Page 10 of The Mountain Man's Prize

"You're not leaving."

Her pulse jumps in her throat, a frantic flutter beneath delicate skin. I can smell her—the clean scent of her hair, the hint of arousal that blooms even as confusion clouds her eyes.

"I don't understand," she whispers, hands resting lightly on my chest. Not pushing me away, but not pulling me closer either. "I have to go back eventually. My job, my apartment?—"

"No." The word tears from my throat, raw and final. "You're mine now. You don't go back to the world. You stay where you belong—here. With me."

Something shifts in her expression—fear, yes, but something else too. A recognition. A heat that matches the inferno in my blood.

"Beau," she says, my name a plea, though for what, I'm not sure even she knows. "You can't just?—"

"Can't what?" I press closer, pinning her with my body, my hardness evident against her soft belly. "Can't claim what's mine? Can't keep what belongs to me?"

Her pupils dilate, nearly swallowing the hazel of her irises. Her breathing quickens, chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. I take her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head, watching her reaction.

"Tell me you don't feel it," I demand, voice low and dangerous. "Tell me you don't know you're meant to be here. That from the moment you stumbled out of that storm, you weren't already mine."

She doesn't answer, can't seem to find words. But her body speaks for her—the subtle arch toward me, the parting of her lips, the flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

My free hand slides up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her bottom lip. The gesture is gentle, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. "I won't let you leave me, little dove. I can't."

Something in my voice—the raw honesty, the naked fear beneath the possessiveness—reaches her. Her eyes soften, understanding dawning.

"You're afraid," she whispers, the insight cutting straight to my core. "You're afraid of being alone again."

The truth of it burns worse than any physical pain I've ever endured. But I don't deny it. Can't deny it. Not to her. Not when she sees through me so easily.

"Five years," I say, the words dragged from somewhere deep and wounded. "Five years of nothing but silence and survival. Then you. Your voice. Your touch. Your warmth in my bed." My fingers tighten on her wrists, not painful but firm. "And now you want to walk away? Back to a world that never gave a damn about either of us?"

Her breath catches on a sob, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Beau?—"

I silence her with my mouth, claiming her lips in a kiss that's more possession than affection. She makes a small sound against my lips, body going pliant in my hold. When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for a beat, lips still parted.

"The world out there," I growl, voice rough with emotion, "it'll break you. Use you up and throw you away. Here, you're safe. Here, you're cherished." My hand slides from her cheek to her throat, not squeezing, just resting over her thundering pulse. "Here, you're mine to protect. Mine to please. Mine to worship."

Her eyes open slowly, hazy with desire despite—or perhaps because of—my possessive display. "Show me," she whispers, a challenge and surrender in two simple words.

Something snaps inside me. The last thread of restraint, the final barrier holding back the primal need to claim, to mark, to own. I lift her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs, and she instinctively wraps her legs around my waist. Her arms loop around my neck, clinging as I carry her to the nearest horizontal surface—the kitchen table, solid oak I built with my own hands.

I set her down, stepping between her spread thighs, my hands sliding beneath the oversized sweater she wears. My sweater. On her. Marking her as mine in the most basic way. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Take it off," I command, voice barely human.

She hesitates only a moment before crossing her arms and pulling the sweater over her head in one fluid motion. She sits before me, naked but for a pair of plain cotton panties—the only underwear that survived her drenching in the storm.

"Beautiful," I murmur, hands spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. "Perfect."

She shivers at my touch, goosebumps rising on her skin that has nothing to do with cold. My mouth finds her neck, teeth scraping along the sensitive curve where it meets her shoulder. She gasps, head falling back, offering herself to me.

"Mine," I growl against her skin, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, the other moving between her thighs, finding her hot and wet through the thin cotton. "Say it."

Her hips buck against my hand, seeking more pressure. "Yours," she whimpers, the word barely audible.

"Again." I push the fabric aside, fingers finding her slick heat, circling but not entering. "Louder."

"Yours," she gasps, hands clutching at my shoulders. "I'm yours, Beau."

I push two fingers into her, feeling her stretch around me, watching her face contort with pleasure. "And where do you belong?" I demand, curling my fingers to hit the spot that makes her cry out.

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