Page 29 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

“No,” he growls. He catches both of my wrists in one hand, slams them to the mattress above my head. “Leave them there.”

His voice is a command soaked in heat and absolute possession.

My pulse kicks. My body arches. I nod—wordless and wrecked.

Then he pushes inside me again—deep, brutal—his weight crushing into mine, his hand still curled at my throat like a promise I’ll never forget.

His thrusts return with purpose—each one harder than the last, driving into me like he’s staking a claim. My body jolts with every snap of his hips, breath scraping past parted lips, vision going hazy around the edges.

“Keep your hands there,” he growls, his grip tightening just enough to remind me who I belong to.

I moan—helpless, shaking—hips rising to meet his every punishing thrust.

The pressure on my throat. The weight of him over me. The helpless ache between my legs. I’ve never felt this raw. This open.

My arms burn. My lungs beg. My body worships.

And still—he doesn’t let up.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice low and lethal. “Eyes on mine while I ruin you.”

I obey.

Because I have to.

Because there’s no oxygen, no logic, no resistance left in me—just Jackson. Just his cock pounding into me, his body controlling every inch of mine, his eyes holding me hostage.

“You’re going to come for me,” he says, his voice a sharp blade in the dark. “But not yet.”

My whimper earns me another savage thrust, so deep it knocks the air from my lungs.

“You’ll come when I say. Not a second before.”

I cry out—needing it, dreading it, falling apart under him.

He releases my throat just long enough to cup my jaw, kiss me like he’s starving, like he needs my mouth as much as he needs my body.

Then his hand slides between us—ruthless fingers finding my clit, circling, pressing, building the pressure I’ve been aching for since the moment he touched me.

I’m so close. So close.

But he stops.

I nearly sob.

I’m wrecked. Shaking. Begging with my eyes.

But he’s not done.

“Now you’ll take the rest,” he says, bracing his hand over my wrists again. “Every thrust. Every second. And you won’t come until I own it.”

I nod, tears spilling—not from pain. From need.

Because I want to belong to him.

Because right now, I already do.

Jackson’s hand clamps over mine, pinning both wrists to the mattress with bruising strength. His other returns to my throat—fingers splayed, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming.

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