Page 4

four

Beau

She's wearing my shirt and nothing else. The knowledge burns in my gut like I've swallowed live coals. Three days she's been here, recovering her strength, and each hour is another turn of a screw in my chest. I've given her space—as much as possible in a one-room cabin. I've been careful. Respectful. But there's only so much a man can take, and watching her pad across the wooden floor, my flannel hanging to mid-thigh, those long legs bare and perfect in the firelight—Christ, I'm only human.

I grip the edge of the table, wood creaking under my fingers. She doesn't notice, busy examining the books on my shelf. Her hair has dried fully now, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. The firelight catches copper highlights I hadn't noticed before. Everything about her glows—her skin, her eyes, the curve of her calf as she rises on tiptoe to reach a higher shelf.

My throat tightens. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the howl of the wind outside. The storm hasn't let up, trapping us here together. A cruel joke or a gift, I can't decide which.

"You have so many books," she says, glancing over her shoulder at me. "I wouldn't have guessed."

Her voice is soft, with a slight rasp that makes my skin tighten. What wouldn't she have guessed? That a man who lives alone in the mountains would read? That someone who looks like me would have a library?

"Winters are long up here," I answer, voice rougher than I intend. "Books help pass the time."

She pulls one from the shelf—a collection of Frost's poetry I've read so many times the spine is cracked and pages dog-eared. Her fingers trace the cover with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.

"This one's well-loved," she says.

"It reminds me why I'm here."

She looks up, curious. "Which poem?"

"'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.'"

A smile touches her lips. "The one about promises to keep? Miles to go before you sleep?"

I nod, pleased she knows it. She opens the book, flipping through pages until she finds what she's looking for. Then she reads aloud, voice soft and melodic in the cabin's hushed atmosphere.

"'The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep...'" She pauses, looks up at me with those wide, clear eyes. "What promises are you keeping out here, Beau?"

The question slices through my defenses. No one has spoken my name in so long. No one has looked at me and seen a person, not just a threat or a tool. No one has asked me about promises.

Something inside me fractures.

I'm across the room before I realize I've moved, standing so close to her I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, count the freckles scattered across her nose. She inhales sharply but doesn't back away. The book dangles forgotten from her fingers.

"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answers to, little dove," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains. "What if I do want the answers?"

That's it. The last thread of my restraint snaps.

I take the book from her fingers, toss it aside. One hand cups the back of her head, the other her waist, and I pull her against me as my mouth crashes down on hers.

The kiss is hard, desperate, years of isolation and want pouring out of me at once. I expect her to push me away, to stiffen in shock. Instead, she makes a small, surprised sound against my lips before melting into me, her hands sliding up my chest to curl around my shoulders.

Christ, she's soft. Everywhere my hands touch—her waist, her hair, the fragile curve of her neck—I find nothing but yielding warmth. Her mouth opens beneath mine, inexperienced but eager, and I groan at the first brush of her tongue against mine.

I back her against the bookshelf, pinning her with my body. One of my legs slides between hers, and I swallow her gasp as my thigh presses against her core. Even through my jeans, I can feel her heat. My hand slides from her waist to her hip, then lower, finding the hem of my shirt and slipping underneath to touch bare skin.

She trembles at the contact, a full-body shiver I feel everywhere we're connected. Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt. I should slow down. I should give her a chance to breathe, to think, to stop this if she wants to.

But then she whispers my name against my lips, and rational thought dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.

I lift her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs, and she instinctively wraps her legs around my waist. The position presses her center directly against the hard ridge of my erection, and we both groan at the contact. I carry her to the bed, never breaking the kiss, laying her down with more care than I thought possible in my current state.

Hovering over her, I finally pull back enough to look at her face. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. She looks like every fantasy I've denied myself for years. But there's something else in her expression—nervousness, uncertainty.

"We can stop," I force myself to say, though it might kill me. "If you don't want this?—"

"I do," she cuts me off, reaching up to touch my face. Her fingers trace the scar at the corner of my mouth with a tenderness that makes my chest constrict. "I do want this. I just... I've never..."

The implication hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath. "You're a virgin?"

She nods, that blush deepening. "Is that...is that a problem?"

A problem? Christ. It's the opposite of a problem. It's a gift I don't deserve, a responsibility I should run from, and a primal satisfaction I can't deny.

"No," I say, voice dropping to a growl. "But you need to be sure, Lila. Because if we start this, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

Her eyes widen at my honesty, but instead of fear, I see a matching hunger ignite. "I don't want you to stop."

Something dangerous and possessive uncoils in my chest. I lower my head, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, "Let me be your first. Your only."

She shivers beneath me, a small sound escaping her that might be "yes" or might just be a sigh of surrender. Either way, I take it as permission and claim her mouth again, this time with more control, more purpose.

I worship her with my hands and mouth, learning her body inch by inch. The silk of her throat. The delicate wings of her collarbones. The perfect weight of her breasts in my palms, the way her nipples tighten at the brush of my thumbs. She's responsive to every touch, arching into my hands, gasping and whimpering as I discover what she likes.

When I unbutton the flannel she wears—my flannel, marked now with her scent—and spread it open to reveal her body, I have to take a moment just to look at her. She's all soft curves and smooth skin, a stark contrast to my own hard angles and battle scars. The firelight bathes her in gold, turning her into something otherworldly. A nymph. A dream.

"Beautiful," I murmur, and she tries to cover herself, suddenly shy. I catch her wrists, pin them gently above her head. "No. Let me see you. All of you."

Her breathing quickens, but she nods, surrendering to me. I release her wrists and continue my exploration, trailing kisses down her sternum, across the gentle swell of her belly, to the juncture of her thighs. When I settle between her legs, she tenses.

"Beau—"

"Trust me," I say, looking up the length of her body, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

She bites her lip, then nods again. I waste no time, burying my face between her thighs, tasting her for the first time. The flavor of her explodes across my tongue—sweet and tangy and perfect. Her hips buck at the first touch of my tongue, a sharp cry escaping her. I hold her hips down with one forearm, using my other hand to spread her open for my mouth.

I work her with my tongue and fingers, careful and thorough, building her slowly toward release. When she comes for the first time, it's with my name on her lips and her hands fisted in my hair, her thighs trembling around my ears. The sound she makes—half sob, half moan—nearly undoes me.

I crawl back up her body, stripping off my shirt as I go. Her hands immediately find my chest, exploring the muscles and scars with curious fingers. When she reaches for the button of my jeans, I catch her wrist.

"Are you sure?" I ask one more time, voice strained with the effort of control.

In answer, she pulls me down for a kiss, tasting herself on my lips without hesitation. "I'm sure," she whispers. "I want you, Beau. All of you."

Something inside me breaks open at her words. I strip off my remaining clothes, then position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance. She's wet and ready, but I know this will hurt her. The thought both agonizes and inflames me—the pain I'll cause, but also the knowledge that no man has touched her like this before. No one but me.

"Look at me," I command softly, and her eyes lock with mine. "Keep looking at me."

She nods, hands gripping my biceps. I push forward slowly, watching her face for any sign of too much discomfort. There's resistance, then a sudden giving way as I breach her completely. She gasps, eyes widening, nails digging into my arms. I freeze, buried to the hilt inside her, letting her adjust to the intrusion.

"Breathe," I murmur, pressing my forehead to hers. "Just breathe."

I hold still, though it's torture. She's tight and hot around me, her inner muscles clenching as she adjusts. After what feels like an eternity, she shifts beneath me, a tiny movement of her hips that tells me she's ready.

I begin to move, setting a slow, gentle rhythm that soon has her sighing and lifting her hips to meet mine. Her discomfort fades, replaced by pleasure I can read in every line of her body. I drink in the sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted, eyes half-closed in ecstasy.

Mine. The word pounds in my head with each thrust. Mine. Mine. Mine.

"You feel so good," I growl against her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin below her ear. "So perfect. So tight around me."

She moans in response, legs wrapping around my waist, changing the angle and taking me deeper. I increase the pace, unable to maintain the gentle rhythm as my control slips. She doesn't seem to mind, meeting me thrust for thrust, her nails raking down my back in a way that makes me hiss with pleasure-pain.

I reach between us, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her center, circling it with my thumb in time with my thrusts. Her inner muscles clench around me, her breathing turning to short, sharp pants.

"That's it," I encourage her, voice rough with exertion and need. "Come for me again, little dove. Let me feel you."

She does, her climax washing over her in a wave I can feel rippling through her body. She cries out my name, back arching, and the sight of her coming undone is enough to send me over the edge with her. I bury myself deep one last time and let go, my release tearing through me with an intensity that leaves me shaking.

In the aftermath, I gather her close, pulling the quilt over our cooling bodies. She curls against me, head on my chest, one leg thrown over mine. I stroke her hair, marveling at the silky texture, the way it slides through my fingers like water.

"Are you okay?" I ask, voice gentle in the quiet cabin.

She nods against my chest, then tilts her face up to mine. Her eyes are sleepy, satisfied, but also wondering. "I've never felt anything like that before."

Pride surges through me, fierce and primitive. "Good."

She studies my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You called me yours," she says softly. "While we were... you said I was yours."

Did I say it aloud? I must have, in the heat of the moment. I consider lying, downplaying it. But the truth is etched too deeply in me now to deny.

"You are," I say simply. "From the moment I found you, you've been mine. I just didn't want to scare you with how quickly I knew it."

Instead of pulling away, she smiles—a small, secret curve of her lips that makes my heart stutter. "I think I might be," she whispers, and presses those smiling lips to my chest, right over my thundering heart.