Page 10 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

ZEB

The air inside the cabin is thick enough to taste—like smoke, sweat, and tension that won't break.

She's still vibrating from what just passed between us. Hell, I am too. Her slap stung, but it didn’t temper the hunger clawing at my insides—instead, it fanned the flames of something deeper, darker.

Not just arousal. Obsession. Possession.

The need to take, to own, to claim what had haunted my nights and gnawed at my sanity since the moment I first laid eyes on her years ago.

She was a girl then. Too young. Untouchable.

But now? Now she stood in my cabin, half-wild and flushed from defiance, and every cell in my body screamed to mark her as mine.

I wanted to taste her fury, her surrender.

Wanted to watch her break—and bloom—under my hands.

It wasn’t rational, wasn’t clean. But it was real.

And it had teeth. If anything, it sharpened it.

Caryn stands across the room, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts, her skin still flushed from adrenaline and fury.

Her eyes blaze with the kind of heat that burns rather than warms. She thinks she’s wrested some control, thinks that slap landed a blow deeper than skin.

That it created distance between us, drew a line I wouldn’t cross.

But all it did was ignite the full force of my fixation—no longer simmering, but white-hot, ravenous.

She didn’t win. She merely summoned the storm.

"You're playing with fire," I say, voice low, raw, like it scraped its way out of my chest.

"So are you," she shoots back, arms crossed, that damned chin of hers tilted in stubborn defiance.

Her bare legs emerge from the hem of my shirt like an invitation and a dare—smooth, flushed, and so fucking tempting I have to lock my fists at my sides.

Every instinct screams to claim what's mine, to rip away the illusion of distance and show her exactly who she belongs to. Not just because she’s wearing my shirt, but because that shirt clings to her in all the right places, marking her in a way that makes my restraint feel like punishment.

I step forward, slow and measured, the floor creaking faintly beneath my boots.

The air between us hums like a live wire.

Her breath stutters, nostrils flaring, and I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—quickly masked, but not before I see it.

Her spine stiffens as if bracing for something she’s not sure she wants to stop.

I note every change in her expression, the defiance that doesn’t quite eclipse the awareness.

She’s holding her breath now, waiting. Watching. And I want her to feel it—that she’s not the one in control anymore; letting the weight of my presence fill the space between us. Her eyes widen just a fraction, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t back down.

Good. I don’t want a compliant woman. I want her.

"I gave you rules. You broke them."

She huffs, sarcasm dripping from her lips. "What are you going to do? Ground me? Take away my phone? Oh wait, you already did that."

My mouth curls at the edge, but it isn’t humor that twists through me. It's need. It's the tightening vise of control I've held onto for too long.

"No more games, Caryn. The next time you disobey me, I won’t stop at warnings. I’ll take what’s already mine, and I’ll make sure you remember who you challenged every time you try to sit down."

She turns like she’s going to retreat down the hallway, but there's no hallway. I’m already moving.

Two strides and I’m on her, grabbing her wrist and spinning her into the wall.

Her back hits the log paneling with a soft thud.

She gasps, not in pain, but shock. The air between us sparks, volatile and alive.

"Let me go," she breathes, but her body betrays her—hips arching, thighs pressing together. I see it. I feel it. Her pulse beats like a war drum beneath the hand I press to her throat.

"Say it like you mean it."

Her eyes flare. "I mean it."

But her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, breath shallow—each breath dragging heat through her lungs.

She’s drowning, not in fear, but in something more volatile.

I feel it rolling off her in waves: dark curiosity, the aching pull of desire laced with denial, the sharp sting of need she's too proud to name.

It's there in the tremble of her thighs, the faint quiver in her lips, the way her chest rises like she's gasping against the truth.

She knows this is dangerous. And God help us both if I’m not exactly what she wants.

"You don’t get to lie to me, Caryn. Not when your skin’s burning and your breath stutters every time I get close. Not when the way you move tells me everything your pride won’t let you admit. Not when your body’s betraying you with every flushed inch."

My hand slides down the length of her side, catching the hem of my shirt bunched around her hips. I curl my fingers there, feeling the tension in her abdomen, the heat of her skin. The soft fabric does nothing to shield the shiver that moves through her when I touch her like that.

I seize her wrists in my other hand and drive them above her head, pressing them hard against the wall until her body stills under mine, breath shuddering from parted lips. She struggles, testing the restraint, but I don’t let her go. Not yet. Not until she admits what we both already know.

"You’re not scared of me. Not really. You’re scared of what you feel with me—and there’s a part of me that wants you to be.

Not because you believe I’ll hurt you, but because there's a sliver of doubt. That flicker of fear in your eyes fans a flame I’ve spent years trying to leash.

That spark makes the shadows in me stir and stretch, awakens the side of me that doesn’t want gentle.

That doesn’t want safe. It wants raw, primal, and that fear?

It flavors your surrender like spice in blood—makes it sweeter, darker. "

I lean in, letting my breath tickle her lips.

"I crave the sound you’ll make when your pride crumbles and you realize submission was inevitable.

The exact second your gaze fractures—when it turns from fury to something darker, something needier.

You don't want comfort. You want to teeter on the razor’s edge, dancing with the danger you swore you could resist. You want to fall—and there's a part of me that wants to watch you plunge, just to see if you'll beg me to catch you, or curse me as you shatter. "

She glares. "That’s bullshit."

I lean in, lips running the tip of my tongue around the outer shell of her ear. "Then tell me to stop. Not the way your head wants it. Say it from your gut. Let your body tell mine."

She goes silent. Rigid. I wait.

Nothing.

I chuckle. "That's what I thought." I kiss her neck—not soft. Possessive. Claiming. Her breath catches as her hips grind against mine.

She curses, "Fuck you."

“That’s not how it works, sweetheart. I take. You yield. That’s the truth you can’t outrun.”

I pull her away from the wall just enough to pivot, carrying her across the room until I drop her onto the couch. She scrambles upright, ready to fight, but I follow her down, bracing my arms on either side of her body, caging her in without touching.

"You want control? Take it," I whisper. "Push me off. Tell me to stop."

She doesn't move.

"You can't. Because you want this too."

When she lunges, I think she's going to strike again. Instead, she grabs both sides of my face and kisses me—all teeth and fury, like she wants to devour the shame out of both of us. Her hands tangle in my hair, her legs wrap around my waist, and everything else falls away.

I grip her thighs, my fingers digging in with bruising possession, dragging her to the edge of the cushions like prey offered to a god.

Her skin burns under my touch, slick with heat and shivering tension.

Her thighs quake as I wedge myself between them, claiming space she hasn’t consciously offered—but hasn’t truly denied.

She gasps, broken and desperate, caught between panic and anticipation, like she’s on the cusp of begging or running, unable to choose which edge to leap from.

The moment stretches, heavy and unyielding; every breath between us a battle neither of us intends to lose.

The fabric between us is saturated with her heat, clinging and wet against my jeans, the scent of her—raw and intoxicating—curling into my lungs like smoke from a wildfire I have no intention of putting out.

My cock throbs, achingly hard, straining against the denim as the pressure builds to a dangerous edge.

I grind against her with deliberate control, a slow, relentless drag that has her hips jerking toward mine, a gasp ripped from her throat.

Her lashes flutter, lips parting on a whimper, and her body arches—seeking friction, caught helplessly in that tightrope walk between resistance and surrender.

She’s trembling beneath me, her skin fevered, pupils blown wide with a need she refuses to name—but her body begs for more, and I’m the only one who can give it.

"Still want me to stop?" I ask, my voice low and dominant.

She responds by biting my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Do your worst, mountain man."

I lift her shirt slowly, deliberately, exposing inch after inch of flushed skin until her bare chest is fully revealed.

Her muscles twitch beneath my gaze, taut with tension and anticipation.

The cool air hits her nipples, drawing them into tight, aching peaks that beg for attention.

I don't rush. I watch her breathe, her chest rising and falling with a helpless rhythm, and then I dip my head.

I bite one nipple just hard enough to make her jolt—pain and pleasure fused into a gasp.

My tongue flicks over the other, teasing, circling, pressing until she moans my name like a prayer torn from her throat.

She arches into my mouth, writhing beneath me, her body a battleground of resistance and surrender.

Every sound she makes feeds the beast inside me, sharpening the edge of what’s to come.

I secure her wrists once more—not because she struggles, but because the act itself binds more than flesh.

It roots us in the raw truth neither of us wants to name.

She’s given herself over in instinct and breath, in moans and silence, and I need her to feel it—need her to know she’s no longer untethered.

That every heartbeat, every shiver, every whimper that spills from her is mine to provoke and mine to claim.

My mouth moves lower, my tongue tracing the ridge of muscle along her abdomen, savoring the salt and softness of her skin. Her moan is sharp, guttural—less a sound than a surrender. Her hips jerk up, desperate and demanding, a silent plea I have no intention of ignoring.

With a growl vibrating low in my chest, I hook my fingers into the delicate band of her panties, the fabric surrendering with a satisfying rip as I tear them down her legs. Her gasp is half shock, half anticipation. The air kisses her bare skin, and her thighs quake slightly under my gaze.

I press a kiss just above the juncture of her thighs, breathing in the wet heat radiating off her before letting my lips part, sliding down to taste her with slow, decadent hunger.

She cries out, a strangled, broken sound that spears straight through me.

Her body writhes, slick and needy, and I pin her with the weight of my forearms as my tongue delves deeper, savoring every trembling response, every helpless gasp.

I see it in the tremble of her thighs, the way her breath stutters. She’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and every instinct in me swears she wants me as much as I want her.

She lies sprawled before me now—exposed, breath shallow, nipples taut, a flush climbing her chest like wildfire. Vulnerable, yes, but it’s the tremble that gives her away. Not from cold. From knowing exactly what's coming.

"Spread your legs wide," I command.

She hesitates for a moment, and I raise my eyebrow in a silent challenge. She complies.

I lower my head between her thighs, the scent of her slick heat wrapping around me like a drug.

My tongue drags up her center—slow, rough strokes that make her hips buck and a strangled moan tear from her throat.

Her taste is dark, intoxicating, a flavor I want to drown in.

Her thighs quake, twitching as her body reacts faster than her pride wants to allow.

When she tries to clamp her legs closed, I growl low in warning and force them open with my shoulders, locking her down. "No," I snarl against her soaked skin. "You take this. You feel every second of it."

I drag her closer to the edge with every calculated flick of my tongue, every dark stroke that coaxes her body into trembling submission.

Just as her muscles seize and her cry climbs her throat, I retreat—leaving her hips bucking, her thighs clenching, her voice breaking in frustration.

Again and again, I bring her to that brutal brink, only to deny her the fall, savoring each desperate curse, every breathless plea, until she's writhing, eyes wild, lost in a haze of torment and need.

Then, without warning, I lift her into my arms and carry her towards the bed—ready to push each other to even greater heights of pleasure.

"I’m not going to fuck you," I growl.

She gasps, confused. "What? Then what the hell was that?"

I grin. Dark. Dangerous.

“That was me showing you what it means when I say you’re mine.”

She stares up at me, eyes glassy with confusion, arousal, shame, and something deeper.

Her taste still clings to my tongue. She’s trembling, wide-eyed, silent. I don’t need her words. I already know how this ends.