Chapter 6 – Victor
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on knees, head bowed under the weight of want. The rain drums against the cabin roof, a steady percussion that matches my heartbeat.
I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, trying to talk myself out of crossing the clearing to the guest cabin. Trying to remember all the reasons Jade King should be off-limits.
She's half my age. She's Mark's daughter. She's leaving tomorrow.
She deserves better than a man who hid from the world.
But none of these reasons can erase the memory of her lips against mine. The way she tasted—like coffee and mountain air. The feel of her hand on my chest, steady and sure, like she was grounding me to earth.
I rub my face, drag my fingers through my hair.
My body feels electric, humming with an awareness I haven't felt in years.
It would be easier if this were just physical.
Just desire. But there's something more dangerous happening—a crack in the walls I've spent years building, letting in light and air and her.
A soft knock at the door.
My head snaps up. For a moment, I think I've imagined it—conjured it from sheer wanting. Then it comes again, a little louder, more determined.
I stand, crossing the room in four strides. I know who it is. I know what this means. My hand hesitates on the knob for only a second before I open the door.
Jade stands there, hair damp from the rain, eyes clear and direct. She's changed into a soft-looking sweater that falls off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her lips are slightly parted, her cheeks flushed. She's never been more beautiful.
"Hi," she says, voice steady despite the pulse I can see fluttering at her throat.
"Hi." My own voice is rougher, betraying everything I'm trying to hide.
She doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend this is about anything other than what it is. "I don't want to wait anymore."
My breath leaves me in a single exhale. All the reasons I should send her away evaporate in the face of her certainty. I step aside, a silent invitation.
She walks in, bringing with her the scent of rain and something floral—her shampoo, maybe, or lotion. The door closes behind her with a soft click that feels final, irrevocable.
We stand there, inches apart, the air between us charged with everything unsaid. I should speak. Should make sure she understands what she's asking for. But before I can find the words, she reaches up and places her palm against my cheek, fingers brushing through my beard.
"I know what you're thinking," she says quietly. "That this is a mistake. That I'm too young, or you're too damaged, or we're too different."
"Aren't we?" My voice is barely audible.
She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "No. We're exactly who we're supposed to be, Victor." Her thumb traces my bottom lip, and I have to fight not to groan at the simple contact. "And I want you. All of you."
The last thread of my restraint snaps. I pull her to me, one hand at her waist, the other tangling in her hair.
Our mouths meet in a kiss that's nothing like the tentative one we shared at the tower.
This is hunger, pure and unrestrained. She makes a small sound against my lips—half sigh, half moan—and it undoes me completely.
My hands roam her back, her sides, learning the shape of her through the soft fabric of her sweater. She's all curves and warmth, her body pressing against mine with an urgency that matches my own. When her fingers find the hem of my shirt and slip underneath to touch bare skin, I shudder.
"Jade," I murmur against her mouth, not sure if it's a question or a plea.
"Yes," she answers anyway, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "Yes to whatever you're asking."
I lift her then, hands gripping her thighs as she wraps her legs around my waist. Her weight is solid and real in my arms, anchoring me to this moment. I carry her to the bed, laying her down with more care than the hunger in my blood wants to allow.
She looks up at me, hair spread across my pillow, eyes dark with desire. "You're thinking too much," she says, reaching for the hem of her sweater. In one fluid motion, she pulls it over her head and tosses it aside.
My breath catches at the sight of her—the swell of her breasts in a simple black bra, the soft curve of her stomach, the constellation of freckles across her collarbone. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Your turn," she says, sitting up to tug at my shirt.
I pull it off, suddenly self-conscious of the scars that mark my torso—evidence of a life lived hard and sometimes carelessly.
But there's no judgment in her gaze, only appreciation as her hands trace the contours of my chest, fingers tangling in the hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath my jeans.
She reaches behind her back and unhooks her bra, letting it fall away. Her breasts are full, nipples pebbling in the cool air. I can't help the groan that escapes me at the sight.
"Touch me," she whispers.
I lower myself beside her, one hand cupping her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. She arches into the touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.
I replace my thumb with my mouth, tasting her skin, feeling her nipple harden against my tongue. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in slightly when I graze my teeth against the sensitive peak.
"Victor," she gasps, the sound of my name in her mouth like a prayer.
I trail kisses down her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her leggings. Looking up, I find her watching me, bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Still yes?" I ask.
"Still yes," she confirms, lifting her hips to help as I pull the leggings down her legs.
She's left in just her underwear—simple black cotton that somehow looks more erotic than any lace could. I can see the damp spot at the center, evidence of her arousal that makes my cock throb painfully against my jeans.
I press my palm against her through the fabric, feeling her heat. She moans, hips bucking up to increase the pressure. "Please," she breathes.
I hook my fingers in the waistband and slide her underwear down, revealing her completely. She's wet, flushed pink, perfect. I can't resist trailing my fingers through her folds, collecting her wetness, circling her clit with gentle pressure.
Her reaction is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, thighs falling wider open, hands fisting in the sheets.
I continue the slow circles, watching her face as pleasure builds.
When I slip one finger inside her, then two, her eyes flutter closed, head tilting back to expose the elegant line of her throat.
"God, Victor," she moans as I curl my fingers upward, finding the spot that makes her shudder. "That feels—ah!"
I lean down to taste her, tongue replacing fingers on her clit while I continue to stroke inside her. Her thighs tense around my head, one hand tangling in my hair, guiding me to where she needs me most.
"Right there," she gasps. "Don't stop, please don't stop."
I increase the pressure, the pace, driving her toward release. When she comes, it's with a cry that might be my name, her body arching off the bed, internal muscles clenching around my fingers. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the aftershocks subside.
When I look up, she's watching me with wonder and something deeper, more dangerous. "Come here," she says, voice husky.
I move up her body, and she pulls me into a kiss, tasting herself on my lips without hesitation. Her hands are at my belt, then the button of my jeans, impatient and sure. When she pushes the denim down my hips, I help kick them off, along with my boxers.
My cock springs free, hard and aching. She wraps her hand around it, and I have to close my eyes at the sensation—her soft palm, the perfect pressure, the slight twist of her wrist that tells me she knows exactly what she's doing.
"Jade," I warn, voice strained. "It's been a while."
She smiles, understanding without judgment. "We have time," she says, continuing her slow strokes. "All night, if you want."
The thought of having her all night—of exploring every inch of her body, of falling asleep with her in my arms—nearly undoes me. "I want that," I admit. "I want you."
She guides me between her thighs, positioning the head of my cock at her entrance. We both pause, eyes locked, the moment suspended between us. I'm suddenly aware of the weight of this—not just physically, but emotionally. What it means to cross this line.
"I shouldn't want this," I confess, even as I press forward slightly, feeling her heat. "You should be off-limits."
"Too late," she whispers, wrapping her legs around my waist, drawing me in.
I enter her slowly, both of us groaning at the sensation. She's tight, wet, perfect around me.
"Move," she urges, hands on my back, nails digging into skin.
I begin to thrust, slowly at first, drawing almost completely out before pushing back in, savoring the exquisite friction of her body gripping mine. Each time I push forward, her lips part slightly, small puffs of breath warming my face.
"You feel incredible," I murmur, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.
She smiles, a flash of that brightness that's been undoing me since she arrived. "So do you." Her hands slide down to grip my ass, urging me deeper. "I've been thinking about this since I first saw you in that diner."
The confession sends heat surging through me. I increase my pace slightly, rolling my hips to change the angle. When I hit a particular spot, her eyes widen, a small "oh" escaping her lips.
"There?" I ask, doing it again.
"Yes," she gasps, arching beneath me. "God, yes."
I maintain that angle, watching her face as pleasure builds. Her cheeks are flushed, a light sheen of sweat making her skin glow in the dim afternoon light. I dip my head to kiss her neck. She tilts her head to give me better access, moaning when I find the sensitive spot just below her ear.
Our bodies find a rhythm, the initial tentativeness giving way to something more primal, more urgent. The sounds of our coupling fill the cabin—skin against skin, the wet heat where we're joined, our mingled breathing growing more ragged with each passing moment.
"Harder," she demands, and I comply, driving into her with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Her legs wrap tighter around my waist, heels digging into my lower back. I brace myself on my forearms, changing the angle again, watching her face for reaction. When her eyes flutter closed and her mouth forms a perfect O, I know I've found the right spot.
"Don't stop," she gasps, hands now gripping my shoulders, nails leaving half-moon impressions I'll wear with pride tomorrow.
I maintain the pace, the depth, the angle—fighting my own climbing pleasure to focus on hers. Sweat drips from my forehead onto her chest, sliding between her breasts.
We shift positions, a fluid, instinctual movement. I sit back on my heels, drawing her with me so she's straddling my lap, still joined. This new angle makes us both gasp. She's somehow deeper this way, and I can feel every pulse, every subtle clench of her muscles.
Her hands brace on my shoulders as she begins to move, rising and falling in a rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges.
I grip her hips, not guiding, just holding on as she takes what she needs.
Her breasts bounce with each movement, and I lean forward to capture one nipple in my mouth, sucking gently at first, then with more pressure as she moans her approval.
"Victor," she breathes, my name sounding like something sacred on her lips.
I slide one hand between us, finding her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her movements falter. Her inner muscles tighten around my cock, a preview of what's to come. I'm fighting my own orgasm now, determined to feel her come apart around me first.
She meets my eyes, vulnerability and trust written plainly on her face. It nearly undoes me—this moment of perfect connection, of seeing and being seen. I increase the pressure on her clit, timing the circles with her increasingly erratic movements.
"I'm close," she warns, voice tight. "So close."
We shift again, an unspoken communication leading us back to our original position. Her legs over my shoulders now, opening her completely to me. I drive into her, deeper than before, the new angle making her cry out with each thrust.
I can feel my own release building, a pressure at the base of my spine, in my balls, in every nerve ending where our bodies connect. But I'm determined to hold back, to watch her fall apart first.
"Come for me," I urge, reaching between us to circle her clit with my thumb. "Let me feel you."
She shatters around me, inner muscles clenching rhythmically, pulling me deeper.
Her back arches off the bed, a cry that might be my name torn from her throat.
The sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted, completely abandoned to pleasure—combined with the pulsing grip of her body around mine, is enough to push me over the edge.
My orgasm hits with unexpected force, vision blurring at the edges as I empty myself inside her.
For a moment, we're both still, connected, breathing hard. Then I carefully withdraw and collapse beside her, one arm draped over her waist. She turns to face me, her expression soft, vulnerable.
"I knocked over your lamp," she says suddenly, and I follow her gaze to where my bedside lamp lies on the floor, shade askew.
"Worth it," I reply, and she laughs again, the vibration of it against my chest like a balm.