Chapter 23
Alec
The taste of her blood is still in my mouth.
Not sharp or metallic but faint enough to ghost along my tongue. It replays in my head, over and over, my lips closing around her finger, the heat of her skin, the sound she made when I surprised her.
Now she’s next to me on the log, the fire snapping low, a spoon in her hand. Chocolate, banana, and marshmallow melted into a mess. Her tongue flicks out to catch the smear at the corner of her mouth, and she looks right at me as she licks it away.
Sly fox.
Always testing me, and always fucking winning.
“Do you like it?” I hadn’t planned to buy the ingredients for the banana boats. I also hadn’t planned to ask her to spend her Saturday night with me. But before I knew it, my cart was full, and I wanted to share this with her.
She takes another spoonful from the foil. “This is actually amazing. Where’d you even come up with this?”
“I didn’t.” I set mine aside, wiping my hands against my jeans. “Had them on Ouray at fifteen. An instructor made them at the yurts. Exactly like this.”
“That’s adorable.”
“Finn and I ended up smearing it across our sleeping bags. Raccoon unzipped the tent in the middle of the night, tried to steal one.”
“No way. Did it really unzip the tent?”
“Hand to God.” My voice scrapes with the memory. “Finn screamed so loud the whole camp thought we were under attack. He’s never lived it down. Sewed a raccoon patch on his pack like a scarlet letter.”
She presses her palm to her mouth, laughter spilling through her fingers. “That’s hilarious.”
“You really like it?”
“I’d like it more if you weren’t watching me eat every bite,” she fires back, chin tilting, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“Just making sure you don’t get another splinter.” It’s the worst excuse I’ve ever made.
“Thank you for your continued commitment to my safety.”
She looks at me as if I’ve given her something holy. And God help me, I wish I had.
My hands itch. My blood snarls. Every nerve screams to drag my fingers down the inside of her wrist, to rest on the curve of her knee, to leave a mark where the world could see.
Instead, I lunge for a leaf at my feet and fold it, my fingers shaking with the lie of distraction.
Her gaze follows every crease. “What are you making there?”
“Not sure yet. What’s your favorite flower?”
“A tulip. Can you make one of those?”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “Nikkolo taught me all the flowers.”
The leaf is too fragile for real folds, but my fingers move anyway, remembering the rhythm.
Pinch the stem flat, crease it sharp. Bend the top down, tuck the corners in, twist it once so it doesn’t unravel.
Crude, uneven, but it takes shape, something that could almost pass for a tulip if you squint hard enough.
I hand her the crooked thing. She takes it like it’s worth something anyway.
“I want you to teach me.”
I pass her another leaf, guiding her fingers through the folds. My skin brushes hers. It’s unbearable. Every graze of my knuckle sparks like a fuse I can’t douse.
This isn’t origami anymore. She’s the sun, and I’m caught in her orbit, powerless to pull away.
“Like this,” I grind out, hand covering hers. I’m not teaching her a damn thing. I’m carving myself into her, line by line.
Her eyes go soft, unfocused, drowning in the glow. Mine lock there, refusing to move. The rest of the world blurs until it’s only the heat of her knee against mine, her breath teasing the edge of my mouth.
This is where I should scoot over. Give us air. But my body doesn’t know that language anymore.
We’ve been circling for weeks. Pretending.
At some point, a man can no longer deny it. Right?
A low moan gets smothered by her own breath as my touch maps out the line in her palms. I hear it. Fuck, I feel it. My cock jerks, heavy and straining against my zipper, and the leaf nearly tears in my grip.
I can’t stop. My thumb drifts down the inside of her wrist. Her skin jumps, shivering under me. I press harder. Her lips part. Her breath stumbles. Another sound slips free, softer, needier, wrecking me clean through.
A shiver rolls down her spine like a wave, visible even in the shadows. I’m already pulling my sweater off, jaw clenched, blood burning.
“I’m not cold,” she says, stubborn even now.
“Clementine.”
She huffs, rolls her eyes, but takes it. The sweater drops over her frame like it was made for her, sleeves swallowing her hands, hem brushing her thighs. She tucks her chin into the collar, laughter muffled by the wool.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look—” Mine. The word claws at my throat. I grit it back. “Warm.”
“Guess I’m keeping it.”
“Good.” It comes out blunt, like I’m scolding. “Don’t give it back.”
Her gaze lingers at my temple. She lifts her hand and brushes a stray pine needle from my hair. Like it matters. Like I matter. Her fingertips graze my skin, barely there, but it’s one of those gentle touches that make me feel like I’m worthy of something so soft.
Her fingers hover, ghosting against my temple, as if she’s afraid I’ll break if she presses harder.
“You always come back covered in the mountain. It’s like it follows you.” She smiles like she knows the damage she’s done before a yawn cracks out of her, and she fails to stifle it.
“You’re dead on your feet,” I say. “Go inside. Get some sleep.”
Her gaze flicks toward the lodge, then up to her place on the ridge. “I’ll be out at four fifty-five sharp.”
“Five,” I correct. “Not earlier. You need the rest.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Not a request, Clem.”
She smirks, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Okay, Dad.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You don’t like ‘camp buddy,’ you don’t like ‘Dad’…” She turns toward the trail, but just when I think she’s done, she glances back over her shoulder. The grin she gives me twists with amusement. “What if I say…sweet dreams, Daddy?”
The sound of it punches straight through me. My voice drops an octave, heavy as stone. “Careful, Clem. That’s the kind of thing you can’t take back.”
“Guess you’ll have to dream about me saying it again.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me with the fire, the mountain, and the ache of blood slamming low, hot, and immediate. I want to drag her back, haul her into my lap, and see what other things I can make her call me. What other lines on her body I can trace with my hands.
I should put the fire out, go inside, and try to sleep. I need to be focused for tomorrow. But I keep staring at where she disappeared to in the trees.
And all I can hear is that one word.
Daddy.
The word loops in my head until it’s not a word anymore but a mark.
I imagine her getting home, my sweater hanging off her frame, slipping low enough to bare one shoulder. Maybe she’s curled up on her bed right now, fabric bunched at her thighs, biting her lip the way she always does.
My cock swells hard against the denim, every pulse harsher than the last. My thighs lock, teeth clenched so tight my skull aches.
I brace a hand on my knee, knuckles white, seeking to breathe past the ache for her. Trying to leash it…but my body doesn’t take orders anymore.
I shove a hand inside my jeans, because there is no fucking way I can stop myself.
The first squeeze of my fist makes her name tear loose, broken, needy, and I hate the sound of it. Like I’m choking on it.
“Clementine.”
I see her as clearly as if she were here.
Blue eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, her body shifting into my lap without a word. My breath saws out like she’s really there, pressing closer, grinding down until I break.
The fire pops, the cold bites at my skin, but none of it registers.
It’s only her. Always her.
Hours. I could spend hours learning what makes her gasp, what makes her shiver, what makes her come apart in my hands. The thought alone is enough to wreck me. My whole body strains with it.
I stroke myself in time with the picture, thumb dragging over my swollen cock.
In my head, she’s not shy. She’s not hesitant. She’s mine.
Moving against me like she’s claimed me. Like she owns the ache in my cock, the hunger in my veins, the ruin she’s carved out of me.
A growl claws up my throat, and I hurry my pace.
I want her marked. Wrecked. Bent until she doesn’t know where I end and she begins. I want her gasps mine, her shivers mine, her moans mine.
Every piece of her, mine.
The thought curdles into obsession. Her voice echoes in my skull, not playful now but raw, reckless, daring—Daddy. The word detonates like lightning splitting the sky. My body seizes, muscles snapping taut. I jolt, breath ripped out of me, vision skimming the edges of white.
For a long, brutal moment, I’m nothing but release and ruin, chest locked, pulse hammering until I’m dizzy.
I slump forward, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air. Sweat chills against the night. My thighs ache from the strain. The shame curls black in my gut.
I press both hands over my face, palms rough against my skin.
Months—years—of discipline shattered by a grin, a taunt, a word.
By her.
Worst of all, I want it again. Even in the shame, I want it again. I want her again. I want the wreckage, the loss of control, the burn, and the breaking.
Because if it’s Clementine who undoes me, maybe I don’t care what it costs. Maybe I don’t want the control back.
Maybe I’d give it all to her.
Gladly.