Her breath stutters. She likes it. My obsessed, possessive words push her over the edge again. She comes hard, crying out my name, her body clamping down around me like a vice.
That’s all it takes.
I bury myself to the hilt and come with a broken groan, pulsing hot and deep inside her. Wave after wave, filling her until it spills out around us. I stay buried deep, hips grinding lazily as I ride out the aftershocks, kissing her slow and filthy, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, shared breaths.
I roll us so she’s lying on my chest, my arms locked around her like steel bands. My hand strokes down her back, over the curve of her ass, possessive and gentle all at once. Her heartbeat flutters against mine. Sweat cools on our skin. The room smells like sex and mountain air and us.
She thinks this was just a hot one-night stand.
I know I just ruined her for anyone else.
And when morning comes and she tries to slip away, I’ll remind her exactly who she belongs to.
Clover
Warmth pins me in place before I’m fully awake.
The quilt is heavy over my legs, sunlight soft against my cheek, and behind me Simon breathes slow and deep against the back of my neck. For a while I stay exactly where I am, letting the quiet morning wrap around me.
No phone buzzing on the nightstand. No alarm. No checkout time looming over me.
Only the cabin shifting gently with the morning and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees beyond the window. A blue jay calls out, its sharp cry echoing through the quiet woods. The faint scent of last night’s fire still lingers in the air, mixing with Simon’s warm skin and the clean cotton of the sheets. His arm is draped over my waist, palm spread low against my stomach like he fell asleep holding me there and never let go.
Memory arrives all at once, bright and overwhelming.
The drive up the mountain with my hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup while his rested warm on my knee. The porchlight spilling across the gravel. His mouth on mine before the front door even closed. The rough scrape of his jaw against my skin. The low sound he made when I kissed him back like I’d been thinking about it all day too.
Heat blooms across my face. Every part of me feels deliciously sore—my throat still tender from yesterday, my thigh faintly throbbing where the epinephrine injector hit, my lips swollen in a way that has nothing to do with bees. But none of that compares to the ache blooming under my ribs.
Because it would be far too easy to stay here.
His body is all solid warmth and muscle at my back. Cedar and soap cling to the sheets. The mattress dips slightly beneath us, old springs giving a soft sigh. His breath fans warm and steady against my neck, ruffling the tiny hairs there and sending pleasant shivers down my spine. One bare foot is tangled with mine beneath the blankets. There’s something dangerously domestic about waking up like this. Dangerous because it feels nice. Dangerous because it feels easy. Dangerous because some reckless little part of me could get used to this.
Yesterday morning I was filming b-roll outside the visitor center, trying not to stare at the hot firefighter leading the trail tour. Yesterday afternoon he saved my life. Last night I ended up naked in his bed.
And now morning has arrived, carrying all the things I refused to think about in the dark.
What comes next?
I already know the answer. Nothing.
That was always the plan. Crescent Ridge was supposed to be a stop—a beautiful, unexpected one. Worth staying a few extra days for, maybe. Then I’d keep moving. That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked.
I’ve always been better at goodbye than hello. Easier to keep moving than risk putting down roots that might get ripped uplater. But Simon… he makes me want to rewrite that rule. The thought of driving away from Crescent Ridge—from him—sits heavy in my stomach like a slab of concrete.
There’s comfort in motion. A packed bag. A charged camera battery. A hotel key dropped at the front desk before sunrise. No roots means nothing gets left behind. No roots means nothing can ask me to stay.
So why does the thought of leaving feel so heavy this morning?
A sleepy breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. Simon shifts behind me but doesn’t wake. His hand flexes once against my skin, and my chest tightens hard enough to sting.
Carefully, I curl my fingers around his wrist and lift until I can slip free. The mattress gives under my weight as I sit up. Cold air skims across my shoulders.
Yesterday’s clothes are scattered across the bedroom floor in a trail that’s both incriminating and oddly impressive. My tank top hangs off the rocking chair. Shorts near the dresser. Bra dangling from the antler lamp beside the bed. I stare at the evidence and a smile threatens—then fades.
Last night wasn’t a mistake. That’s almost worse. Because it was fun. Tender in places I hadn’t expected. Greedy in others. Simon kissed like a man who’d been trying not to touch me since we met and finally ran out of patience. Then he held me afterward like I’d broken open something in him. Like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.
The memory makes my throat tighten.
