Page 32 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Gagging. Drooling. Desperate to please.

He fucks my mouth with the same brutal grace he gives everything else—his body. His dominance. His fucking soul.

When he comes, it’s with a growl of my name and a thrust so deep I feel it down my throat. I take it all. Every drop. Every shudder. Every breath.

Still later—when our bodies are wrecked and our skin is flushed and raw—he spreads a wool blanket by the fire and lays me across it like something sacred.

The glow paints his chest in gold as he sinks between my thighs, slow and reverent now. His fingers trail over every bruise he’s left. Every scratch. Every place his hands claimed me.

And then he slides into me.

Long. Deep. Like worship.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t taunt or tease.

He just moves—slow, deliberate, endless.

His hand cups my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek as he fucks me like he’s memorizing every sigh, every flutter of muscle, every gasping breath.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Thick. Endless.

Inside, so do we.

Again. And again. And again.

The outside world could be ending, and I wouldn’t care.

Not with his mouth on my skin, his body over mine, in mine—claiming me again and again until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.

Time ceases to matter.

Hours pass in a haze of heat and hunger, our bodies tangled in sweat-slick sheets and breathless moans. Afternoon bleeds into evening, the fire crackling low, casting flickering shadows across our skin.

We drift—sometimes into sleep, sometimes into whispered conversation—but we always return to each other. Drawn like gravity. Like obsession.

And each time he takes me, he takes more.

His hands grow rougher. His commands, sharper. He binds my wrists with the tie from his flannel shirt and drapes me over his thigh, spanking me until my cries fill the room—pain blooming into pleasure that makes me writhe.

He doesn’t stop when I beg.

He only pauses long enough to trace the red marks on my ass with reverence, then flips me onto my back and fucks me with bruising force, one hand pinning both wrists overhead, the other wrapped tight around my throat.

“You love when I control you,” he growls, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. I can only nod, because it’s true. No use denying what he can clearly see. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me, knowing you belong to me.”

The words splinter me. I arch into him and fall harder.

He tests every limit I never knew I had. Every dark want I never dared name.

He pushes me to the edge, holds me there, and when I think I can’t take any more—he gives me more.

There’s no room for doubt or shame in his arms. Only heat. Only command. Only the way he fucks me like he’s imprinting himself into every nerve, every breath, every broken, blissed-out sound I make.

And through it all—I let him.

Because in his hands, surrender feels like salvation, and I feel worshipped.

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