Page 27 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

He covers me, shields me, fucks me like a man who’s waited too long and doesn’t plan to waste a single second. Not with words. Not with movement. Not with me.

And through it all, his eyes never leave mine—refusing to let me hide, or retreat, or come apart in silence.

“Let me hear you, city girl.” His voice scrapes along my skin like gravel and silk, dark and dangerous, lips brushing mine with every relentless thrust. “Scream for me. Shake for me. Come for me.”

I do.

Once.

Twice.

Each climax rips through me harder than the last, stealing the air from my lungs and sense from my mind. My nails rake down his back. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t slow.

He owns every inch of me.

Jackson rears back just enough to look down, eyes hooded, jaw tight, his hand sliding beneath my thigh and hooking it high around his waist. His thrusts go deeper now. Harder. The stretch borders on pain but never crosses the line. It only sharpens the pleasure and sets me ablaze.

“That’s it,” he growls against my throat, teeth grazing, breath hot. “You take what I give you. You like it when I take charge.”

A whimper breaks from me. I don’t even know if it’s yes or more or please—because all three are true.

He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, one big hand locking me in place. His body pounds into mine, claiming me, marking me, making it impossible to think of anything except the ache, the fullness, him.

“Stay with me.” His voice drops low, a command more than a plea, hips grinding in a rhythm that steals coherent thought. “Right here. Right now. You’re not going anywhere.”

My legs tremble, clamping tighter around his waist. The world tilts. Time fractures. My universe becomes the rough drag of his calloused palm down my ribs, the press of his chest to mine, the brutal beauty of his dominance as he pushes me to the brink again.

“You feel that?” he rasps, rolling his hips with lethal control. “That’s mine.”

He drives in harder. My back arches. The storm outside hammers against the windows, wind howling—but it’s nothing compared to the feral sound tearing from my throat when I shatter beneath him.

Jackson’s name leaves me in a cry that tastes like surrender. He surges one final time, body tensing, his release pulsing deep inside me. He stays there, chest heaving, face buried in the curve of my neck, his weight a comfort, a claim.

“Mine,” he breathes again. Not a question. A truth.

And I don’t want to belong to anyone else.

For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. The only sounds are our gradually slowing breaths and the distant howl of the diminishing storm. Jackson's weight should feel crushing, yet it grounds me, preventing me from floating away on the lingering waves of pleasure.

Eventually, he shifts, moving beside me rather than atop me, arms keeping me close in the cot's limited space. The sudden vulnerability of nakedness in the shelter's chill draws me closer to his warmth.

"Are you okay?" His voice is unexpectedly gentle, and his fingers brush the hair from my face with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the passionate dominance of moments before.

"Better than okay." Words seem inadequate for the lingering glow suffusing my body. "That was..."

"Yeah." His agreement is accompanied by a small smile that transforms his usually stern features into something beautiful. "It was."

Silence settles between us, not awkward but contemplative. His fingers trace idle patterns on my shoulder, and my hand rests against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

"I don't usually..." His words trail off, with uncharacteristic uncertainty in his tone. "Not since?—"

"Emma." The name no longer feels forbidden between us.

He nods, swallowing visibly. "Haven't wanted to. Haven't let myself."

The admission carries weight beyond the obvious meaning—trust implied, barriers lowered, something profound in the simple fact of his surrender to desire.

"Thank you." My fingers trace the line of his jaw, rough with stubble.

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