Page 5 of Silent Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #4)

five

Dawn

Three days in this cabin, and I'm seeing everything differently. Myself included.

The generator is running again, but we're conserving power, keeping most lights off, using the woodstove for heat. The radio says the roads might be cleared tomorrow if the weather holds.

Tomorrow. The word sits heavily in my chest.

Gunnar is outside, clearing paths around the cabin. I watch him through the window, the efficient movement of his body as he shovels snow, the steam of his breath in the cold air. I've stopped filling every silence with chatter. Stopped performing for an audience that isn't here.

When he comes back inside, cheeks reddened from cold, I have coffee waiting. He nods his thanks, our fingers brushing as I hand him the mug. These small touches have become frequent, each one sending a current of awareness through me.

"Storm's letting up," I say, looking out at the clearer sky.

He nods, something unreadable crossing his face.

"The plow will probably make it through tomorrow," I continue, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Another nod, his eyes dropping to his coffee.

"I should check my equipment, make sure everything's dry for when I head back." The words feel wrong in my mouth, hollow.

Gunnar reaches for his notebook, writes quickly.

Need help?

"No, but thank you." I hesitate, then add, "I don't have many good shots from this trip. My followers will be disappointed."

He studies me, then writes again.

What about the ones from yesterday?

"Those weren't for them," I admit quietly. "Those were for me."

Something softens in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of a truth I'm just beginning to acknowledge.

As evening approaches, the temperature drops dramatically.

The weather report on the small radio mentions that Silver Ridge is experiencing record lows, warning residents to stay indoors.

The announcer briefly mentions the upcoming Christmas tree lighting ceremony in the town square, scheduled for the weekend if weather permits.

"Weather report says it's going to be the coldest night yet," I say, hugging myself as I come in from checking the thermometer outside. "Fifteen below zero."

Gunnar frowns, concern evident. He adds more wood to the stove, then writes:

Sleep by fire again. Safer.

I nod, already helping to arrange blankets and cushions. We work in tandem now, anticipating each other's movements, passing items without needing to ask. Three days of shared space has created an unexpected synchronicity between us.

Once our sleeping area is prepared, we sit side by side on the floor, backs against the couch, watching the flames. The quiet between us is comfortable, no longer something I feel compelled to fill.

"I've been thinking," I say finally, "about what happens after the roads clear."

Gunnar turns to look at me, waiting.

"I don't want to go back to what I was doing before." The admission surprises me even as I say it. "The constant posting, the performative happiness, the endless cycle of sponsors and content."

He reaches for his notebook.

What do you want?

Such a simple question. So difficult to answer. "Peace, maybe. Space to remember why I started taking pictures in the first place. To see beauty, not just package it."

Like yesterday's photos.

"Yes," I nod. "Exactly like that." I look at him, really look at him—the strength in his features, the gentleness in his eyes that belies his imposing presence. "You've shown me there's another way to live. To see."

He writes again, his expression intense.

You've reminded me what connection feels like.

The words make my breath catch. I watch his face in the firelight, the play of shadows across his features, the way his eyes hold mine, unwavering.

"Gunnar," I ask softly, "do you ever wish you could speak more easily?"

His pen hovers over the paper. Finally, he writes:

Only when it matters.

"And what matters?" I echo his words from last night.

He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his gaze. Then, in a voice rough from disuse but surprisingly deep, he says, "This."

The single word hangs in the air between us, monumental in its simplicity. His actual voice, given to me like a gift.

I can't help myself—I reach up, touching his face, my fingers brushing against his beard. "This matters to me too," I whisper.

The moment stretches, taut with possibility. Then he's leaning forward, or I am—I'm not sure who moves first—and his lips find mine in the firelight.

The kiss is gentle at first, questioning, but quickly deepens into something more urgent. His hands frame my face, large and warm, as though I'm something precious. I press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, drawing him nearer.

When we break apart, both breathing hard, his eyes have darkened with desire. No words are needed. I take his hand and guide it to the hem of my borrowed sweater, an invitation.

His touch is careful but confident as he slips his hand underneath, warm against my skin. I shiver, not from cold but from the electricity of his fingers tracing my ribs, the curve of my waist.

I tug at his shirt, wanting to see him, all of him. He hesitates only briefly before pulling it over his head, revealing what I'd only glimpsed before—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles defined from physical labor rather than a gym.

And the tattoo—not just on his arm but extending across his chest, tribal patterns in black ink that emphasize his strength. In the firelight, the design seems almost alive, shifting with each breath he takes.

"You're amazing," I whisper, reaching out to trace the lines of ink across his skin.

He doesn't respond with words, but his eyes tell me everything—desire, vulnerability, need. His hands move to my sweater again, this time lifting it away completely. The cool air makes me gasp, but then his hands are warming me, exploring the curves he uncovers with reverent attention.

His single spoken word—"This"—ignites something primal between us. The kiss that follows isn't gentle or questioning. It's desperate, hungry, months of his silence and days of our tension exploding into raw need.

I climb onto his lap, straddling him, my hands tangling in his hair as his grip tightens on my waist. His mouth moves from my lips to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, drawing a gasp from deep in my throat.

"I need to see you," I whisper, tugging at his shirt.

He lifts his arms, allowing me to pull the fabric over his head, revealing what I've only glimpsed before—a torso carved from hard labor.

The tribal tattoos are even more extensive than I imagined, black geometric patterns flowing across his broad chest, wrapping around his shoulders, accentuating the power in his body.

In the firelight, they seem to pulse with each heavy breath he takes.

"God, look at you," I breathe, running my fingers over the intricate designs, feeling his muscles jump beneath my touch.

His eyes are dark, hungry, as he pulls my sweater off in one fluid motion.

His sharp intake of breath as he sees me bare from the waist up sends heat rushing through me.

His large hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I'm arching into his touch, grinding against the hard length I can feel straining against his jeans.

"Gunnar," I moan as his mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue circling one nipple then the other, teeth scraping gently in a way that makes me shudder. "Please..."

He stands suddenly, lifting me with him as if I weigh nothing, my legs wrapped around his waist. He lays me on the blankets by the fire, his body covering mine as he works at the button of my jeans.

I lift my hips, helping him slide them down along with my underwear, leaving me completely naked beneath him.

His eyes devour me, taking in every inch as he kneels between my spread thighs. The contrast is intoxicating—me completely bare, him still half-clothed, the power dynamic making me wetter than I've ever been.

He helps me, shucking his jeans and boxer briefs in one movement. When he's finally naked, I can't help the moan that escapes me. He's magnificent—thick and long and already glistening at the tip. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his jaw clench with restraint.

"I've been thinking about this since I first saw you," I confess, my thumb circling the sensitive head, spreading the moisture gathered there. "How you would feel inside me."

A growl rumbles from his chest as he covers my body with his again, his weight pressing me into the blankets.

His hand slides between us, fingers finding me slick and ready, exploring with devastating precision.

When he pushes two thick fingers inside me, curling them just right, I cry out, hips bucking against his hand.

"Yes," I gasp as his thumb circles my clit, his fingers working me open. "Right there."

He watches my face with fierce concentration, reading my reactions, learning my body with the same intensity he applies to everything. When he adds a third finger, stretching me in preparation, I'm trembling, right on the edge.

"Now," I demand, pulling him closer. "I need you inside me."

He positions himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. For a moment, he hesitates, his eyes searching mine one last time.

"Please," I whisper, wrapping my legs around his hips, digging my heels into his firm ass to draw him closer.

"Dawn." My name in his deep voice sends a shiver through me, more powerful than any touch.

Then he pushes forward, entering me in one long, deliberate stroke that has me crying out, my body stretching to accommodate his size. He stills when he's fully seated, allowing me to adjust, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling.

The moment he begins to move, I'm lost. Each thrust is perfectly angled, hitting spots inside me I didn't know existed. I cling to him, nails raking down his back, leaving marks I hope will still be there tomorrow.

"Harder," I beg, and he complies, his control slipping as he drives into me with increasing force.

The tribal tattoos on his chest seem to dance in the firelight, muscles flexing with each powerful thrust. I trace them with my tongue, tasting the salt of his skin, biting at the juncture where neck meets shoulder.

My bite breaks something in him—his measured pace falters, becoming rougher, more primal. He hooks one arm under my knee, lifting my leg higher, changing the angle until I'm seeing stars with each thrust. His other hand slides between us, finding my clit, circling it in time with his movements.

"Don't stop," I plead, feeling my orgasm building. "I'm so close."

He doesn't stop. Instead, he drives into me harder, deeper, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that's almost unbearable. When he speaks again, "Come for me", the unexpectedness of his command pushes me over the edge. His voice is so raw, so deep, better than anything I’ve ever heard.

My orgasm hits like a tidal wave, my entire body convulsing around him as pleasure crashes through me in relentless pulses. I cry out his name, over and over, as waves of ecstasy leave me trembling, gasping.

“Dawn,” he groans. He follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he thrusts once, twice more before burying himself to the hilt. I feel him pulsing inside me, his powerful body shuddering as he finds his release with a guttural groan.

We collapse together, sweat-slicked and panting, his weight a delicious pressure pinning me to the floor. As our breathing slows, he rolls to the side, pulling me against him, my head on his chest, his heartbeat thundering under my ear.

We lie tangled together for long minutes, neither wanting to break the spell. Eventually, he shifts, looking down at me with an expression that makes my heart stutter.

"Again," he says, his voice stronger now, more confident. His throat bobs as he talks. It's not a question. “Please.”

I smile, sliding my hand down his chest, feeling him already hardening against my thigh. “As much as you like, my quiet mountain man.”