nine
Sheryl
Two weeks have passed since he asked me to stay. Two weeks of settling into a rhythm together, of learning each other's habits and quirks, of finding a balance between his orderly nature and my creative chaos. Two weeks of falling deeper into something I never expected to find in these mountains.
I wake before him, watching him sleep. He stirs, eyes opening to find me watching him.
"Morning, voyeur," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"I prefer 'admirer,'" I counter, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw, enjoying the scratch of morning stubble against my fingertips. "You're ridiculously handsome when you sleep, you know."
"Only when I sleep?" He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm.
"Well, you're not bad the rest of the time either." I shift closer, drawn to his warmth like a moth to flame. "Especially when you're chopping wood. Or climbing. Or basically anytime you're using those muscles."
"So I'm just eye candy to you? And here I thought you liked me for my sparkling personality."
"That too," I concede with mock seriousness. "Though your sparkling personality is significantly less visible through a shirt."
In one swift movement, he pulls me on top of him, my body sprawled across his chest, our faces inches apart. "Is this better?"
"Much," I agree, leaning down to press my lips to his.
What begins as a gentle good morning kiss quickly deepens into something more urgent. His hands slide under my sleep shirt, palms warm against my skin as they travel up my sides to cup my breasts.
I gasp against his mouth as his thumbs brush over my nipples, the simple touch sending sparks of pleasure through my body.
"Alex," I breathe as his mouth moves to my neck.
"Hmm?" he hums against my skin.
I sit up, straddling his hips, feeling the hard length of him pressing against my core through the thin barriers of our sleep clothes.
The position gives me a perfect view of him—broad chest dusted with hair, the defined muscles of his torso, the intriguing trail leading down beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.
"I want to try something," I say, surprising myself with my boldness.
His eyes darken with interest. "I'm listening."
I bite my lower lip, suddenly shy despite everything we've shared. "I want to be on top."
His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing small circles over my hipbones. "Any particular reason?" he asks. Ths sudden fire in his eyes makes heat pool between my thighs.
I feel a blush rising to my cheeks. "It's my favorite position to write. I've described it dozens of times, imagined how it would feel, but I've never..."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something darker, more primal. "You want to ride me."
I blush deeper, but I nod. "Yes."
"Take off your shirt," he commands softly.
I cross my arms, grasping the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pulling it over my head in one fluid motion. The cool morning air pebbles my skin, though whether from the temperature or his heated gaze, I couldn't say.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts again, this time with nothing between his calloused palms and my sensitive skin. "Every inch of you."
I lean into his touch, arching my back slightly. In these past two weeks, he's helped me shed my self-consciousness.
"You're beautiful,too," I tell him honestly.
He looks slightly uncomfortable with the praise, as he always does. "Men aren't beautiful."
"You are," I insist, leaning down to press a kiss over his heart. "Accept the compliment, mountain man."
His laugh rumbles through his chest. "Yes, ma'am."
I continue my exploration, gaining confidence with each appreciative sound he makes. When my fingers reach the waistband of his boxer briefs, his erection springs free, thick and hard against his stomach. He’s so big and thick, just seeing him makes me wet.
I slide my panties off, now naked and straddling his thighs, completely exposed to his gaze.
"Perfect," he murmurs, his hands returning to my hips. "Now, come here."
He guides me forward until I'm positioned over him, his throbbing cockhead pressing against my pussy. I can feel how ready I am, slick and swollen with desire.
"Take your time," he tells me, his voice strained with the effort of remaining still. "Go as slow as you need."
I nod, grateful for his patience as I position myself properly. With one hand braced against his chest for balance, I use the other to guide his cock to my entrance. The first press of him against me draws a gasp from my lips.
"That's it," he encourages, his hands steady on my hips but not pushing. "Take what you need."
I sink down slowly, feeling the delicious stretch as my body accommodates his size. The stretch is more intense in this position. I can’t help but whimper as I slide down every inch until my pussy is flush with his pelvis.
"God, Sheryl," he groans, his fingers flexing against my skin. "You feel incredible."
I experiment with a small movement, lifting slightly before sinking back down. The sensation pulls a surprised moan from my throat. In this position, I can control the angle, the depth, and the pace. The power of that control is intoxicating.
"That's it," Alex encourages, his eyes fixed on my face. "Find your rhythm."
I begin to move more confidently, discovering what feels good, what makes his breath catch, and what makes my own pleasure build.
The freedom of movement is everything I imagined when writing these scenes and more—the roll of my hips, the flex of my thighs, the way his length hits spots inside me that send sparks of pleasure radiating outward.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, one hand moving from my hip to where we're joined, his thumb finding my clit. "So beautiful, taking me like this."
His touch amplifies every sensation, pushing me higher as I ride him with increasing confidence. I brace my hands on his chest, changing the angle slightly, and cry out at the new sensations the shift creates.
"There?" he asks, reading my reaction.
"Yes," I manage, voice breathy and unfamiliar. "Right there."
His hands guide my hips now, helping me maintain the angle that sends pleasure spiraling through me with each movement. The sizzling combination of his thumb circling my sensitive bud while his thickness presses against that perfect spot inside me quickly pushes me toward the edge.
"Alex," I gasp, movements becoming less coordinated as pleasure builds. "I'm close."
"Let go," he urges, his own voice rough with need. "Come on me while you ride me like a good girl."
His words, combined with a particularly perfect thrust, send me over the edge. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, my inner muscles clenching around him as I cry out his name. My entire body freezes then melts as the sensation crests and breaks.
Before I can fully recover, Alex sits up, wrapping one arm around my waist to hold me steady while the other hand tangles in my hair. The new position drives him even deeper, wringing a gasp from my overstimulated body.
"I need to be closer," he growls against my neck, his hips beginning to thrust upward to meet my downward movements.
The feeling of his chest pressed against mine, his mouth hot on my throat, the new angle hitting sensitive places that have me building toward another peak surprisingly quickly.
"You feel so good," I moan, clinging to his shoulders as he takes control of our rhythm. "So deep like this."
His only response is a feral groan against my skin, his movements becoming more urgent, more primal. I can feel the tension in his muscles, and the restraint he's still exercising despite his growing need.
"Alex," I whisper in his ear, echoing his earlier words. "I want to feel you lose control."
Something breaks in him at my permission.
His movements become more powerful, more insistent, driving up into me with a passion that borders on desperation.
Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure through my already sensitive body, building impossibly toward another release. He cries out with every thrust.
"Sheryl," he groans, his face buried in my neck. "I'm close." His rhythm falters, his arms tightening around me as he drives deep one final time. I feel the pulse of his release inside me, each hot spurt of his seed flooding into me.
In the aftermath, we remain connected, neither willing to break the intimacy of the moment.
His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
I feel boneless, liquid, utterly sated in a way I never imagined possible.
I kiss the top of his head before finally moving back to his side.
"So," he says after our breathing has returned to normal. "I take it research was successful?"
I laugh, poking his ribs gently. "Very. Though I might need multiple trials to ensure accuracy. For the book, of course."
"Of course," he agrees solemnly, though I can hear the smile in his voice. "Anything for literature."
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder, my hand resting over his heart.
"I should get up," I sigh eventually. "I've got three chapters to finish today if I'm going to meet my deadline."
"Motivated now?" he asks, a hint of masculine pride in his tone.
"Incredibly," I confirm. "Nothing like practical experience to fuel the creative process."
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Glad to be of service."
I make no move to leave, however, too comfortable in his embrace. "Five more minutes."
"Take all the time you need," he says softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
The simple statement carries more weight than its surface meaning. For a man who has spent five years holding everyone at arm's length, it's a declaration of sorts.
I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "Neither am I, you know. Going anywhere."
His expression softens. "Even when the book is finished?"
"Especially then," I assure him. "I've already talked to my agent about staying here. The publishers love what I've sent so far. Apparently nearly dying in a fire did wonders for my writing, and now they're offering a three-book deal."
Hope flickers in his eyes. "So you could stay in Darkmore? For a while?"
"For as long as you'll have me," I say, my heart pounding with the implied commitment.
Then, after a beat, Alex says the words that change everything. "I love you."
Three simple words that I've written countless times for my characters but have never heard directed at me with such quiet certainty.
"I love you too," I reply. "I think I have since you carried me out of that burning cabin." I pause, kissing him as I feel a spark of inspiration hit me again. “I just found the perfect ending to my story."
"Which is?"
I smile, heart full and certain in a way I've never experienced before. "The rescued becomes the rescuer. The protector learns to be vulnerable. And they both discover that the safest place to be is in each other's arms."
He pulls me closer, his expression a mixture of wonder and contentment. "That sounds like a happy ending."
"The best kind," I agree, settling back against him. "Though personally, I prefer to think of it as a beginning."
My beginning. My mountain man and me, writing our own love story one day at a time. And unlike the novels I create, this story has no final page, no predetermined conclusion. It simply continues, evolving and deepening with each chapter we add.
I couldn't imagine a more perfect plot.