Page 41 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

The kiss deepens and transforms, anger melting into something equally powerful but infinitely sweeter. His hands frame my face with surprising gentleness, thumbs stroking my cheekbones even as his mouth devours mine.

"This changes nothing," he murmurs against my lips, the words contradicted by the reverence in his touch.

"I know." My fingers work at his shirt buttons, needing to feel his skin beneath my palms. "I don't care."

Clothing becomes an unwelcome barrier, removed in urgent, ungraceful movements. His flannel shirt falls to the floor, and my sweater follows moments later. The contrast between the cool wall at my back and Jackson's burning skin against my front sends shivers racing along my nerves.

His mouth traces a path along my jaw, down my neck, finding sensitive places remembered from our night in the shelter. My head falls back against the wall, offering greater access, surrendering to sensation.

"Not here." Jackson's voice emerges rough against my collarbone. "Not like this."

Before I can protest, he lifts me, hands secure beneath my thighs as my legs wrap instinctively around his waist. The display of strength sends heat pooling low in my abdomen as he carries me toward the bedroom.

Unlike the utilitarian shelter cot, Jackson's bed welcomes us with soft flannel sheets and a handmade quilt that's hastily pushed aside. He lays me down with surprising care before covering my body with his own, weight supported on forearms braced beside my head.

"Last chance to walk away." His eyes search mine, offering an escape I have no intention of taking.

My answer comes in action rather than words, pulling him down for another kiss that erases any remaining doubt. What follows transcends our shelter encounter—less desperate but somehow more intense. Each touch carries meaning beyond physical pleasure, and each kiss communicates what words cannot.

Jackson's protective nature emerges in how thoroughly he ensures my satisfaction before seeking his own, in the careful attention he pays to every response, in whispered questions making certain of consent despite my obvious enthusiasm.

When we finally join, the sensation overwhelms me—fullness, connection, and vulnerability beyond anything experienced in the shelter. My name falls from his lips like a prayer. His movements are controlled yet increasingly urgent as pleasure builds between us.

My release comes with stunning intensity, Jackson's name torn from my throat as waves of sensation wash through me. He follows moments later, face buried against my neck, body tensing before relaxing into boneless weight above me.

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

Eventually, he shifts, moving beside me rather than atop me, one arm keeping me close to his side. My fingers trace idle patterns across his chest, finding the scar I remember from before, following its path across his ribs.

"This still doesn't change anything, does it?" The question emerges quiet but clear in the room's stillness.

Jackson's breathing changes slightly, the only indication that the query affects him. His silence provides answer enough.

"I thought so." My finger continues its path across his skin, memorizing textures I'll soon leave behind.

"It's not that simple." His voice rumbles beneath my ear.

"It never is." Rolling to my side, I face him directly. "But sometimes we make things more complicated than they need to be."

His expression shifts, and something like regret crosses his features before disappearing behind careful neutrality. "You have a life waiting in Burlington."

"And you have one here." Completing the familiar argument. "With your ghosts and your mountains."

"Cloe—"

"It's okay." The lie tastes bitter but necessary. "I knew what this was. What it wasn't."

The acceptance costs more than it should for someone who claims to want nothing beyond the physical. Carefully extracting myself from his embrace, I sit, suddenly aware of my nakedness in more ways than one.

"I should go." The words emerge steadier than expected.

Jackson doesn't contradict me, doesn't ask me to stay. He just watches with that unreadable expression as I collect scattered clothing, rebuilding my armor piece by piece.

Dressed again, I pause at the bedroom doorway, unwilling to leave without closure or acknowledgment of what transpired between us.

"For what it's worth, you should know something." My fingers grip the doorframe for support. "I won't use you for my article. Not because you asked, but because some stories aren't meant for public consumption. This one's just ours."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, perhaps gratitude. "Thank you."

---