Page 20 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

His pace is languid, almost teasing. He strokes deep, each thrust making me feel too full, too seen. My fingers press into his back, nails digging slightly as my breath catches.

Sawyer’s eyes stay locked on mine, even as sweat slicks his skin and his control begins to fray. He kisses me through every moan, every stuttered breath, until the sensation builds so high I’m sure I’ll break apart.

And when I do, shaking, breathless, unraveling beneath him, he follows, burying his face in my neck, his whole bodyshuddering with release. We stay tangled together, bodies hot and humming, breath slowing in sync.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder. My collarbone. My temple. I bury my face in his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs.

No words pass between us, but they don’t have to. The way he holds me afterward, how our bodies fit without trying, the contented sigh he lets out when I kiss his chest—that’sthe truth.

Chapter Ten

Sawyer

She’s still wearing my clothes, even though we picked up her luggage when we were in town. There’s sunlight cutting across the bed in golden streaks, catching the curve of her hip as she stretches with a soft, satisfied hum.

She opens one eye, looks over at me, and smiles. That smile. It hits me like it always does, low in my gut and somewhere even deeper I don’t like to name.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

“Hey.”

She sits up slowly, tugging the edge of the shirt down over her thighs as she swings her legs off the bed. My T-shirt looks better on her. I watch her pad across the loft, hair swaying as she descends the ladder barefoot and still sleep-warm. I follow a minute later, throwing on sweats and tugging a hoodie over my head, but the scene I walk into nearly stops me cold.

She’s already boiling water. Reaching for the coffee tin. Humming under her breath. Like she’s done this a hundred times, like this is her home.

I know it’s stupid. I know we’ve had less than a handful of mornings like this. It feels like something’s clicked into place. Some gear in me that stopped turning years ago has started again. Smooth and easy.

She turns when she hears me step into the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind. I figured it was either make coffee or start going feral.”

“You’ve got survival instincts.”

She smirks. “A whole lifetime running on caffeine.”

I reach for a mug, brushing past her to get it, and she doesn’t move away. Her hip leans into mine. Her hand curls around my forearm. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind me what it felt like to fall asleep with her tucked under my arm and wake up to her in my bed.

She pours the water into the French press and we wait together, quiet and close.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to mine. “Good. Really good.”

Something flickers in her expression. Not nervousness, exactly. Just weight. Like she’s feeling the bigness of this, same as I am.

She adds, “Being with you like that. It feels—”

“Perfect,” I finish.

She nods, almost shy. “Exactly.”

I slide the plunger down and pour her a mug. We sit at the table, knees bumping under the surface, hands wrapped around steaming ceramic, just looking at each other.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” I admit.

Her brows lift slightly.

“Not just the sex.” I glance at the bed, and she smiles. “I mean the mornings. The part after. The part where I don’t want to run.”

She’s quiet for a second. “Me neither.”

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