I brace myself at her hip and settle into a deliberate, steady rhythm, feeling her warmth envelope me completely. Each slow thrust grounds me, and instead of intimidation, a fierce devotion swells in my chest—I crave every second of this.
“Harder,” she whispers, her voice low and yearning. I lean in, guiding one hand under her, the other slipping between us to cup my own balls. Her slippery fingers close around them, rolling me gently. A deep groan rips from my throat, and I find myself moving in and out faster, driven by the delicious friction she creates.
“I fucking can’t get enough of you. Feels so good, so right, goddamn perfect,” I murmur between thrusts, one arm tightening around her waist while my thumb circles her swollen clit. Waves of her pleasure pulse through me—every pulse sending shockwaves back into my core. I watch her body grow limp, her eyelids fluttering as a soft moan escapes her lips. Her legs turn to jelly, and I support her at the hip. She folds forward, arms splayed across the sheets, head resting on the mattress. Her whimpers fuel me, igniting a final, roaring crescendo.
My fingers dig lightly into her ass as my body tenses. I feel the taut release knotting in my balls, and with one last shuddering thrust I spill inside her. My chest rises and falls against her back as I come down from the high, the rhythmic pumping slowing until I finally collapse across her spine.
I trail gentle kisses down her shoulder blades, my hands smoothing over her skin, leaving goosebumps in my wake. The afterglow hums between us in warm, pulsating waves. She sighs and curves into my touch, a small, content smile on her lips.
“I want to hold you for the next three days,” I whisper in her ear, voice thick with longing, “to make love to you over and over again.” Then I ease out, savoring the soft friction of my cock sliding from her back entrance one last time. I wince at the tingle—proof of how perfectly she’s claimed me.
I pull her close, tucking her beneath my arm. My nose finds her hair, inhaling that spicy, piney scent I’ve come to adore. Heat radiates from her back into mine, every inch of her pressed against me.
By moonlight, I watch her hand drift down my chiseled abs. The silver glow catches the delicate ring glinting on her finger. She bites her lip, eyes soft. “Sometimes I think you’re crazy,” she murmurs.
I slide my hand over hers, pressing it to my lips. “When it’s right, it’s right, baby,” I say. “I’m not spending another night without you—call me spoiled.”
She smiles, the tension in her shoulders fading. “That sounds perfect.”
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead and kiss her tenderly. “From now on it’s just these mountains, our family, campfires and fishing trips and roasting marshmallows over a campfire.”
She laughs, light and free. “Are you a s’mores kinda guy?”
“Only when we’re making them for our kids.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb.
Her eyes shine. “You’re crazy and I love you so much.”
I shake my head against her hair, chuckling softly. “Just wait, baby. I’ve got big plans for us.”
Holding her here, wrapped in this quiet afterglow, I feel invincible.
Together, we’re fireproof.
Second Epilogue
Holly–one year later
The smell of cedar and clean sawdust hits me the second I step through the front door.
Our door.
I drop the box of shipping labels on the entryway table and kick off my boots, toes already curling against the smooth wood floors Jack laid with his own hands.
It’s been a year since the wedding. Since we danced under pine trees and stars and vowed to carve out a life with our bare hands. And somehow, we actually did it.
This place? It’s not just a home. It’s proof.
Proof that broken things can be rebuilt.
That grumpy mountain men can love like wildfires.
That I—Holly freaking Dawson—can survive chaos, climb out of fear, and build something real.
The house is quiet, but I know he’s here. The big brute never strays far. My studio’s just off the main room, French doors flung open, sunlight streaking over finished oak, copper tools, and a workbench Jack surprised me with on our anniversary.
He carved our initials into the leg.
And under that, a tiny heart. Jagged. Imperfect. Us.
