Page 14 of Burning for the Mountain Man

“Yes,” she panted, pushing her hips back in an invitation I couldn’t refuse. “Please.”

I drove into her in one smooth, deep thrust, burying myself to the hilt. We cried out in unison—a sharp, guttural moan from me, a long, breathy sigh of pure pleasure from her. She was so hot, so tight, gripping me like a fist.

I set a relentless, powerful pace, each thrust a deliberate stroke that made her gasp. The sounds of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, filled the kitchen. I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, holding her steady as I plunged into her again and again.

“That’s it,” I grunted, my own pleasure building into a roaring fire. “Take all of me, baby. So damn deep. You feel that?”

“Yes! Oh, God, yes!” she cried, her head falling forward.

I watched, mesmerized, as one of her hands left the stool and slipped between her own legs. I’d watched her touch herself enough to know that her fingers were working her clit in frantic, desperate circles, matching the rhythm of my thrusts.

“That’s it, touch yourself,” I encouraged her, my voice a raw, dirty whisper. “Come for me again. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

Her breathing hitched, her moans becoming higher, more frantic. “I’m… I’m close…”

“Do it,” I commanded, driving into her harder, faster, my own control fraying at the edges. “Come for me, baby. Now.”

A sharp, broken cry was torn from her throat as her body convulsed around me, a second, shocking wave of pleasure seizing her. The intense, rhythmic clenching of her inner muscles was my undoing. With a final, brutal thrust and a ragged shout of her name, I poured into her, my own release a blinding, white-hot explosion that seemed to drain me completely.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, bent over the stool, my body draped over hers, both of us panting, slick with sweat, trembling in the aftermath. The world slowly seeped back in, but all I could feel was her.

I helped her stand, turning her in my arms and pulling her close. She melted against my chest, her breathing still ragged, and I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"I love you," I murmured into her hair.

"I love you too," she whispered back.

Ten years. Ten incredible years since that first night in this cabin. Sage had healed me in ways I never thought possible—not just with her love, though that was powerful, but by refusing to let me hide from my demons. She'd pushed me to get help, sat beside me through every PTSD therapy session, held me through the nightmares that still came occasionally. The therapy had given me tools to manage the trauma, but her love had given me a reason to try.

The night terrors were rare now. Most nights, I slept peacefully with her in my arms.

And our life—God, our life was everything I never knew I wanted. Ridge, our eight-year-old, had my dark hair and his mother's green eyes and her fearless spirit. Cole, our five-year-old, was pure mischief wrapped in stubborn determination. They filled this cabin with laughter and chaos and a kind of joy I'd thought was lost to me forever.

"Think the steaks can wait a little longer?" Sage asked, her voice sleepy and satisfied.

I smiled against her hair. "Baby, the steaks can wait as long as you need."

She laughed, that beautiful sound that had been my favorite music for a decade. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

And as I carried my wife to our bedroom, past the family photos on the walls and the toy trucks scattered on the floor, I sent up a silent prayer of thanks. For this woman who'd seen past my scars. For the family we'd built together. For every single perfect, imperfect moment of the life we'd created.

I was home. Finally, completely home.