Page 9 of The Mountain Man's Prize

"Like this?" I ask, genuinely wanting to learn what pleases him.

"Christ, Lila," he groans, eyes closing briefly. "Just like that. But—" He catches my wrist, stilling my movement. "I want to be inside you."

I nod, spreading my thighs wider in invitation. He positions himself at my entrance, pressing forward slowly, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. There's some, a stretching burn that makes me wince slightly, but it's overshadowed by the pleasure of taking him deep.

He moves with careful restraint, each thrust measured and controlled. It's different from last night's passion—slower, more deliberate. His eyes never leave mine, creating an intimacy that's almost unbearable in its intensity. One of his hands cradles my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone as if I'm something precious.

"You're perfect," he whispers, voice strained with the effort of his control. "So perfect around me. Made for me."

His words send a fresh wave of heat through me. I lift my hips to meet his thrusts, wrapping my legs around his waist to take him deeper. The angle changes, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes my vision blur.

"There," I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Right there."

He growls his approval, adjusting to maintain the angle, increasing his pace slightly. "Come for me again, little dove. Let me feel you."

It's the endearment that does it—that simple, tender phrase in his rough voice. I shatter, crying out his name as pleasure washes through me. He follows moments later, his release triggering aftershocks of my own.

We lie tangled together afterward, his weight half on me, half on the bed, our breathing gradually slowing. His hand strokes lazy patterns on my hip, and I trace the lines of muscle in his shoulder, marveling at the contrast between us—his size, my smallness; his hardness, my softness.

"Why do you call me that?" I ask after a while. "Little dove."

He's quiet for a moment, thoughtful. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost vulnerable. "Doves are gentle things. Soft. Beautiful." His fingers brush my cheek. "But they're stronger than they look. Resilient. They find their way home across impossible distances."

"Is that what I am to you? A lost bird?"

His expression turns serious, almost fierce. "No. You're not lost, Lila. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."

The conviction in his voice steals my breath. He believes what he's saying—completely, utterly believes it. And looking into his eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against mine, I find myself wanting to believe it too.

Something inside me shifts, melts, rearranges into a new configuration. It's terrifying how quickly it's happening—this falling, this surrender. Four days ago, I didn't know he existed. Now I can't imagine a world without his touch, his voice, his eyes on me.

"Beau," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for.

He seems to understand anyway, gathering me closer, pressing his lips to my forehead. "I know, little dove. I know."

And maybe he does. Maybe he feels it too—this impossible, irrational certainty that something profound is happening between us. Something neither of us was looking for, but now that we've found it, we can't bear to let go.

Outside, the storm continues to rage. Inside, wrapped in his arms, I find myself hoping it never ends.

six

Beau

The word "leaving"hits me like a physical blow, a knife between my ribs. She's standing by the window, watching the storm that's finally beginning to weaken, talking about "when" not "if" she goes back. My blood turns to ice, then fire. Five years I've been alone, five years of silence and survival, and now she thinks she can walk into my life, make me feel again, and then just leave? My hands clench into fists at my sides, rage and terror mingling into something primal I can't contain. No. She's not leaving. She's mine now.

"I should call my boss once I get back," she says, more to herself than to me. "Explain what happened. And my apartment...God, the plants are probably dead."

Each word is another cut. She's planning her return to a world I can't follow her into. A world that will take her from me.

"The trail should be passable by tomorrow," she continues, fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on the window. "Maybe the day after, if there's flooding. Do you think?—"

"Stop."

My voice doesn't sound like my own. It's a rasp, an animal growl that fills the cabin. She turns, eyes wide with surprise, lips parted on a question she doesn't get to ask.

In three strides, I'm across the room. My hands find her waist, lifting her like she weighs nothing, and I spin, pressing her back against the rough-hewn log wall. Her breath catches, a tiny sound of surprise that feeds the beast clawing at my insides.

"Beau, what?—"

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