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SADIE

I t starts with his hands.

Not his voice. Not his eyes. Just the slow, deliberate way his fingers trace the line of my jaw, down the side of my neck, pausing at the pulse point that always jumps when he gets too close. It’s warm in the dream—thick, like the air can’t decide if it wants to be rain or heat—but I don’t care. Zeke’s hands are on me, and that’s the only thing that matters.

His mouth follows next. Rough stubble scraping across the hollow beneath my ear as he kisses lower. His breath fans against my skin, and I swear I feel every inch in places that haven’t been touched in longer than I want to admit. My back arches into him, and I don’t stop it. I don’t hide it. In the dream, there’s no pretending I don’t want this. Him.

He lifts my shirt, slow like he’s savoring it. Like undressing me is something sacred, something he’s been waiting to do since the day he stepped into my café kitchen and I told him I didn’t need help.

He peels the fabric up and over, and his voice, low and rough, curls through the space between us.

“Mine now.”

God, the way he says it. Not like a question. Like a promise. A claim written into bone.

I reach for him—his shoulders, his chest, the ridged muscle that never moves unless he wants it to. He’s solid. Heavy. Warm. His body presses me down against the bed—my bed, I think, though nothing looks exactly the same. Doesn’t matter. My legs wrap around his hips like they’ve done this before, like my body remembers what my mind’s only starting to admit.

His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head with one smooth motion. Not rough. Not too tight. Just enough to make my breath catch. His mouth is everywhere—collarbone, sternum, the soft underside of my breast that no one’s ever bothered to kiss like it mattered.

He pulls back, just enough to look down at me. His eyes are dark, blazing, wild in a way Zeke lets no one else see.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he says, his voice gravel and smoke. “But I’ll put you back together, too. You ready for that?”

I nod. I can’t speak. I am ready. I want this. Want him.

He shifts, one knee parting my thighs, and I feel the full length of him press against the place I’m already aching. I gasp, fingers flexing, hips rising. The friction is perfect. Insistent. My whole body is trembling now, wired tight with anticipation.

“Zeke,” I whisper, not sure if I’m pleading or praising.

“Say it again,” he growls.

“Zeke…”

He leans down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that’s nothing like the ones we’ve shared so far. This one is possession. Heat. The edge of something dangerous and beautiful. I moan into him, hips rocking, thighs tightening.

Then he pushes inside me—thick and deep and perfect—and I…

I bolt upright in bed, sweat slick across my chest and neck, the sheets twisted around my hips like they’re trying to hold me in place. My breath’s ragged. Thighs tight. My heart is still pounding, and the echo of his name is stuck in my throat.

I drag a hand over my face and whisper a curse into the dark. That wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t just lust, either. It was need. Bone-deep need. Coiled in my chest and between my legs like it’s been waiting for permission. Like everything I’ve been pushing down finally clawed its way free in the safety of sleep.

I fall back against the pillows, chest heaving, my nipples still tight and tingling against the soft cotton of my sleep shirt. Everything inside me is still vibrating. His name is still on my lips. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, chasing some echo of friction that’s long since faded.

I cover my face again and groan. Jesus, I’m in trouble. Because that dream didn’t feel made up. It felt inevitable. I let myself feel it for another breath—two. The weight of his hands, the rough heat of his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

When I finally drag myself out of bed, the chill in the cottage cuts right through the heat still thrumming low in my belly, but it doesn’t dull it completely.

I pad barefoot to the kitchen, fill the kettle with shaking hands, and stare out the window as the water starts to boil. The woods beyond are dark and quiet, but I don’t feel alone. Not in the scary way. Not anymore.

I feel watched. But not like prey. It’s more like I’ve already been claimed, and the mountain’s just waiting for me to figure it out. I laugh at myself, savoring the sound and the feeling it provokes.

By the time I pour the tea, I know the truth. I want Zeke. Not just his protection. Not just his steadiness. I want him. All of him. The dominant, intense, frustrating man who sees through every wall I’ve ever tried to build. The man who kissed me like he could already taste the rest of me. Who pulled back because he wants it to mean something more.

I take a long sip, set the mug down, and look out at the trees again.

“I’m ready,” I whisper.

And this time, I mean it.

* * *

I’ve never spent this much time choosing a damn sweater. It’s stupid. Or at least, it should be. But this morning, everything feels sharper—like I’m moving through the world with skin a little too thin. Zeke’s kiss still echoes in my body like thunder in the mountains, low and rolling, promising more. And that dream?

I flush just thinking about it. It wasn’t just vivid. It was honest. Like my subconscious finally got sick of waiting for the rest of me to catch up. So now I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, my closet wide open behind me, heart pounding like I’m about to do something reckless and irreversible.

I settle on a soft charcoal sweater that clings in the right places without looking like I’m trying too hard. Skinny jeans. Brown leather boots. And for the first time since I moved to Glacier Hollow, I wear my hair down. Not half-up. Not in a bun. Loose. Soft.

Then I reach for the mascara. Just one coat. Enough to make my lashes frame my eyes. A touch of color on my cheeks. A little gloss. That’s it. Nothing dramatic. But it’s intentional… and that’s what matters.

I grab my coat and keys, check the locks out of habit, and step into the cold. The walk to the café takes longer than it should—not because of the distance, but because I can’t stop rehearsing what I might say if he looks at me the way he did last night. If he touches me again.

By the time I push open the back door, the sky’s still mostly dark. The kitchen smells like lemon cleaner and day-old bread. My boots pad across the hardwood as I flick on the lights and move to prep like I always do—only this time, I feel like I’m vibrating under my skin.

I’m halfway through rolling out dough when I hear the stairs creak… Zeke. I don’t need to look. I feel him. Besides, who else would it be? It’s like gravity just changed direction. My chest tightens, pulse jumping in my throat. I keep kneading, trying to pretend my hands are steady when they aren’t.

He says nothing at first. Just moves around the kitchen like he belongs there—because, well, he does. We fall into our rhythm. Me prepping scones. Him checking locks and resetting the café’s security system. I glance up once, catch his eyes lingering on me. Not in a way that makes me feel self-conscious. In a way that says he sees everything—the mascara, the hair, the gloss. His eyes heat, but he doesn’t call me on it.

Instead, he just moves closer.

The morning rush starts slow. A few locals filter in early for coffee and breakfast, and I keep busy with their orders. Zeke stays close, moving in and out of the kitchen, helping without being asked. Watching. Always watching.

By mid-morning, the café hums with voices, clinking dishes, the hiss of the espresso machine. Jenny makes some joke about me finally dressing like I have someone to impress, and I laugh it off. But Zeke hears it. I know he does. He doesn’t comment—but his gaze lingers longer after that.

We’re in the kitchen, just the two of us, when it happens. I step back from the prep table, arms full of clean trays, and don’t realize he’s behind me until my back presses into his chest. I freeze. Not because I’m afraid—never that. But because the sensation is immediate. Intense.

He doesn’t move. Neither do I. I can feel the length of his cock begin to harden and press against his fly.

The trays in my arms go still. My heartbeat roars in my ears. His hands hover, just shy of touching my waist, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. His breath fans across the back of my neck, and I swear the air between us thickens.

I could step away. I don’t.

Instead, I set the trays down slowly, carefully, without breaking contact. My back still pressed to his chest, I tilt my head just slightly—enough to catch his gaze out of the corner of my eye.

“Zeke…” My voice is softer than I mean for it to be.

He leans forward just enough that his lips hover near my ear. “I’m trying really hard not to push you,” he says, voice low and tight. “But you keep backing into me like you want me to forget why I shouldn’t.”

I swallow. “Maybe I do.”

He exhales hard, like I just knocked the air out of him. “You sure about that?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this again,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I do. With you.”

Zeke’s jaw flexes, his control razor-thin. “Say the word, Sadie. And I’ll give you everything.”

My pulse skitters. I want to say yes. I want to turn around and pull him into me until nothing else exists. But just as I open my mouth, the bell over the café door rings—sharp and sudden. A reminder.

He steps back. Barely. Just enough. “Later,” he says.

It’s not a question. It’s a fact. And I believe him.

Zeke spends the rest of his day performing his official duties while finding time to check in on me. Oh, he talks to the other locals—he seems to have a real knack for fitting in when he wants to. Finally, that evening I get the last of my customers out and manage to turn off the lights and lock the front door.

I’m in the back—in the kitchen—when I hear the door unlock. He walks in and locks the door behind him before closing the distance between us. His body is behind me, heat pouring off him like a furnace I’ve wandered too close to without thinking. My back is up against his chest, breath tight in my throat, and his hands reach down to grasp my hips and pull me into the cradle of his pelvis, his hard cock nestled against my ass.

It's a good thing the café is closed, because I doubt any clattering of mugs or murmuring from customers would get through the sensual buzz that’s coursing through my body. There’s only my pulse, thunder-loud, and Zeke’s voice echoing in my mind.

‘Say the word, Sadie. And I’ll give you everything.’

I turn slowly in his hold, hands flat against his chest now. I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes. He’s already watching me—like he never looked away.

“I don’t want space anymore,” I say, steady and clear.

His jaw ticks once, hard. His fingers tighten just slightly on my waist. His nostrils flare as he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s trying to keep himself from detonating on the spot.

“You’re sure?” he growls, his voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it.

I nod. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He doesn’t speak again. He just moves.

One second I’m standing in the kitchen with flour on my hands and tension in my lungs, and the next he’s dragging me up the back stairwell—broad hands locked around my wrist, mouth set in a tight, unreadable line. We don’t talk as we climb. We don’t need to.

His door slams behind us, barely shut before he’s on me. His mouth finds mine in a crushing kiss that steals every coherent thought from my head. I gasp, and he takes that too—tongue sliding past my lips, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grabs my hip and pulls me flush against him. There’s nothing hesitant. Nothing unsure. Just pure, caged control finally let loose.

I don’t recognize the sound I make when he lifts me. One arm around my thighs, the other cradling the back of my neck as he carries me across the room. I cling to him, fingers digging into the back of his shirt, heart hammering against my ribs. He lays me down on his bed like he’s done it a hundred times in his head, like this was always inevitable.

His mouth doesn’t leave mine.

Even as his weight settles over me, even as his hand slips beneath the hem of my sweater to find bare skin, he kisses me like he’s claiming something. Like he’s starving. Like he’s been waiting and now that he has me, he’s not wasting a single second.

“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy all day,” he rasps against my throat, lips brushing my jaw as he pushes the sweater up and over my head. “Coming to work with your hair down. Lip gloss. That goddamn sweater.”

I shiver as he drags his mouth down to my collarbone, biting just hard enough to make me gasp. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything.” His voice vibrates against my skin. “And I’m done pretending I can ignore it.”

His hand finds the clasp of my bra, pops it with ease, and I can barely catch my breath before he’s kissing a path down my chest, teeth grazing one tight peak while his thumb teases the other. The sensation punches straight through me, raw and electric.

“Zeke,” I breathe, arching beneath him.

He groans low in his throat, a sound that reverberates through my whole body. “Say it again.”

“Zeke,” I repeat, shakier this time.

He slides lower, kisses the soft curve of my stomach, his hands everywhere at once—stroking, gripping, steadying. He peels my jeans down my legs, his movements rough but reverent, like he’s trying to memorize every inch as he goes.

I reach for his shirt, tug it up, and he lets me. It clears his head in one fluid motion, and suddenly all that hard muscle I’ve imagined in stolen glances is right there, mine to touch.

God.

I drag my palms down his chest, feel the tight flex of his abs, the rise and fall of his breath. He’s hot. Solid. Unshakable. And right now—he’s mine.

“I want all of you,” I whisper.

“You have me,” he answers, voice like gravel. “You’ve always had me.”

Then he lowers his head again and slides my panties down, slow and deliberate. When his mouth replaces the heat of his fingers, I cry out—hips bucking, fingers tangling in the sheets. He holds me down with one hand on my thigh, his other arm braced beside me, tongue teasing in tight, devastating circles that have me writhing within seconds.

“You taste so good,” he growls against me. “Sweet. Addictive.”

My hands find his hair. I’m shaking, legs trembling, and he doesn’t stop. Not when I beg. Not when I moan his name like it’s the only word I know. And when I come, it’s like falling. Like free-falling through something too big to hold.

This is the spark that sets the wildfire ablaze.