Page 24 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Heat coils in the narrow space between us, thick and charged, sparking against my skin like static before a storm. His chest rises and falls in measured rhythm, but his eyes—glacier blue and darkened with something far more dangerous than cold—are locked on mine like a man fighting gravity and losing.

His hand brushes my arm, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just inside my elbow, and the contact ignites a trail of fire straight to my core. I feel it everywhere—low in my belly, in the pulse behind my knees, and in the ache that blooms with every second of silence stretched tight between us.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, voice rough, but it’s not the cold we’re talking about anymore.

“I’m not cold,” I breathe.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His hand lifts higher, cupping the side of my neck, thumb stroking the hollow just beneath my jaw—delicate, reverent, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, low and ragged. “This is a mistake.”

The words lack conviction, undermined by the heat in his gaze. They’re already burning up between us, useless against the heat we’ve stoked.

"Probably."

"I can't offer you anything beyond right now." His thumb stills.

The warning is clear. Stark. He means it—not just a lack of commitment, but a man already haunted by the past, afraid to offer a future he doesn’t believe he deserves.

“I’m not asking for anything beyond right now,” I whisper, and I mean it. My body aches for him, for the connection, for the surrender I swore I’d never give again—but tonight, I want it.

I want him.

Something shifts in his expression—restraint gives way to decision. His hand rises, fingers tracing my cheek with unexpected gentleness that contradicts the roughness of his callused skin. His touch is still gentle but no longer hesitant.

"Last chance to back out." His voice rumbles, a warning and invitation combined.

My answer comes in action rather than words, closing the final distance between us, pressing my lips to his—soft at first, but full of heat—and he meets it with fire.

Unlike our first impulsive kiss, this one begins softly, almost tentatively. A question, an exploration. His hands cradle my face as if holding something precious and fragile, belying the strength I know those hands possess.

The gentleness lasts mere moments before hunger takes over. Jackson's arms wrap around me, pulling me against the solid plane of his chest as the kiss deepens. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him closer, needing more.

Coffee boils over on the stove, sizzling against hot metal. Neither of us moves to save it.

His mouth travels from mine to my jaw and my neck, finding sensitive places I never knew existed. Each press of his lips draws sounds from me that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.

"God, you're beautiful." The words brush against my skin, reverent.

My hands explore the contours of his shoulders, the breadth of his back, and the surprising softness of his hair. Desire builds with each touch, each discovery, pooling low in my abdomen.

"Are you sure about this?" Jackson pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, eyes darkened to midnight blue.

“That depends,” I murmur, fingers tracing the rough line of his jaw.

"On what?"

"On whether you’re going to just kiss me… or?—"

“Or what?” His gaze sharpens, laser-focused.

“Fuck me.”

A low growl rumbles from his chest. He steps closer, chest brushing mine, heat radiating off him like fire in the freezing air.

“Oh, I’m definitely going to fuck you.” His voice goes from gravel to sin. “Hard. Deep. Until you forget your own goddamn name.”

My breath catches.

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