thumb hooking into the edge of my lace panties. His breath catches when his hand settles low on my belly, and that small sound undoes me more than any compliment my father ever paid for. He grips a handful of hip and squeezes, slow, like he doesn't want to let go.

He doesn’t touch me tentatively; every pass of his hands leaves no doubt that he intends to remember me. Every brush of his fingers feels like a brand. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in a world that’s currently trying to starve him out. I see the possessive fire in his eyes, the feral need to protect and provide, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I’m being managed. I feel like I’m being worshipped.

"Cag," I moan, my fingers digging into his biceps. "Please."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He scoops me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carries me the three steps to the small cot in the corner. It’s covered in a heavy wool blanket that smells of him—saddle oil, clean cotton, and sun-warmed skin—and when he lays me down, the shadows of the loft seem to close in around us, isolating us from the rest of the world.

He strips out of his jeans with a frantic efficiency that makes my stomach flip. When he stands before me, completely naked in the flickering lantern light, I lose my breath. He’s built like a weapon—all sharp angles and hard muscle. And his cock... god, it’s thick and heavy, pulsing with a life of its own. It’s a promise of something I’ve never experienced—something raw and honest.

He moves over me, his weight a welcome pressure that grounds me. He’s between my legs in an instant, his knees prying my thighs wider, and then his hands are back on me, kneading my breasts through the lace of my bra until I’m arching off the cot, seeking more.

"I’m going to ruin you for anyone else," he growls, his face inches from mine. "You understand? After tonight, there’s no going back to that oil-slicked world of yours."

"I don't want to go back," I tell him, my voice cracking. "I want to stay right here. In the dirt and the wood shavings and the mess. I want you."

He kisses me again, deeper this time, while his hand slides down to the wet heat between my legs. When his fingers find my clit, I nearly skyrocket off the cot. He’s not gentle. He’s thorough. He circles that sensitive little bead with a rhythmic pressure that has me sobbing his name into the hollow of his shoulder. I’m so wet I can feel the slickness coating his fingers, my body answering the choice I’ve already made.

His free hand closes around my wrist, and his thumb settles over my pulse. He holds it there. He doesn’t say anything. He just waits, counting the frantic beat under his thumb until I drag my eyes open and look at him. Cag is watching me, his jaw set, his eyes burning with an intensity that should be terrifying. Vulnerability flashes beneath the hunger, there and gone before I can name it.

"I’m not leaving, Cag," I whisper, touching the scar on his jaw. "I’m here. Claim me."

He doesn't hesitate. He reaches down, guiding the head of his cock to my opening. I’m so ready I’m practically screaming for it. When he pushes inside, the sensation is overwhelming. He’s huge—wider than I thought possible—and the feeling of being stretched, of being filled to the very brim, makes my toes curl into the wool blanket.

He groans, a pained, guttural sound as he sinks deeper. He’s taking his time, letting my body adjust to the sheer size of him, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel every hard pulse of him inside me, each one answering the frantic beat beneath my ribs.

"You’re so tight," he rasps, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "So fucking perfect."

"More," I gasp, my hips bucking instinctively. "I want all of you."

Cag grunts and thrusts, his hips hitting mine with a rhythmic thud that vibrates through my entire skeleton. Every slide of his cock is a revelation. He’s hitting spots I didn't know existed, deep, soul-shaking nerves that ignite a fire in my belly. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down, needing the friction, needing the weight.

He starts to move faster, his breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. The loft is silent except for the sound of our bodies colliding and the ragged gasps of our breath. I’m spiraling. The pleasure is too much, a rising tide that threatens to drown me. Pressure gathers low in my body, drawing tighter with every thrust.