Page 5

five

Lila

I wake up sore in places I've never been sore before, my body a map of sweet aches and tender spots. Beau's arm is heavy across my waist, his chest a furnace against my back. His breath stirs the hair at my nape, sending tiny shivers down my spine. I should feel trapped, pinned beneath the weight of him, but instead, I feel... anchored. Like I've been adrift my entire life, and his body is the first solid thing I've found to hold onto.

Light filters through the cabin's small windows, gray and dim—morning, but the storm still rages. The wind howls around the eaves, rain lashing against the glass, but in here, it's warm. Safe. I shift slightly, testing the various aches that pulse through my body. Between my thighs, there's a delicious soreness that makes heat bloom in my cheeks when I remember how it got there.

Last night. God, last night.

I've spent my whole life being careful. Sensible. The good girl who never took risks, who always colored inside the lines. Twenty-three years of measured steps and responsible choices. Then one storm, one cabin, one man with wild blue eyes, and suddenly I'm giving my virginity to a stranger who looks at me like he wants to consume me whole.

And I loved it.

That's the part that shocks me most. Not that I slept with him—that seems almost inevitable now, looking back. But how completely I surrendered to him. How I reveled in his size, his strength, the way he held me down and took what he wanted while somehow giving me everything I needed. The roughness of his hands, the gentleness in his eyes, the growl in his voice when he called me his.

His. The word should terrify me. Instead, it sends a tremor of pleasure through my core.

Behind me, Beau stirs. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. I feel him harden against the curve of my backside, a reflexive morning response, but it makes my breath catch nonetheless.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, voice sleep-rough and impossibly deep. "I can practically hear the wheels turning."

I smile despite myself. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

He nuzzles my neck, his beard scratching deliciously against my tender skin. "Mmmm. Best way to wake up."

His hand slides up from my waist to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple in a casual caress that's somehow more intimate than anything we did last night. His touch is possessive but gentle, like I'm something precious he's allowed to handle.

I turn in his arms to face him, needing to see his expression. In the gray morning light, his eyes are more slate than blue, heavy-lidded and soft with sleep. His hair is a mess, sticking up where I ran my fingers through it. There's a mark on his neck—a bruise I left with my mouth at some point in the night. The sight of it sends a thrill through me that's almost primitive.

"Hi," I whisper, suddenly shy despite everything we've done.

His mouth quirks up at one corner. "Hi yourself, little dove."

He leans in, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. His hand slides into my hair, cradling my skull as his tongue strokes against mine. I melt into him, my body responding instantly, as if it's already learned that his touch means pleasure.

When we part, I'm breathless. "The storm's still going."

"Good." His thumb traces my lower lip, eyes following the movement. It means I can’t leave yet.

But eventually, the storm will break, and I'll have to decide whether to go back to my life or...what? Stay here with a man I've known for days? Abandon everything for someone who lives completely off the grid?

It seems insane when I frame it that way. And yet, the thought of leaving fills me with a hollow ache I can't explain.

"What are you thinking about now?" he asks, studying my face with those too-perceptive eyes.

I consider lying, but something about him makes me want to be honest. "About leaving. When the storm breaks."

His expression darkens, a shadow passing over his features. His hand tightens in my hair, not painfully, but enough to show his displeasure at the thought.

"Don't," he says, voice low and rough. "Don't think about leaving. Just be here, with me, now."

Before I can respond, he's kissing me again, harder this time, his body rolling over mine to pin me to the mattress. The weight of him should be suffocating, but it's not. It's grounding. Real in a way few things in my life have ever been.

His knee pushes between my thighs, spreading them to make room for his hips. Despite my soreness, I open for him eagerly, a whimper escaping me as he presses against my center. He's fully hard now, the ridge of his erection rubbing against me through the thin barrier of the sheet.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," he murmurs against my throat, where he's trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses. "You'll be tender after last night."

The concern in his voice touches something in me, makes my chest tight. "I'm okay," I whisper, arching up against him. "Don't stop."

He groans, the sound vibrating against my skin. Then he's moving down my body, pushing the sheet aside, settling between my thighs. I know what he's about to do, but I'm still unprepared for the first touch of his tongue against my most sensitive flesh.

"Beau!" I gasp, hips jerking.

He chuckles, the vibration sending sparks through me. His large hands grip my thighs, holding me open and in place as he devours me with single-minded focus. It's overwhelming—the heat of his mouth, the rasp of his beard against my inner thighs, the intensity in his eyes as he watches my reactions.

I come apart embarrassingly quickly, my release crashing over me in waves that leave me trembling and breathless. He works me through it, gentling his touch as I become too sensitive, placing soft kisses on my thighs as I recover.

When he moves back up my body, his expression is one of pure male satisfaction. "Beautiful," he murmurs, brushing hair from my face. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you come."

Heat floods my cheeks, but I don't look away. Instead, I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around his length. His breath hisses through his teeth, eyes darkening. I stroke him tentatively, learning the feel of him, the way the skin slides over rigid hardness.

"Like this?" I ask, genuinely wanting to learn what pleases him.

"Christ, Lila," he groans, eyes closing briefly. "Just like that. But—" He catches my wrist, stilling my movement. "I want to be inside you."

I nod, spreading my thighs wider in invitation. He positions himself at my entrance, pressing forward slowly, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. There's some, a stretching burn that makes me wince slightly, but it's overshadowed by the pleasure of taking him deep.

He moves with careful restraint, each thrust measured and controlled. It's different from last night's passion—slower, more deliberate. His eyes never leave mine, creating an intimacy that's almost unbearable in its intensity. One of his hands cradles my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone as if I'm something precious.

"You're perfect," he whispers, voice strained with the effort of his control. "So perfect around me. Made for me."

His words send a fresh wave of heat through me. I lift my hips to meet his thrusts, wrapping my legs around his waist to take him deeper. The angle changes, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes my vision blur.

"There," I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Right there."

He growls his approval, adjusting to maintain the angle, increasing his pace slightly. "Come for me again, little dove. Let me feel you."

It's the endearment that does it—that simple, tender phrase in his rough voice. I shatter, crying out his name as pleasure washes through me. He follows moments later, his release triggering aftershocks of my own.

We lie tangled together afterward, his weight half on me, half on the bed, our breathing gradually slowing. His hand strokes lazy patterns on my hip, and I trace the lines of muscle in his shoulder, marveling at the contrast between us—his size, my smallness; his hardness, my softness.

"Why do you call me that?" I ask after a while. "Little dove."

He's quiet for a moment, thoughtful. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost vulnerable. "Doves are gentle things. Soft. Beautiful." His fingers brush my cheek. "But they're stronger than they look. Resilient. They find their way home across impossible distances."

"Is that what I am to you? A lost bird?"

His expression turns serious, almost fierce. "No. You're not lost, Lila. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."

The conviction in his voice steals my breath. He believes what he's saying—completely, utterly believes it. And looking into his eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against mine, I find myself wanting to believe it too.

Something inside me shifts, melts, rearranges into a new configuration. It's terrifying how quickly it's happening—this falling, this surrender. Four days ago, I didn't know he existed. Now I can't imagine a world without his touch, his voice, his eyes on me.

"Beau," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for.

He seems to understand anyway, gathering me closer, pressing his lips to my forehead. "I know, little dove. I know."

And maybe he does. Maybe he feels it too—this impossible, irrational certainty that something profound is happening between us. Something neither of us was looking for, but now that we've found it, we can't bear to let go.

Outside, the storm continues to rage. Inside, wrapped in his arms, I find myself hoping it never ends.