Page 14 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

My knees touch the floor, slow and deliberate, the hardwood cool beneath my skin.

I lift my gaze, and Zeb freezes—just for a second.

His jaw clenches, the sinew twitching as if it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

That barely-there crack in his restraint steals my breath.

This isn’t just submission—it’s a vow. A silent offering I’ve never made for anyone else, wrapped in trust, daring, and heat. And he knows it.

His breath stutters—sharp, shallow—like he’s trying to cage something dangerous before it breaks loose.

I reach for him, hands trembling with anticipation as I ease his cock free—velvety heat, rigid and pulsing, the swollen tip already slick.

I wrap my fingers around him, feeling the weight, the tension, the raw need humming beneath his skin.

When I look up, his gaze is locked on mine—wild, desperate, and hungry—like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the edge of something brutal and consuming.

"I want to," I say. "Please, I want to."

He growls—a primal, guttural sound that vibrates through me. His fingers tangle tight in my hair, not yanking, but directing with unspoken command. I take him into my mouth, slowly, savoring the heat, the weight, the way he pulses against my tongue.

I swirl my tongue around him, teasing and coaxing with deliberate slowness, until his fingers tighten in my hair and his hips give a helpless, involuntary jerk.

The sound he makes—raw, jagged, half a growl—is so filthy and undone it punches straight through my core, leaving my thighs trembling and my breath snagging in my throat.

The tension between us is electric, white-hot, vibrating with a hunger that threatens to incinerate restraint.

Every pulse of him on my tongue deepens the ache building low and relentless inside me.

When he pulls me off him, I’m wrecked—gasping, trembling, saliva slicking the corner of my lips as I blink up at him, dazed and raw.

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t ask. Just lifts me, strong arms threading under my limp limbs, and lays me down like he’s staking a claim.

The bed gives beneath my weight, and then he’s on me—looming, hot and heavy, his breath ragged against my ear.

The moment his body covers mine, a flush rolls over my skin, equal parts reverence and possessive heat.

My thighs fall open, invitation or instinct, I don’t know.

But he growls—low and satisfied—like my submission just answered a question he didn’t dare ask.

"I'm not sure if I can handle this," he whispers, his voice deep and husky in my ear. "Not because I’m angry—but because the need I have for you is more like a hunger that burns like sin. Because holding back feels like bleeding out one slow drop at a time."

He positions himself at my entrance, and with a forceful, scorching push, he's inside me—stretching me beyond what I believed possible.

As he fills me to the brim, it's sheer perfection.

No part of me is left untouched. He starts slowly, deliberately, allowing me to experience every contour and pulsation.

Then he increases the intensity. It becomes rougher; wilder.

Soon, I find myself digging my nails into his firm back and crying his name into the darkness.

Our bodies slide together in a fevered tangle, skin slick with sweat and need.

Every inch of him presses into me with maddening precision—his muscles hard, his breath harsh, his desire unmistakable.

The heat between us builds like a forge, scorching and consuming, until the only thing left is the desperate grind of our hips and the wild, unrelenting hunger to be closer still.

My fingers rake down his back, chasing the shudder that rolls through him, and when his mouth captures mine, it’s not sweet—it’s claiming, dark and full of fire.

The air around us is laced with the scent of our passionate union.

My legs wrap tightly around his slender waist, my heels pressing firmly against his lower back.

He makes love to me, driving himself so deep into me it feels like he’s etched there, and I willingly submit to his ownership.

He bites my shoulder, his tongue tracing the impression left by his teeth sinking into my delicate skin. A guttural cry escapes from deep within me.

He secures my wrists against the damp mattress, gripping them firmly while his hips continue to drive unyieldingly. The sensations intertwining—pain and pleasure—have become indistinguishable, blending together like an all-consuming wave that threatens to engulf us both.

An overwhelming climax tears through me like a supernova, ripping a scream from my throat and blanketing my vision in white-hot sparks.

My lungs seize, my pulse ricochets through every nerve ending, and a rush of molten heat floods me so violently I swear the world tilts off its axis.

I’m weightless—suspended between agony and euphoria—as stars explode behind my eyes and my breath vanishes into nothing but raw sensation.

Zeb reaches his peak not long after, releasing a deep growl as he spills himself inside me with a shudder, the tremor rolling through both our bodies. He remains motionless, his breaths ragged against my neck and the rhythm of his heart pounding against my chest.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes against my neck. Eventually, he raises his head and whispers, "You didn’t have to do that."

"I know," I murmur. "But I wanted to."

He scans my face, and I see something new in his eyes. Something softer. Scarier. I think it might be regret.

But before I can ask, a knock rattles the front door. My blood goes cold. Every instinct sharpens, my limbs freezing for a beat as if the sound triggered something primal in my spine.

Zeb slides from my body, reaching for his jeans and a shotgun under the bed as my eyes flick to the window, then the door, body tensed and bare. I reach instinctively for the sheet, heart racing—not from modesty, but from an ancient, cellular awareness that danger rarely knocks politely.

Not out here. Not now.

Another knock shudders through the silence, louder this time. My breath stalls. The primal part of me—the same one that flinches at sudden thunder or the snap of a twig in the woods—flares to life. Every muscle locks, frozen and bare, as if stillness might somehow make us invisible.

Zeb’s already moving, jeans half-fastened, moving toward the rack of guns. He glances back, eyes sharp and dark with warning.

Whatever’s on the other side of that door doesn’t sound like a neighbor dropping by. A cold shiver snakes down my spine. Whoever’s out there didn’t come by chance.