Chapter 18 #2
The question feels simple but carries weight—more than asking about scenery or wilderness. There’s an invitation in it, a door opening to possibilities I hadn’t let myself consider.
“I do,” I answer, my voice honest. “More than I expected to.”
Something shifts in his expression, warming despite the exhaustion still etched into his features.
I become aware of how close we are, the firelight painting gold across his face.
For a moment, I forget we’re in a cave on a mountainside.
Forget the expedition, the cameras, the show.
Forget everything except the man before me and the raw, undeniable current between us.
Finn reaches out, his uninjured hand capturing mine. “Thank you.”
“For what? The medieval first aid?” I attempt humor to defuse the sudden intensity.
“For coming to find me.” His thumb traces small circles on my palm. “For knowing what to do when you did.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, voice softer than intended. “Let’s see if you survive my nursing.”
His smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’ve faced worse odds.”
A breeze slips into the shelter, curling around us with a whisper of cold. I shiver, not from the chill but from the current running between us. Finn notices, his hand tightening around mine.
“Still cold?” he asks, though his eyes tell me he knows better.
I shake my head, unable to look away from him.
The air between us hums with tension, like the stillness before a lightning strike.
Without conscious thought, I find myself moving closer.
His hand releases mine, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face.
The touch is gentle, reverent, sending a jolt straight to my core.
My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he must hear it, a wild drum against the quiet of the cave.
“Lena,” he says—my name raw and real, like something sacred.
And in that sound, in his eyes, I see an answered need, a question I'm suddenly desperate to explore.
Screw the scripts, screw the roles. I don't answer with words.
Instead, I close the last bit of space between us, my lips finding his in the firelight.
The kiss is soft at first, more question than demand.
His response is immediate. His hand slides to the nape of my neck, pulling me closer, his thumb brushing against my skin with a quiet possession.
Time suspends. The cave, the mountains, the world—all fall away.
There is only this moment, this connection, this discovery.
The kiss deepens, changes from gentle exploration to something urgent.
His lips part, and I follow instinctively, our breaths mingling—hot, ragged, real.
When we pull apart, still breathing hard, I see my wonder reflected in his eyes, now dark with a desire that matches my own. This wasn’t part of any script. Any plan. This is something else entirely.
“I knew back at the consignment store,” Finn says, his voice rough with emotion.
“When you stood your ground and insisted on knowing why you needed the thermal underwear instead of taking my word for it.” His fingers tighten, drawing me closer.
“That's when I realized you weren't going to be what I expected.”
“Really?” I smile, remembering our heated exchange. The memory carries a new kind of warmth now, more ember than spark. “I thought you found me insufferable.”
“Challenging,” he corrects, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “And now I’m grateful you listened. That thermal layer’s keeping you warm in this cave.” His focus shifts to my mouth, holding there a moment too long .
“Well, that and other things.” I tilt my head toward his arm around me.
His smile deepens. “You’re more impressive now, covered in dirt, treating wounds with plants, finding your way in the wild.” His other hand finds my waist, his grip firm, possessive.
“The real me,” I whisper, the admission both terrifying and freeing.
“The real you,” he agrees, pulling me closer again until our bodies are almost touching, the heat radiating between us.
Our second kiss carries the certainty the first one questioned.
His hands find my shoulders, careful of his injured arm but eager for the solid strength of me.
My palms press to his chest, splayed against the thick fabric of his shirt, where his heart hammers beneath.
His arm wraps around my waist, eliminating what little space remains between us.
Heat builds—not the kind from the fire crackling nearby, but something far more consuming.
His lips leave mine to trace along my jaw, down to the sensitive skin of my neck.
A soft sound escapes me, something between a sigh and a moan as his teeth graze my skin.
He smiles against me, and I know it by the shift of his mouth, the way it changes the rhythm of his breath.
Then he recaptures my lips. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, like he might vanish if I let go.
The kiss deepens—wet, desperate, a mess of tongues and need.
“We should stop,” he whispers against my mouth, even as his arm tightens around me.
“Should we?” I whisper, letting my hand trail along the base of his neck, where skin meets hair.
His response is a groan that rolls through me. “If we don’t stop now?—”
“Maybe I don’t want to.” The words come out bold, unfiltered, and true.
Finn pulls back enough to search my eyes.
Whatever he sees must settle the question, because the next kiss comes hard and certain, stealing the breath from my lungs.
His hands leave my waist, fingers tracing heat as they slip lower, gripping my hips.
His thumbs press into the small of my back, an anchor, pulling me flush against him until there’s no doubt, no space, no thought left at all.
His arousal is a hard, undeniable pressure against me, a stark truth even through the layers of our clothes.
A sharp thrill shoots low in my stomach—a feeling so potent, so long denied, it’s almost a shock.
This is real. Not a performance. Not a conquest. Just …
this. Him. Me. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s impossible to ignore.
Outside, the wind picks up, a cold breeze gathering force—rising, pressing, like something awakening. Inside our shelter, protected from the elements but not from this fierce drawing together, we surrender to a different kind of wilderness—uncharted, unexplored, irresistible.
His hand finds the edge of my thermal shirt, hesitating for a heartbeat that thunders in my ears before slipping beneath.
Oh. His fingers, calloused and surprisingly warm, skim over my bare skin—a shock, a brand—and goosebumps prickle my arms, chasing away the last of the chill.
My breath catches, a ragged sound in the tiny tent, as his palm presses against my side, the heat of his touch not searing, but claiming.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, voice rough, his lips hovering above mine.
Instead of answering, I glance down, my hand brushing gently over the gauze on his arm. “What about you?” I ask, breathless. “Your injury…”
He leans in, mouth grazing mine with a smile I feel more than see. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug,” he says—my words thrown back at me, low and wicked and so damn tender I could fall apart.
That’s all it takes. I guide his good hand to my breast, my hand covering his, pressing him closer. A soft moan escapes me as his thumb brushes over my nipple, already tight and aching beneath the thin fabric of my bra.
I arch into his touch, instinct taking over—a raw, untamed hunger awakening deep within me. The world shrinks to the touch of his hands on my body, the taste of his mouth on mine, the frantic rhythm of our breathing in the small, fire lit space.