Page 6

Chapter 6

Burning Up

Morning arrives differently this time. No stark boundary between night and awakening, but a gradual awareness of warmth, of Jackson's steady breathing beside me, of our hands still intertwined despite hours of sleep.

Everything has changed.

The admission of attraction hangs in the air between us, transforming the atmosphere inside our small shelter. Each glance carries new weight. Each casual touch sparks awareness that neither of us can pretend to ignore any longer.

Jackson rises first, stoking the dying embers in the wood stove. Muscles shift beneath his thermal shirt as he works. His movements are economical and precise. My eyes track him with newfound freedom, no longer hiding my appreciation behind journalistic interest.

He turns, catching my gaze. Something flares in his eyes—heat, hunger, a flash of uncertainty.

"Sleep okay?" His voice carries morning roughness that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Better than expected." The floor beside the stove should have been uncomfortable, yet nestled against his solid warmth, I slept more soundly than any night since our confinement began.

Jackson measures coffee grounds into the pot, his movements deliberate, almost hesitant. The easy connection of last night's conversation has given way to something more charged, crackling with potential energy.

"About last night..." He sets the pot on the stove, back still turned to me.

"We don't have to talk about it." My pulse quickens, unsure whether he regrets our admissions.

"We do." Now he faces me, expression guarded yet determined. "I need to be clear about something."

"Okay." The warmth in my chest cools slightly, preparing for rejection.

"I don't do relationships." His jaw sets firmly, eyes locked on mine. "Haven't since Emma. Don't plan to start now."

The declaration should sting, yet something in his stance—the tension in his shoulders, the careful control in his voice—suggests this costs him. The words aren't as simple as they sound.

"I'm not asking for one." Rising from my blanket nest, I meet his gaze evenly. "After this, I'll be back in Burlington finishing my article, and you'll be here, doing whatever mountain men do when they're not rescuing foolish writers."

"Mountain men?" His eyebrow lifts slightly.

"You know what I mean." A small smile tugs at my lips despite the seriousness of the conversation. "What happens in this shelter can stay in this shelter. No expectations, no complications."

"You say that now." Jackson studies me, searching for something in my expression.

"Because I mean it." Closing the distance between us, I stop just short of touching him. "I'm not looking to be your redemption story, Jackson. Or your second chance. Or your great love. I'm just..."

"Just what?" His voice drops lower, intimate in the small space between us.

"Just drawn to you. Against all logic and reason."

His breath audibly catches. The coffee pot begins to bubble, forgotten.

Heat coils in the narrow space between us, thick and charged, sparking against my skin like static before a storm. His chest rises and falls in measured rhythm, but his eyes—glacier blue and darkened with something far more dangerous than cold—are locked on mine like a man fighting gravity and losing.

His hand brushes my arm, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just inside my elbow, and the contact ignites a trail of fire straight to my core. I feel it everywhere—low in my belly, in the pulse behind my knees, and in the ache that blooms with every second of silence stretched tight between us.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, voice rough, but it’s not the cold we’re talking about anymore.

“I’m not cold,” I breathe.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His hand lifts higher, cupping the side of my neck, thumb stroking the hollow just beneath my jaw—delicate, reverent, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, low and ragged. “This is a mistake.”

The words lack conviction, undermined by the heat in his gaze. They’re already burning up between us, useless against the heat we’ve stoked.

"Probably."

"I can't offer you anything beyond right now." His thumb stills.

The warning is clear. Stark. He means it—not just a lack of commitment, but a man already haunted by the past, afraid to offer a future he doesn’t believe he deserves.

“I’m not asking for anything beyond right now,” I whisper, and I mean it. My body aches for him, for the connection, for the surrender I swore I’d never give again—but tonight, I want it.

I want him.

Something shifts in his expression—restraint gives way to decision. His hand rises, fingers tracing my cheek with unexpected gentleness that contradicts the roughness of his callused skin. His touch is still gentle but no longer hesitant.

"Last chance to back out." His voice rumbles, a warning and invitation combined.

My answer comes in action rather than words, closing the final distance between us, pressing my lips to his—soft at first, but full of heat—and he meets it with fire.

Unlike our first impulsive kiss, this one begins softly, almost tentatively. A question, an exploration. His hands cradle my face as if holding something precious and fragile, belying the strength I know those hands possess.

The gentleness lasts mere moments before hunger takes over. Jackson's arms wrap around me, pulling me against the solid plane of his chest as the kiss deepens. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him closer, needing more.

Coffee boils over on the stove, sizzling against hot metal. Neither of us moves to save it.

His mouth travels from mine to my jaw and my neck, finding sensitive places I never knew existed. Each press of his lips draws sounds from me that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.

"God, you're beautiful." The words brush against my skin, reverent.

My hands explore the contours of his shoulders, the breadth of his back, and the surprising softness of his hair. Desire builds with each touch, each discovery, pooling low in my abdomen.

"Are you sure about this?" Jackson pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, eyes darkened to midnight blue.

“That depends,” I murmur, fingers tracing the rough line of his jaw.

"On what?"

"On whether you’re going to just kiss me… or?—"

“Or what?” His gaze sharpens, laser-focused.

“Fuck me.”

A low growl rumbles from his chest. He steps closer, chest brushing mine, heat radiating off him like fire in the freezing air.

“Oh, I’m definitely going to fuck you.” His voice goes from gravel to sin. “Hard. Deep. Until you forget your own goddamn name.”

My breath catches.

“I’m going to spread you open on that cot,” he continues, his words dark and deliberate, each one striking like a match, “make you beg for it—my fingers, my mouth, my cock—until you can’t think straight. And then I’m going to fill you up so good you won’t remember why this was a mistake.”

Something primal flashes across his features. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, hands gripping my thighs as my legs wrap instinctively around his waist. The raw display of strength sends heat spiraling through me as he carries me the few steps to the narrow cot.

“You’re mine. Every inch. Every sound. Every fucking tremble.”

He lays me down with surprising care, then stands to remove his thermal shirt. The firelight plays across his torso, illuminating a landscape of muscle and scars—evidence of a life lived in constant negotiation with wilderness and risk.

"What happened?" My eyes widen at a particularly dramatic scar tracking across his left ribs.

There’s no way I’m walking out of this unchanged.

“Ice climbing accident. Five years ago.” His voice is steady, unbothered, like he’s recounting the weather. “Rock broke free, caught me on the way down.”

My fingers drift across the scar, the raised line stark against the heat of his skin. “Did it hurt?”

“Not until later.” He catches my hand in his and brings it to his mouth. Lips brush my knuckles, a kiss that feels more like a brand. “Adrenaline’s one hell of a drug.”

The air thickens. Heavy with heat. With want.

He lowers himself onto the cot beside me, our bodies pressed close by necessity and something far more dangerous. His weight, his warmth, the scent of pine and sweat and wood smoke—it coils around me like a drug of its own, making it hard to think.

His hand slips beneath the hem of my thermal top, sliding slowly across bare skin. Warm. Possessive. “May I?”

That simple question—gravel-rough and reverent—sends a bolt of arousal straight through me. The request, so formal amidst such intensity, pulls a smile from me.

"Please."

Clothing disappears in frenzied bursts and fumbling touches. Our movements are hampered by the cot's narrow confines. The cramped space turns every movement into friction, every brush of skin into fire.

Each newly revealed expanse of skin demands exploration—my fingers mapping the contours of his chest, his mouth discovering the sensitive hollow of my collarbone.

He groans when he gets my shirt off, like the sight of my bare chest physically knocks the air from his lungs. His hands span my ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts like he’s memorizing the way I curve.

Jackson's restraint grows more evident with each passing moment—his breathing harsh, muscles tense beneath my wandering hands, yet his touch remains measured, controlled.

"You don't have to be so careful." My words emerge breathless as his lips trace the curve of my breast. "I won't break."

"Careful was before,” he growls. “This? This is what I’ve been holding back. I've wanted you since I pulled you up that cliff. I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. Hated myself for it, but fuck, Cloe… I want you so bad I ache."

Something shifts in his expression—a barrier falling, control slipping.

"And you will break," he says. "I can guarantee it."

The confession ignites something primal within me. My nails scrape lightly down his back, drawing a groan that vibrates against my skin.

"Show me."