Page 11 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

Instead, I yank his zipper down, fingers trembling with urgency as I push beneath layers chilled from the storm.

My palms meet the hard heat of his stomach, skin taut and burning beneath the cold fabric.

It grounds me and ignites me all at once.

His breath hitches, and then his hands seize my hips, dragging me forward.

One slides lower, gripping my ass with a roughness that sends sparks through my spine.

The pressure of his touch is bruising, primal, and I lean into it—into him—chasing that bite of pain laced with pleasure that anchors me to the moment.

Clothes are pushed fast—tugged, twisted, half-caught on boots and belts. Every movement is a clash of need and urgency, skin chasing heat, breath staggering.

He pulls back, dragging in a breath, teeth clenched like restraint hurts. “Tested. Clean. Last partner—months ago.”

My voice comes out rough. “Same. Birth control’s covered.”

The words fall jagged between us, not romance, not caution—just survival honesty before we burn the rest away.

Caution crumbles under the weight of hunger and urgent need.

Hands tremble as they work through stubborn zippers and frost-stiffened layers, tearing away every barrier until there’s nothing left between us but heat and the storm screaming beyond the shed walls.

Jackets fall in a heap, gloves flung aside, breath misting the space between our mouths.

My spine meets the rough wall, cold and unyielding, while my fingers hook into his belt loops, dragging him closer. The soles of my boots slip against the icy floor, grounding me only by the anchor of his body pressed hard against mine, the raw edge of desperation sharpening every frantic touch.

When he thrusts into me, it’s with raw urgency—no hesitation, no restraint—just a brutal collision that rips thought away and claims every nerve. It’s not slow, not sweet—it’s the brutal truth of what we’ve both been denying, all-consuming and impossible to outrun.

My cry breaks against his shoulder, swallowed by the heat of his skin and the ragged pitch of my breath.

His growl rumbles low and deep, a sound I feel more than hear, vibrating through my chest like a strike of thunder.

He pounds harder—each thrust primal, relentless, tearing through hesitation and drilling into my core.

It doesn’t just steal my breath; it strips pieces I swore I’d never give.

There’s no space for words, only the raw, reckless need that propels us into each other like gravity’s final demand.

Heat explodes where we touch—hip to hip, chest to chest—like a fuse finally sparking after being stretched too tight for too long.

It’s not surrender; it’s detonation. A collision of months of unspoken want, and the sudden, helpless realization that nothing can hold it back now.

And when it hits—when I shatter—it’s not release but eruption, blistering heat ripping through me with a cry I can’t contain.

My spine arches, nerves blazing, breath breaking on a sob ripped from someplace deeper than my throat.

Tremors roll through me in aftershocks, unstoppable.

For a heartbeat, everything disappears—no thought, no fear, just blinding sensation and the wild, unraveling fall that leaves me gasping, legs weak and useless beneath me.

After, I pull away first, muscles still quaking from the aftershocks. The rush hasn’t settled, but the weight of it already anchors in my chest—dangerous, undeniable. This wasn’t just release. It was a line crossed that can’t be uncrossed.

My skin tingles, over sensitized, and the ghost of his hands still lingers everywhere he touched.

For a moment, I just breathe, trying to steady the chaos roaring under my ribs.

Then I start gathering my clothes with frantic precision, as if layering them back on fast enough could muffle the echo of what we just unleashed.

My fingers fumble at the fabric, each motion sharper than it needs to be.

I can’t meet his eyes yet. I need the barrier.

Something to hold back the tide of confusion, guilt, and the terrifying pull that still claws at me even now.

He steps forward, closing the space I tried to reclaim, tucking himself back into his jeans with a flick of his wrist. His body radiates a heat that skims over my skin, grounding and inescapable.

There’s nothing casual in his stance—he’s solid, deliberate, the kind of quiet force that doesn’t need to raise its voice to be obeyed.

The air around him seems to hum, thick with intent, and my instincts flare in protest even as something deeper anchors me in place, unable to look away.

"Don’t do that," he says. Voice low. Steady. "Don’t pretend this didn’t happen. It did, and it’s not going to go away.”

I meet his eyes. Sweat clings to the ends of his dark hair, his chest rising in ragged pulls that mirror my own.

But it’s his gaze that holds me—steady, intense, anchored in something deeper than dominance.

Not angry. Not claiming. Just... deliberate.

As if he's already made up his mind about us, and he's waiting for me to catch up.

"I’m not built for this," I say, quieter than I mean to.

"Then we’ll rebuild. Together."

His hand finds mine—not tentative, not demanding, just solid—our fingers locking with quiet finality.

The warmth of his palm bleeds into my chilled skin, steadying the tremble I didn’t know I still carried.

The press of his thumb strokes over the back of my hand, slow and deliberate, and something inside me shivers—not from cold, but from the dangerous, aching pull of hope.

Outside, the storm claws at the world, tearing branches and covering tracks. If they’re out there, they’ll hear nothing but the wind. But inside, something louder has already broken loose—heat and gravity we can’t take back, a fire more dangerous than the cold pressing at the walls.