Page 32 of The Girl Who Cried Bigfoot

The kiss is slow, unhurried, a gradual unraveling of weeks of tension. It’s everything I wanted but was too scared to admit. Rowan moves with the same quiet confidence he uses to navigate the forest, his hands finding the curve of my waist and pulling me flush against him. The heat of him is staggering, a furnace that makes the cold outside seem like a distant memory.

I pull back just enough to breathe, my hands tangling in his dark hair. “You know, this is going to make the business partnership very complicated, right? I’m going to have to update the spreadsheets.”

“Forget the spreadsheets, Wren. Just for tonight,” he murmurs, his mouth moving against the sensitive skin of my neck. I arch my back, a low sound escaping my throat that I don’t recognize as my own. Every point where he touches me feels like it’s being calibrated to a higher frequency. The scratchy wool of the blanket is gone, replaced by the solid, grounding reality of his skin.

He pushes me back gently until I’m lying against the thin pillow, his body a heavy, welcome weight over mine. His eyes are dark with a hunger that’s both ancient and focused. There is no hesitation in him, none of that human awkwardness. He is a creature of the mountain, and right now, I am his entire world.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper. “There is no bridge back from this, Wren.”

“I don’t want a bridge,” I say, pulling him down to me. “I want to stay right here.”

His hands move to the hem of my sweatshirt, sliding underneath to find the bare skin of my waist. His palms are warm, infusing me with heat, the callouses from centuries of work a tactile map against my skin. I help him pull the fabric over my head, the cool air of the cabin hitting me for only a second before his body covers mine again. Under his gaze, under the intensity in his eyes, I feel more seen than I ever have under a ring light or a camera lens.

When he cups my breasts, thumbs lightly grazing my nipples, I gasp. He moves down, lips dragging over my jaw, my neck, until his mouth closes over one peak, and I feel the pull of it all the way to my center. The sensation is sharp and sweet, a jagged line of pleasure that makes me arch off the bed.

“Rowan,” I breathe out, his name a prayer and a plea. I grip the waistband of my leggings, my fingers clumsy with urgency. He takes over, his own fingers trembling as he strips away the last of the barriers. He quickly sheds the rest of his clothes, his boots thumping onto the floorboards, his heavy trousers discarded until we were skin to skin, heart to heart.

He’s beautiful. There’s no other word for it. Rowan is a masterpiece of function and form, every muscle tuned for survival, and yet he’s looking at me as if I’m the miracle. He traces the line of my hip, his touch so light it’s almost a question. I answer by pulling him closer, my legs tangling with his, the sheer size of him both overwhelming and perfect.

He slides his hand between my legs, finding me wet and aching for him. The low sound he makes in his throat has me groaning into his shoulder, my head lolling as he begins to explore, his fingers finding a rhythm that makes the rest of the world dissolve. Body humming with need, I reach down, my hand closing around his length. He’s hard and thick, a pulsing weight in my grip that makes my breath hitch.

“You’re so...” I start, but words fail me. I can’t feel a comparison because there is none. He’s just Rowan.

He moves over me, knees nudging my thighs apart, eyes locked on mine. There’s a solemnity to him now, a weight to the moment that goes beyond the physical. He positions himself at my entrance, the heat of him pressing against me. Rowan rests his forehead against mine, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

“Wren,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

I do. I look into those amber eyes and see centuries of loneliness being rewritten in a single night. He pushes inside slowly, the fullness of him stretching me, filling me until I don’t know where I end and he begins. Gasping, I grip his biceps as the sensation floods my system. It isn’t just the physical join; it is the feeling of being finally, truly anchored.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Yes,” I choke out, my hips lifting instinctively to meet him. “More than okay. Don’t stop.”

He begins to move, a slow, deep rhythm that feels like the tide coming in. He watches my face with every stroke, his expression a mix of concentration and something so tender it makes my eyes sting. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I pull him deeper, wanting more, needing more. Each movement is a revelation, a sensory overload of skin and heat and the low, rhythmic groans that fill the small cabin.

Outside, the storm is still raging, the wind shaking the roof, but inside, there is only this. His chest brushing against my breasts. His hands gripping the mattress on either side of my head. Him saying my name like it’s a secret he’s been keeping for a hundred years. I feel cherished, wanted, and for the first time since my parents died, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The pleasure begins to build, a tightening coil in my belly that spirals outward with every thrust. I get lost in the sensation of him, the physical weight of him. I dig my nails into his trembling shoulders, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts as the peak loomed closer.

“Rowan, I’m... I can’t...” I can’t finish the thought. I’m beyond language, and all that leaves me is a long moan.

He thrusts harder, deeper, his breath hitching as he finds his own rhythm. “Stay with me, Wren. Just stay with me.”

The coil snaps. Pleasure explodes through me in waves, a frantic, shimmering release that has me crying out his name. My body clenches around him, pulsing in time with the crashing sensations. He follows a second later, a low, primal groan escaping him. He shudders in my arms, burying his face in the crook of my neck as he gives everything over to the moment.

We lie there for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the fire and our synchronized, heavy breathing. The air is cooling, but I don’t feel it. All I feel is heavy and soft and entirely new. Rowan doesn’t pull away. He stays buried inside me, his weight a comfort, his heart beating a frantic tattoo against my chest. After a few minutes, he rolls to the side, keeping me tucked into the curve of his body as he pulls the gray wool blanket over us, the scratchiness a grounding reality. He brushes a damp strand of hair back from my forehead, his touch so gentle it felt like a breath. For once, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence with a joke or a distraction. The silence is full now.

“You should know,” Rowan says eventually, his voice a low vibration against my ear. “From a biological standpoint, this is... beneficial.”

I blink, my brain still foggy from all the endorphins. “Beneficial? Like, it’s good for my cardiovascular health? Or are you giving us a five-star rating on Yelp?”

Rowan remains serious, his gaze fixed on the glowing embers of the stove. “The release. The physical peak. It helps to settle the hum of the forest. It grounds the senses. Orgasms help. They keep the mind from fraying when the world gets too loud.”

A slow, tired laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Orgasms help? That is the most Guardian thing you have ever said. You delivered that like a medical prescription. ‘Take two orgasms and call me in the morning.’”

“It’s a sincere observation,” he says, though I can hear the faint thread of amusement in his voice. “I have noticed the shift in your energy. You are... quieter now.”

“I’m quieter because I’ve been physically dismantled by a seven-foot-two forest god,” I mutter, shifting closer until my head is pillowed on his chest. “But I’ll keep the prescription in mind. I might need a refill later.”