Page 13 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

CARYN

The door slams behind him, sharp and final.

I jump, spine stiffening, heart already off to the races before I see the look on his face.

A rush of dread blooms in my chest, echoing an old panic that once kept me up nights in a locked apartment with a knife tucked beneath my pillow.

Back then, danger felt like a faceless shadow. Now, it has a name.

Zeb.

His eyes burn with something primal—rage, yes, but also something deeper.

Older. It rolls off him in waves, a dark pulse of energy that sets every nerve on edge.

Not fear, exactly. Anticipation. Maybe both.

The same twisted thrill that once chased me through crime scenes and backroom interrogations is back now, coiling low in my belly, indistinguishable from desire.

He carries me into the bedroom and sets me on the edge of the bed with a control that makes my pulse stumble.

His grip lingers, hot and deliberate, branding my skin like ownership I never agreed to but can’t shake.

My breath stutters, chest tight with a protest I can’t quite voice.

Conflict claws through me—part of me wants to bolt, part of me wants to see what happens if I stay.

I jerk back, heart hammering, breath unsteady as instinct tells me to flee from the intensity in his stare. My spine locks tight, my body taut with defiance, but I don’t move. Not yet. It isn’t distance I’m fighting for—it’s control. And deep down, I know I’ve already lost it.

He doesn’t follow, not immediately. He gives me just enough room to feel the tension knot tighter in my gut, a trap poised—armed, trembling, ready to snap shut. My nerves buzz, my skin prickling with the weight of his restraint.

He begins to unbutton his shirt, each movement slow and deliberate—almost predatory.

My eyes lock onto his fingers, watching the fabric part like a curtain unveiling something forbidden.

The slide of skin, the flex of muscle, each new inch exposed makes my throat tighten and my knees weaken.

I suck in a breath, ragged and shallow, the sound loud in the thick silence between us.

Shame curls low in my stomach, hot and twisted, at the sheer depth of want flooding through me.

I swore I wouldn't give in again—but my body’s already breaking that vow, inch by aching inch.

When he closes on me, I expect him to press me down.

Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me.

The sight punches the air from my lungs—reverence and danger wrapped into one man.

His gaze drags up my thighs, igniting a tremor I can’t hide.

His mouth brushes the inside of my knee, soft and claiming, then higher, firmer, until my breathing stumbles out of rhythm.

My thighs twitch, instinct and need tangled so tight I can’t tell one from the other.

His hands slide under my flannel, palms searing into the curve of my hips.

My muscles tighten, a reflex of resistance—but instead of pulling away, I lean toward him.

Just enough to betray myself. Just enough to surrender an inch I swore I wouldn’t.

His thumbs circle slow, coaxing me closer, deeper into the place where resistance is already dying.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he growls, “but you’re about to find out.”

My eyebrows lift, a shaky laugh caught in my throat. “What are you doing?”

His eyes flash up, dark and feral. “Marking you.”

Heat slams through me. My legs clamp shut, but he forces them apart with a strength I can’t fight.

Shame and desire collide when his growl rumbles against my inner thigh, vibrating through me like a brand.

He drags his nose along the sensitive seam, inhaling me as if my scent is his to keep.

His breath ghosts over the thin scrap of fabric between us, and I shiver, trembling with the raw truth of how badly I want him.

“Zeb…” My voice breaks on his name.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Let me show you.”

His mouth presses against my knee again, lingering, deliberate, before trailing higher. Each kiss is a warning, a promise, a threat. My thighs tense and waver, torn between running and pulling him closer. His hands grip my hips, holding me still as he climbs the last inches toward my undoing.

When his mouth finally finds me, I cry out, ragged and helpless, my fingers tangling in his hair as my hips betray me, grinding against him.

His tongue is relentless, savoring me with the hunger of a man who won’t be denied.

Every stroke feels like possession, every low murmur a chain wrapping tighter around my will.

He whispers dark truths against my skin—that I’ll never be free of him now, that I’m his. Fear and craving tangle until I can’t tell which is which, until I’m writhing beneath him, undone by the merciless worship of his mouth.

He devours me like he owns me. Tongue circling, then flattening. Teasing and then driving deep. Every flick is punishment and reward. My hands grip the sheets so hard I might tear them.

I lose all sense of time. Of breath. Of everything but the fire building inside me.

The release rips through me without mercy, violent and consuming.

My body bows off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as if I could trap him there, hold the storm in place, keep from being emptied out completely.

My cry tears free, raw and unrestrained, echoing in the air as tremors roll through me until I’m shaking, spent, undone.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause long enough for me to draw breath.

His mouth returns, ruthless and hungry, dragging me into another spiral before the first has even ebbed.

His tongue is deliberate, tormenting—long, slow licks that split me open before flicking sharp and fast, cruel little jolts that make my spine bow and my fists knot the sheets like lifelines.

My thighs quake. My lungs fracture into shallow gasps.

His name slips from me, a broken plea, a curse, both, as heat coils low again, sharp and merciless, every nerve bared and claimed beneath his mouth.

The second climax detonates like a fuse catching flame. My vision blurs, muscles locking tight as another strangled moan claws free. I convulse under the relentless pull of him, every shudder wrung from me until I’m left limp and trembling, body boneless against the mattress.

Only then does he lift his head—slow, deliberate, a predator savoring the ruin he’s made.

His jaw gleams, his mouth slick with me, his breath hot and heavy with possession.

The look in his eyes is darker than midnight, feral and smug, the unshakable gaze of a man who knows the prey he’s claimed will never escape.

He rises slowly, with the deliberate grace of a predator who knows the prey is already his.

The tension in the room thickens as he looms over me, gaze locked, chest heaving with the power still simmering under his skin.

His fingers brush my lips—not gently, but with a possessive reverence, as if memorizing the curve of my mouth, as if marking it.

My breath catches and follows the path of his touch, drawn out of me like a confession I didn’t mean to give.

The heat in his eyes darkens, hunger edged with something almost worshipful, and I tremble under the weight of it.

“This is just the start,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“You’re mine now. Body and soul. And if another bastard so much as breathes the same air as you without my permission, I’ll gut him and let the snow drink his last breath.

The next time somebody comes near this cabin without my say, I won’t be giving warnings. ”

His gaze never leaves mine, and the rasp of his belt sliding free sends a bolt of heat straight through me.

The metallic clink echoes like a promise—sharp, deliberate, and darkly erotic.

He holds the belt loose in one hand, not as a threat, but a symbol of absolute control waiting to be offered.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t beckon. Just stands there, radiating quiet command, watching to see if I’ll come to him of my own will.

A pulse of something raw pounds through me—need, yes, but also recognition.

I see the way he watches me, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll run or fall to my knees.

But I don’t move yet. I feel it swirl low in my belly—the aching need to please, the quiet throb of surrender building beneath my skin.

I want his hands on me. I want the weight of his control and the sting of his need.

And more than anything, I want to give it—freely, fully—because no one’s ever burned through me like this before.

A shiver ripples through me as I push myself upright, limbs trembling, the chill of the sheets clinging to sweat-damp skin.

My feet find the floor, unsteady, hesitant, but drawn forward.

Each step is deliberate, fueled by something deeper than desire—something primal and unspoken.

My pulse thrashes in my throat as I move closer, caught in the magnetic pull of him.

Then, with breath caught in my lungs and skin tingling with anticipation, I begin to sink to my knees before him—offering not just my body, but something more intimate. Something raw. Something real.

Not because he told me to. Because I need to. Because something in his eyes—dark, fractured, barely leashed—calls to a part of me I’ve never dared expose. There’s fear, yes, but not of him. Of how badly I want to surrender. Of what it might mean to choose this instead of fight it.