Page 28 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

I long to bring her to that peak again, yet I crave nothing more than to bury my desire deep within her, to reclaim her completely.

As she leans forward, resting her delicate weight on her elbows, her soft yet commanding voice reaches out: “Travis, please, fuck me.” Lost in that moment, in the overwhelming lust of our connection, I surrender completely, knowing that I may never let her go.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

I ascend her body, a landscape of soft curves and warm valleys, and position myself between her thighs, a sanctuary of silken skin. I line myself up, my cock pulsating against her slick, wet entrance. I push in, slow and steady, feeling her stretch and yield around me, like a flower blossoming under the first rays of dawn. She gasps, a sweet, sharp intake of breath, and wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me close. Her legs lock around my waist, a living, breathing belt of flesh and blood, and I start to move.

Each thrust is a testament to my desire, deep and deliberate. She meets me every time, her hips grinding up like a dance of desperation, needing me to reach even deeper, to touch her very core. I kiss her—our tongues tangling in a rough, hungry dance, a primal rhythm that echoes the dance of our bodies. Her body clenches around me, tight and perfect, a velvet glove made just for me.

I grip her hips, my fingers sinking into her soft flesh, keeping her steady while I drive into her, hard. She cries out with every thrust, a symphony of pleasure and pain, and I feel her building again, like a storm on the horizon. I want to watch her come. Want to feel her lose herself underneath me, like a wave crashing against the shore.

She tightens around my cock, her muscles fluttering like butterfly wings, her mouth falling open in a silent cry. I know she’s close. So am I.

I don’t hold back. I can’t. The need inside me is raw, savage, a beast clawing at my insides. I drive into her hard, over and over, and Abby meets every thrust with breathy moans that tell me she wants this just as badly. She's a wild thing beneath me, all heat and desire.

That familiar shiver builds low in my spine—warning me I’m close. I let go of one of her legs, bring my thumb to her clit, and rub tight, fast circles. She comes almost instantly, a supernova of pleasure exploding behind her eyes. I watch her fall apart, eyes wide, mouth open on a soft cry, her pussy clenching around my cock like a vise.

It’s fucking beautiful. A masterpiece of ecstasy painted in her pleasure.

I keep thrusting right through it, and when I finally come, it hits like a wave—hot, intense, a tsunami of sensation. I grind into her, letting her body pull every last drop from me. My body’s shaking, but I don’t stop until I’m empty—a vessel poured out completely.

Then I collapse on top of her, chest heaving like a beast at the end of a long hunt. Her skin is soft and smooth against mine, a silk sheet on a summer’s day. It feels like peace. Like coming home after a long journey. Her arms wrap around me, fingers threading into my hair, and I let my head rest between her breasts, a sanctuary of softness and warmth.

She falls asleep wrapped in my arms, her head tucked against my chest like it belongs there. Like we didn’t just tear each other open and make promises we haven’t spoken yet. I hold her tighter than I should, memorizing the curve of her back, the hitch in her breath when she starts to dream. She makes a soft sound, a protest or a plea, and I stroke her spine until she settles.

I should move. I should put distance between us before I forget everything I’ve told myself about staying detached. About not dragging her deeper into the mess I’ve spent the last five years trying to contain.

Moonlight is bleeding through the window; I ease out from under her and tuck the blanket higher around her shoulders. I dress quickly, pulling on jeans, boots, and the Henley I tossed aside last night like it didn’t matter. I take one last look at her before I head to the kitchen.

There’s a tray waiting just outside the door. Clara’s doing, no doubt. She must have crept in sometime after the world ended and started again. She’s thoughtful like that—dangerously intuitive, and way too interested in my business.

I carry the tray in, the scent of roasted chicken, rosemary, and fresh bread curling through the air. Abby stirs, eyes blinking open, and that sleepy look she gives me nearly takes me down right there.

“Clara outdid herself,” I say as I set the tray down.

Abby yawns, tucking the comforter around her as she sits up. “She’s been threatening to feed me into submission. This checks out.”

I hand her a fork. “She also left a note reminding you she wants details. And that I looked grumpy enough to need a drink.”

Abby laughs, her smile still soft around the edges of sleep. “She’s not wrong.”

She digs in without hesitation, and for a while we just sit, eating in quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t press—that feels earned.

When she finally sets her fork down, she fixes those sharp eyes on me and says, “Did you find anything?”

I lean back in the chair, jaw tight. “The sniper wasn’t there. The body was gone. Someone dragged him off and covered the tracks in a rush.”

Her expression hardens. “So it wasn’t just some isolated threat.”

“No.”

“Which means this is bigger.”

I nod once. “They’re not finished.”

She swallows hard. “And we still don’t know why they’re coming after me.”

“Not yet.”

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