Page 8

Chapter 8

Until The Fire Dies

* * *

We don’t stop.

Not for food. Not for rest. Not even when our limbs tremble from overuse and the room reeks of sweat and sex. The air is heavy—thick with need, raw from breathless moans and the slap of skin on skin.

He takes me again and again, each time rougher. Possessive. Each time, stripping away more of what I was before him.

He grabs me by the throat, dragging my back against the log wall. His hand fists in my hair. Yanks. A growl tears from his throat.

“Up.”

He lifts me in one brutal movement, thighs catching around his hips. His cock slams in—fast, punishing, devastating.

I cry out, fingers clawing at his shoulders, at air, at anything I can find as my back scrapes bark. He fucks me with purpose. With fury. With a promise I feel in my bones: You’re mine.

When I come, it’s with my face buried against his neck, teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle the scream.

Later—much later—he lays me out on the cot again. The fire throws gold across the walls. My legs are weak. My pulse thunders.

This time, he kisses me slowly. Deep. Fingers threading through my hair as his mouth claims mine with aching tenderness. I moan into it, ready to give him anything.

But he pulls back.

Eyes sharp. Calculating. Dominant.

“Get on your knees.”

The word cracks through the space like thunder. I blink up at him, heart hammering. My body aches in all the right places. My lips are swollen. My thighs bruised. But his voice makes me throb all over again.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push.

He just waits.

I hesitate.

A beat.

His gaze narrows—slow. Patient. Merciless. “That wasn’t a request,” he says, voice like dark velvet. “On your knees.”

The command pulses through me like heat. But still… I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to obey—but because I do. Too much.

His hand brushes the side of my face. Gentle. Reverent.

“Unless you’re going to say your safe word,” he says, low and firm, “you’ll get on your knees and put your mouth where it belongs.”

The breath leaves me in a shudder. Every inch of me tightens.

I drop.

He groans—low, wrecked, and glorious.

His cock is hard, thick, already waiting. I wrap my lips around the head, tongue swirling, eyes locked on his as I sink down. His hand threads into my hair, not forcing, just holding. Guiding.

I suck him slow at first—long, deep drags designed to undo him.

But he wants more.

And I give it.

Gagging. Drooling. Desperate to please.

He fucks my mouth with the same brutal grace he gives everything else—his body. His dominance. His fucking soul.

When he comes, it’s with a growl of my name and a thrust so deep I feel it down my throat. I take it all. Every drop. Every shudder. Every breath.

Still later—when our bodies are wrecked and our skin is flushed and raw—he spreads a wool blanket by the fire and lays me across it like something sacred.

The glow paints his chest in gold as he sinks between my thighs, slow and reverent now. His fingers trail over every bruise he’s left. Every scratch. Every place his hands claimed me.

And then he slides into me.

Long. Deep. Like worship.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t taunt or tease.

He just moves—slow, deliberate, endless.

His hand cups my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek as he fucks me like he’s memorizing every sigh, every flutter of muscle, every gasping breath.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Thick. Endless.

Inside, so do we.

Again. And again. And again.

The outside world could be ending, and I wouldn’t care.

Not with his mouth on my skin, his body over mine, in mine—claiming me again and again until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.

Time ceases to matter.

Hours pass in a haze of heat and hunger, our bodies tangled in sweat-slick sheets and breathless moans. Afternoon bleeds into evening, the fire crackling low, casting flickering shadows across our skin.

We drift—sometimes into sleep, sometimes into whispered conversation—but we always return to each other. Drawn like gravity. Like obsession.

And each time he takes me, he takes more.

His hands grow rougher. His commands, sharper. He binds my wrists with the tie from his flannel shirt and drapes me over his thigh, spanking me until my cries fill the room—pain blooming into pleasure that makes me writhe.

He doesn’t stop when I beg.

He only pauses long enough to trace the red marks on my ass with reverence, then flips me onto my back and fucks me with bruising force, one hand pinning both wrists overhead, the other wrapped tight around my throat.

“You love when I control you,” he growls, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. I can only nod, because it’s true. No use denying what he can clearly see. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me, knowing you belong to me.”

The words splinter me. I arch into him and fall harder.

He tests every limit I never knew I had. Every dark want I never dared name.

He pushes me to the edge, holds me there, and when I think I can’t take any more—he gives me more.

There’s no room for doubt or shame in his arms. Only heat. Only command. Only the way he fucks me like he’s imprinting himself into every nerve, every breath, every broken, blissed-out sound I make.

And through it all—I let him.

Because in his hands, surrender feels like salvation, and I feel worshipped.

Ruined.

Remade.

And I never want it to end.

We remain entwined as afternoon stretches toward evening, drifting in and out of sleep, conversation, and renewed exploration. The shelter's confines no longer feel restrictive but rather intimate, a world unto ourselves where reality can't intrude.

Until it does.

The hand-crank radio on the shelf crackles suddenly to life, its automated weather alert cutting through our private sanctuary.

"Weather advisory update for Angel's Peak region. Storm system moving east, clearing expected by tomorrow afternoon. Temperature rise predicted. Travel advisories remain in effect for backcountry areas. Next update at 0600."

Reality crashes back with the mechanical voice. Tomorrow . Clearing. The bubble of our isolation prepares to burst.

Jackson's arms tighten slightly around me, his chest rising with a deep breath against my cheek. Neither of us speaks immediately, the implications hanging heavy between us.

Tomorrow means descent. Returning to Angel's Peak. To separate rooms, separate lives. To the article I came to write, and the mountain he never leaves.

"We should eat something." Jackson's voice breaks the silence, practical concerns reasserting themselves. "Conserve strength for tomorrow."

"Right." The word tastes hollow as I disentangle myself from his warmth, immediately missing the connection.

We dress in silence, the easy intimacy of moments before replaced by something more complicated. Not regret—at least not on my part. But there’s no way to avoid our impending separation.

This must end.

Jackson moves to the woodstove, heating a can of stew. His back presents an unreadable canvas, muscles shifting beneath his thermal shirt.

"So." My voice breaks the growing silence. "Tomorrow."

"Looks like it." He doesn't turn; he focuses on the simple task before him.

"Back to reality."

"Back to your article." Now he glances over his shoulder, expression carefully neutral. "Got what you needed?"

"For the article? More than enough." The question carries double meaning, intentional or not. "With you…not nearly."

He nods once, returning his attention to our meal.

His silence reveals nothing of his thoughts regarding what transpired between us—whether it was merely stress relief or something more significant. Pride prevents me from asking outright, from appearing to need reassurance that what we shared mattered.

I can’t because we agreed upfront. This was never meant to last.

We eat in relative silence, with occasional comments about practical matters—the descent path, weather considerations, and the estimated time to reach the town. Conversation that carefully avoids addressing the shift in our relationship and the uncertain territory ahead.

Night falls early, hastened by storm clouds still lingering above. The shelter grows colder with sunset, necessitating closer proximity around the woodstove once more.

Jackson arranges blankets near the heat source, and our sleeping area from the previous night is now laden with new significance. When he holds the blanket open in invitation, I join him without hesitation, our bodies fitting together with newly familiar ease.

His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest. My head finds its place naturally beneath his chin, ear pressed to his steady heartbeat.

"Jackson?" My voice emerges softly in the darkness.

"Hm?" The sound rumbles through his chest against my cheek.

"What happens when we reach town?"

The question hangs between us, unavoidable now. His breathing changes slightly, the only indication that the query affects him.

"You leave and write your article." His voice reveals nothing.

"And you?"

"I stay. Guide. Rescue foolish writers who ignore storm warnings."

The attempt at lightness falls flat, inadequate against the weight of what's developed between us. My fingers curl against his chest, seeking anchorage against the approaching separation.

"That's it?" The words emerge more vulnerable than intended.

"We agreed." Jackson's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "What else can there be?"

No answer presents itself—not one that doesn't sound naive or desperate. We exist in different worlds, our lives running on tracks that were never meant to converge beyond this temporary intersection.

“Nothing, I guess.” The words taste like ash. I don’t meet his eyes. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll crumble.

"We knew this going in." His arms tighten. Just a fraction. Just enough to betray him.

Silence stretches between us, taut as a wire, humming with everything we’re trying not to say. We’re pretending the world won’t crack open in the morning. That goodbye won’t taste like blood.

But I can’t leave it like this.

I shift. Slowly. Carefully. Letting the sheet fall away as I rise above him, straddle his hips, thighs framing the solid warmth of his body.

His breath catches, eyes locking with mine. No words. No resistance. Just the quiet throb of disbelief as I reach down and guide him inside me.

There’s no rush.

I sink onto him with aching precision, the stretch familiar now. Welcome. My palms settle on his chest. His hands grasp my hips, but there’s no force behind the grip—just reverence. His eyes never leave mine.

I start to move. Slow. Purposeful. Rolling my hips in languid circles, chasing something deeper than climax. Etching the memory of him into my body, one stroke at a time.

Jackson’s throat works around a groan, eyes dark with something unspoken. He holds me as if I might vanish. Like I’m already a ghost he’s trying to memorize.

My fingers trace the curve of his jaw, the scar just beneath his bottom lip. I lean down, kiss the hollow of his throat. Taste the salt of our sweat. Hear the stutter in his breath when I clench around him.

“I don’t want to let this go,” I whisper against his skin.

He slides one hand up my spine, holds me there, forehead against mine, breath mingling as I move—gentle now, deep and steady, like a promise neither of us dares to make out loud.

"Neither do I."

The storm still rages outside. But in here, it’s all hush and heat. The quiet rhythm of two people clinging to a lie they both want to rewrite.

And when I fall, I do it with my eyes open. Watching his face. Feeling every inch of him as he follows me over the edge, gasping my name like it means more than either of us will admit.

After, I stay on top of him. His arms curl around me, drawing me down until our hearts beat against each other’s chests. Slower now. But not steadier.

Just before sleep pulls me under, his lips find my ear.

“I wish things were different.”

This time, I believe him, but I also know that it doesn’t change a damn thing.

The confession lingers in the darkness, offering no solutions but acknowledging what neither can deny—that something significant has ignited between us, something neither expected nor sought, yet neither can dismiss as mere physical release.

Tomorrow, we descend the mountain, leaving behind not just this shelter but also the secluded world we created—a world where two damaged people found unexpected healing in each other's arms, where past traumas momentarily receded, where connection transcended boundaries of sensibility and circumstance.

Tomorrow, reality awaits. But tonight, we burn in the darkness, clinging to fantasies we know won’t survive beyond these stone walls.