Page 30 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
When he kisses me, it’s a slow burn kindling into something deeper—not rushed or ravenous, but consuming in its own right.His lips press against mine with deliberate weight, a silent promise more than a demand, coaxing rather than claiming. Each brush and small adjustment is a conversation, wordless but profound, and the heat it stirs isn’t a flare, it’s a tide, pulling me under with purpose.
It’s not about ownership. It’s about recognition. About discovering the hidden corners inside me that ache to be seen, mapped, claimed—not as territory, but as truth.
His hands move with purpose but no haste, easing beneath each layer of clothing like he’s unwrapping something rare. They glide over me slowly, attentive to every dip and edge, as if he's cataloging the geography of who I am—not just the skin and scars, but the held breath, the pauses in muscle, the stories etched into tension. Each stroke feels deliberate, reverent, like he’s learning me cell by cell. He doesn’t rush or demand—he unravels. And I feel myself opening, piece by careful piece, not because he takes, but because he asks without saying a word.
And I let him. Not instantly. Not easily. There’s a beat where every instinct whispers caution—where the remnants of old wounds tighten like a warning under my skin. But I breathe through it. Let the fear rise, crest, and pass. And then I reach for him, not just with my body, but with the part of me that’s still learning how to want without flinching..
Not because I’ve forgotten the danger. Not because the stakes have changed or the threat has vanished. But because in this one breathless, unguarded heartbeat, I trust him. With every scar I carry, every quiet fury I’ve buried. With all the battered pieces of me that refused to break—and the ones that did.
His mouth finds the hollow beneath my ear, and I shudder, breath catching as the aftershocks of release curl low and slow through me.
"Still good?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough like gravel softened by midnight rain.
"Better than."
He lifts me with hands that span my waist entirely, grasping firmly but gently. Carries me like I'm made of spun sugar, but the veins in his forearms rise beneath my fingertips, showing the raw power he's barely containing.
He lowers me onto the edge of the bed, where the sheets are cool against my flushed skin, stealing a gasp from my lips. His hands make quick work of his own clothes, each layer shed with the same urgency that thrums through me, until nothing is left between us but heat and want. When his body covers mine—strong, solid, unyielding—it’s not dominance or mere desire. It’s convergence. Like pressure fronts meeting, forces equal and opposite crashing into each other until the only outcome is heat, storm, combustion.
Every nerve ignites at the points where our bodies collide, fire sparking beneath my skin with each bump and grind. His breath crashes into the curve of my neck, hot and uneven, setting off a cascade of shivers as the pulse there jumps wildly under the heat of his mouth.
Our rhythm builds like heat beneath the skin, slow at first, then rising—irresistible and consuming. His roughened fingertips trace down my thigh, then slip between my legs with unerring purpose. He finds my clit and circles it with just enough pressure to make my knees tremble, before sliding two fingers deep inside me.
My breath punches out in a broken sound, harsh and needy. I writhe beneath his touch, muscles taut, nails raking down his back, leaving fierce, unrepentant trails. He's mine in this moment, and I'm his, claimed in a language older than fear, spoken only through sweat and breath and the sweet, shattering edge of surrender.
His mouth captures my ragged cry, swallowing the sound like he needs it to survive, as he slides into me with a thrustthat knocks the air from my lungs. The stretch, the fullness, the unbearable pleasure of it unspools everything I’ve been holding in. He pounds into me unerringly and relentlessly, proof positive that he knows I won't break.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, anchoring me as another wave crests, scalding and overwhelming, almost sublime. My back arches, spine taut with sensation that burns through me in a white-hot rush. What unravels me is not pain but reverence, a surrender so profound it feels like being split open and remade from the inside out. When release tears through me, I cry his name raw and unguarded, the sound ripped from me like a prayer I never thought my voice could shape.
He surges with me into the unraveling, his body trembling with every hard, rhythmic thrust until the last of his control gives way. The sound he makes is raw, and guttural, and rips through the air as he comes, burying himself to the hilt.
His forehead drops to mine, slick with sweat, his breath rasping between us as he collapses on top of me. Our chests rise and fall in a frantic sync, hearts hammering like fists against a locked door, the beat chaotic and shared, impossibly close.
For once, the silence between us holds no edges, no strategy or sharp corners. It wraps around us like the weightless hush after a storm—thick with heat and unspoken truths, with breath shared and bare skin touching. And threaded through it, deep and low like a warning drum, is something far more dangerous than fear: the possibility of feeling too much.
Because I realize I want more than his hands. More than his skill. More than even his protection.I want the parts of him no one else sees.I want his morning voice. His quiet thoughts. The way he checks a room before I even step through the door... and that means I’m already in deeper than I meant to be.
His fingers graze the curve of my cheek, warm and unhurried. My breath catches, ribs cinching like they’re bracing for an impact I know is coming—but still can’t look away from.
I can’t afford this, not now, not when everything in me says run—but I don’t move. Because for the first time in years, it’s not the storm outside that makes my breath falter. It’s the thing stirring in my chest, tangled in hope and want and the terrifying thought that perhaps I've already let him in.
The worst part is not the danger. The worst part is that I do not know if I want it to stop, even though every instinct warns that the next strike between us might be the one that shatters something vital inside me. Something I may never be able to put back together.
12
NATE
We pull on clothes in tense silence, the warmth of the bedroom clinging to our skin while the chill seeps back into the room. My shirt drags over skin where her mouth marked me, heat pressed into fabric like a secret I do not intend to forget. Wren moves with deliberate stiffness, shoulders tight and jaw locked, as if she is strapping plates of armor over soft places one buckle at a time, sealing herself behind metal she forged in silence. She shivers when she finds her jacket. I catch her wrists lightly before she turns away.
“You good?” I ask, quiet and steady.
She hesitates just long enough to make the answer ring false. “Fine. Just cold.” The words sound like hammered metal marching into place. For an instant her eyes give her away. There is a flicker of fear, maybe doubt, a flash that would vanish if I blinked. Then the mask returns.
I do not let go. I tug her a little closer, my knuckles slipping against the bare strip of skin between her waistband and sweater. Her breath stutters, quick and involuntary, before she jerks her jacket closed and seals the opening along with the moment.
We finish dressing without speaking. I refuse to let her drift. Every step I keep close enough that the air between us stays charged. She bends for her boots. I step in, my hand skimming her hip to remind her I am not giving ground. She tips her head up, lips parting like she might argue, but I shake mine.
“No. You are not building false distance between us right now,” I tell her. My voice is low, controlled, the kind of tone that does not need volume to end a discussion.
