Page 15 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

My voice breaks.

My thoughts scatter.

All that's left is him—his voice, his hands, his cock.

He keeps going.

Until I'm limp.

Until I'm empty.

Until the only word I know is Lucas.

When it's over, I'm shaking in the aftermath—thighs quivering, wrists still bound, breath broken. My entire body aches in the best, worst way.

Lucas lies beside me, propped on one elbow, watching me, heat still simmering low in his gaze.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't have to.

I've never felt more claimed.

And I know he's not finished.

Not even close.

But for now…

He unties my wrists, movements gentle. His fingers trail down the marks the rope left behind, like he's memorizing what he made.

He pulls me into his arms, settles me against his chest, his hand stroking my hair as I drift into the deepest, darkest, sweetest kind of ruin.

And in his bed, tangled in heat and sweat and the wreckage of what we just did…

I sleep like I've never slept before.

Chapter 4

Control Issues

Sunlight streamsthrough the cabin's windows, painting golden patterns across the rumpled sheets. I stretch languidly, every muscle in my body gloriously sore. Memories of last night flood back in vivid detail—strong hands pinning my wrists above my head, hot breath against my neck, whispered commands that made me shiver with desire. My body still hums with the aftershocks of pleasure so intense I forgot my own name.

Who would have thought the laid-back resort owner could be so... commanding? So attuned to exactly what I needed before I even knew myself?

The space beside me is empty, though the sheets still hold his warmth. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in his pillow to inhale the intoxicating scent of pine and musk. A smile curls my lips as I recall how thoroughly he dismantled every wall I'd built, how completely I surrendered control to him.

The aroma of fresh coffee pulls me from the haze of sleep and soreness. I blink against the light, reluctant to leave the warm nest of blankets and the vague ache between my thighs that reminds me exactly why I'm sore in the first place.

Lucas's shirt—thick flannel, abandoned in a frenzy last night—lies crumpled nearby. I slip it on. It falls to mid-thigh, sleeves dangling past my fingertips, smelling like cedar and sex and him.

Lucas stands at the stove in the kitchen, flipping pancakes like he didn't absolutely wreck me against the bedposts six hours ago. His back is to me—broad shoulders, jeans slung low on his hips, the waistband slightly askew like he tugged them on in a hurry. He's barefoot, humming to himself, steam rising from a French press beside him.

Unbothered. Unapologetic.

Completely at ease in the aftermath of a night that left me half-feral and mostly incoherent.

"Good morning." My voice is huskier than intended, still raw from hours of begging and gasping and screaming his name.

He turns, those penetrating blue eyes sweeping over me in a slow appraisal that makes heat bloom across my skin. A knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

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