Page 6

Chapter 6

Mountain Morning

I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains and the solid weight of an arm draped across my waist. For a moment, I'm disoriented, my brain struggling to reconcile the rustic wooden beams above me with my sleek Denver apartment.

Then Cole shifts beside me, his warmth pressed along the length of my back, and memories of last night flood through me in a heated rush.

The elevator ride to my room, his mouth never leaving mine. The door barely closed before clothes were discarded. His body, even more magnificent than I imagined, moving over mine. Claiming me. His voice, rough with desire, telling me exactly what he wanted to do to me—and then doing it with devastating precision.

I flush at the recollection of how completely I surrendered, how eagerly I followed his commands. I've never experienced anything like it—the freedom that came with letting go, with putting myself entirely in his capable hands.

"I can hear you thinking," Cole murmurs, his voice morning-rough against my ear. His arm tightens around me, pulling me more firmly against him. "Having regrets, Dr. Carrington?"

I turn in his embrace to face him, drinking in the sight of him in the morning light. His hair is tousled from sleep, and my fingers, stubble darkening his jaw, eyes still heavy-lidded. He looks different somehow—more brutally handsome—and the intimacy of waking together softens the intensity I associate with him.

"No regrets," I assure him, tracing the line of his collarbone with one finger. "Just... processing."

"Processing what, exactly?" He captures my wandering hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that sends a shiver of remembered pleasure through me.

"Surrendering control." I consider how to explain the tangle of thoughts and feelings his touch has awakened in me. "I'm not like that."

"And yet you surrendered beautifully." His eyes darken with remembered heat. "For me."

"Yes. For you," I agree softly.

He shifts, propping himself on one elbow to look down at me more directly. His free hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip in a gesture that's already become familiar.

"Does that bother you?"

I consider the question honestly. Does it bother me that this man I barely know unearthed a side of myself I don’t recognize? That he commanded my body with an authority I've never permitted anyone before?

"No," I realize with some surprise. "It doesn't bother me at all. It... excites me."

His slow smile is equal parts tenderness and masculine satisfaction. "Good. Because watching you let go, seeing you trust me enough to surrender—" He shakes his head as if words are inadequate. "It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words, something that feels dangerously like more than physical attraction or the afterglow of exceptional sex.

Before I can examine the feeling too closely, Cole's mouth finds mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his body shifting to cover mine. I open to him willingly, arms winding around his neck as his weight settles perfectly between my thighs.

“Good morning,” he murmurs against my lips, his arousal pressing hard against my hip.

“Good morning, Sir ,” I whisper back, voice breathy but sure—an offering and a challenge wrapped in one.

He stills for a beat. Then lifts his head, eyes locking onto mine with that slow-burning intensity that makes my pulse skip.

“Say that again.”

“Good morning, Sir.” My lips part, heat blooming in my cheeks.

The shift in him is instant. The lazy affection of waking together tightens into something darker, more deliberate.

“Arms above your head,” he orders, voice low but firm. “Now.”

I obey without hesitation, stretching out beneath him, the sheets cool against my bare skin as my wrists fall into place above the pillows.

His eyes rake over me with open hunger, satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth like he’s admiring a masterpiece he fully intends to wreck.

“That’s better.”

He traces a line down my throat, slow and claiming, before leaning in to whisper against my skin.

“Let’s see how deep your trust goes, sweetheart.”

His mouth returns to my breast, tongue circling before he sucks hard enough to make me gasp.

“Keep those hands where they are,” he growls. “You move them without permission. You don’t get to come.”

The words strike like a match against already-burning skin.

I lie beneath him, exposed and trembling, arms pinned above my head by my own obedience. The air between us tightens, heavy with expectation. With control.

With power—his, not mine.

Cole watches me like a man on the edge of restraint, eyes raking over my body as though he’s memorizing every inch he owns. He shifts lower, mouth hot and unrelenting against my breast, then he trails kisses down my ribcage, each one sharper, wetter, rougher than the last. There’s no pretense of gentleness now—only hunger.

Possession.

Command.

He lifts off me only long enough to flip me. One hard motion, and I’m on my stomach, breath stolen from my lungs as the mattress dips beneath his weight.

“Stay there,” he growls, pressing his hand between my shoulder blades to keep me down. The dominance in his voice isn’t playful—it’s absolute.

His other hand slides down the length of my back, fingers following the curve of my spine before gripping my hip, dragging me back into alignment with him.

He doesn’t ask. He takes.

“This is all mine now,” he mutters, voice rough and full of wicked reverence.

He rocks against me, his arousal an unspoken promise—hard, relentless, and utterly in control.

When he presses forward, I gasp into the sheets. It’s deeper like this. Rougher. Every movement slams into me with intent, with force, and with the kind of dominance that sears itself into my memory.

“Take it,” he snarls. “Take everything I give you.”

I do. Because I want it. I want him. All of him.

And he doesn’t hold back.

He pulls me up by the shoulders, chest against my back, hand threading into my hair to keep my head tilted where he wants it.

“Look at you,” he breathes into my ear. “My cock buried in your pussy. You were made for this." He pulls out and then slams forward, making me gasp. "For me.”

I cry out—raw, aching. Not in pain, but in surrender.

And still, he doesn’t relent. He shifts again, manhandling me onto my back, dragging my body to the edge of the bed like it’s nothing, his mouth claiming mine in a brutal, consuming kiss that tastes like fire and freedom.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands between kisses.

“You,” I gasp. “I belong to you.”

“Say it right.”

I lock eyes with him. Let him see what he’s done to me.

“I belong to you, Sir.”

That breaks him.

He drives into me again, deeper, rougher, every thrust a declaration, a marking of territory until the only sounds in the room are gasps, groans, and the desperate rhythm of bodies colliding.

My arms strain. My back arches. My vision blurs.

“You take me so well,” he growls, voice ragged. “Like you were made for me.”

I shatter for him. Again. And again.

And when he finally falls with me, body pressed full-length to mine, breath ragged in my ear, I feel the shift. The rawness between us has morphed into something else.

Something dangerous. Something real.

Something that feels like more .

The day disappears in shadows and sweat, time unraveling in the hush of my room, in the rough cadence of our breath, in the endless press of skin on skin.

Cole doesn’t relent.

He claims me in every way a man can—on the bed, against the wall, under the steaming spray of the shower, where his hands slide over slick skin and whispered orders melt into moans.

He introduces restraints with quiet authority, tethering me to his will, his rhythm.

A blindfold follows—the velvet darkness heightens every sound and sensation, making me tremble before he even touches me.

Sometimes, he takes me slowly, with reverent patience that leaves me aching for more.

Sometimes, he’s ruthless, his voice the only thing anchoring me, calling me back from the edge again and again.

When I think I have nothing left to give, he shows me I’ve only just begun to yield to him.

Outside, the sky shifts from the brilliant blue of day to starry midnight black. We spend the entire day in the room—and the night that follows—lost in sweat and shadows, tangled sheets and whispered sins.

On Sunday, I wake to the dusky gray just before dawn, my body beautifully bruised and thoroughly used.

He touches me like a man claiming something. Again. And again. Until all that’s left of me is heat and obedience.

Now, I kneel between his legs, muscles sore, mind blissfully empty.

He sits at the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweat-slicked, gloriously unhurried. One hand wraps around the base of his cock. The other sinks into my hair, gripping tight.

He guides me down onto his cock with slow, deliberate pressure. I follow without hesitation.

Not because he forces me.

Because every cell in my body aches to please him.

He watches me with half-lidded eyes. A king on his throne.

I’ve never felt more wrecked. Or more willing.

His voice is rough silk, frayed and filthy.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over my cheekbone, tender in contrast to the relentless grip in my hair. “On your knees for me. My cock in your mouth. God, you’re stunning.”

I would answer if I could, but the only sound I manage is a soft whimper, needy and reverent.

Then—

The shrill cry of my phone slices through the moment.

Cole stills, his whole body going tense. A low, guttural groan escapes through clenched teeth.

“Tell me that’s not your phone.”

I freeze, shame and frustration crashing over me in the same wave. My body still humming from the power of his touch, from serving him, but reality has to ruin the moment.

My forehead drops to his thigh, and I breathe through the ache—both physical and emotional.

“I have to check,” I whisper. “It could be an emergency.”

He doesn’t move for a beat. Then, with a sigh that’s half restraint, half resignation, he loosens his grip in my hair and gently nudges me back.

“Go ahead,” he says, rolling away to give me space.

I reach blindly for the nightstand, fingers closing around my phone. The screen blinks with a name I can’t ignore.

“It’s the hospital,” I murmur, dread knotting in my stomach. Responsibility wraps around me like a second skin, even as the warmth of him lingers on my tongue.

I swipe to answer.

“Tess, thank God,” comes Dr. Patel’s tense voice. “We’ve got a situation. Major pileup on I-70. Multiple trauma victims, two with complex vascular injuries—my cases—but I’m stuck in Chicago. Canceled flight.”

As he talks, I feel the shift. My mind sharpens. My body resets. Adrenaline replacing arousal.

Back in the world. Back in the work.

“They’re stable for now,” he finishes, “but we need you. No one else has your experience with this type of injury pattern.”

I glance at Cole. He’s already watching me, calm but knowing.

He already knows what I’m about to say.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I reply. “Four hours. Less if traffic cooperates.”

“Thank you. OR team’s prepping for your arrival.”

The call ends. Silence stretches for a heartbeat. Then Cole is already moving, gathering my clothes with a quiet efficiency that tells me he’s been in situations like this too many times to waste breath on protest.

“You have to go.”

“I do.”

I run a hand through my tangled hair, already calculating routes, ETA, and possible surgical plans.

“Vascular trauma. Patel’s stuck. I’m the fallback.”

Cole nods, handing me my jeans, like we’re suiting up for battle in separate wars. “How long will the surgery take?”

“Five or six hours minimum. Could be longer.”

“So you won’t be back.”

The regret in his voice cuts deeper than I expect.

“No.”

I stand, reaching for my bra, but pause. Something twists in my chest—not guilt. Not exactly. It’s something sharper. Something that feels like loss before it even has a chance to become anything more.

He watches me quietly.

“I’ll make you coffee.” He reaches for his jeans. “You shouldn’t drive back to Denver on an empty stomach.”

I step toward him and press a hand to his chest, halting him mid-motion.

“I don’t need coffee,” I murmur, eyes locked on his. “And there’s still time… for this.”

My gaze drops deliberately to the thick line of his arousal straining behind his jeans.

Then I look up again. Open. Unashamed.

“You started something,” I whisper, lips parted, voice laced with reverence and hunger. “Use me.” A breath. A heartbeat. “Let me serve you. One last time… before I go.”

His breath hitches. His entire body goes still—like he’s afraid to move and break the spell. The silence between us tightens.

His jaw flexes.

And just like that—his control snaps into place, sharp and absolute.

His hand finds my hair. The other brushes the curve of my jaw.

“On your knees, sweetheart.” His eyes go dark. Lethal. Possessive.

And I drop to my knees.

His hand slides into my hair, curling tight—not painful, but commanding. Grounding. His hips shift forward, pressing against my mouth in silent expectation. The look he gives me steals my breath.

“Open for me, sweetheart.” His voice is velvet-wrapped sin. "Take me deep."

And I do.

Lips parting. Heart racing.

Knees pressed to the hardwood.

Every nerve alive and aching for him.

I take him slowly, deliberately, tongue tracing the length of him as he groans low and curses under his breath.

“Fuck… Tess.”

I hollow my cheeks, watching the effect I have on him—the way his breath stutters, his thighs tense, his control frays with every stroke.

For the first time all morning… He’s the one unraveling.