6. Chapter 6
Lark
I wake up tangled in blankets and frustration.
The guest room is warm and cozy, all pine walls and soft quilts, but it's completely devoid of the man I spent all night dreaming about. Dreams that left me aching and restless and more confused than ever.
Outlaw.
Logan.
Whatever he’s called.
Both names make my pulse quicken in ways that probably aren't healthy for a woman who's supposed to be on a therapeutic getaway.
He told me to stay away.
But then he kissed me like he never wanted me to leave.
I throw on my sweatshirt and wander into the main room, bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. The fire's burned down to embers, the rain has finally stopped, and morning light filters through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
The silence is thick, expectant.
Then I see him.
He's standing out on the front porch, backlit by the pale morning sun, shirtless and chopping wood like a damn scene from Outlander .
Guess he lied about not owning an axe.
The axe rises and falls in a steady rhythm, and I can see the play of muscles across his back, the way his shoulders flex with each swing.
The clench of his abs when he bends to stack the split logs.
The way his jeans ride low on his hips, revealing the V of muscle that disappears beneath denim.
Jesus Christ…
I want to bite him.
And maybe cry a little.
Because he's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, and I'm leaving today whether I want to or not.
I open the door, and the creak makes him pause mid-swing. He glances back over his shoulder, ice-blue eyes finding mine, and I see something flash across his face before he can hide it.
Desire.
"You should be sleeping," he says, but his voice is rough.
"You should be wearing a warning sign."
He lets out a low grunt—half a laugh, half a sigh—and sets the axe aside. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." I step out onto the porch, morning air cool against my skin. "But since we're both up, maybe we should talk."
"About what?"
"About the kiss."
His jaw tightens. "Nothing to talk about."
"About why you're pretending it didn't happen then."
He turns fully now, facing me with that intense, guarded gaze. Sweat gleams on his chest, and I have to fight not to stare at the trail of dark hair that disappears into his waistband.
"Because if I stop pretending, I won't stop there."
I take a step closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate. "What if I don't want you to stop there?"
His breath catches, and I watch his hands clench into fists at his sides.
"You don't know what you're asking for, Lark."
"I'm not asking," I whisper, reaching out to trace the scar along his jaw. His skin is warm and slightly rough, and when he leans into my touch, I feel something inside me break wide open. "I'm offering."
Something in him snaps.
His hands are on my waist in a heartbeat, spinning me and pressing my back against the porch post. The wood is rough against my shoulder blades, but all I can focus on is the heat of his body caging me in.
His mouth crashes into mine, rough and claiming and desperate. I moan into the kiss, clutching his shoulders as he lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist.
"You sure?" he growls against my throat, voice ragged with need.
"Yes," I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair. "God, yes."
He carries me inside like I weigh nothing, kicking the door shut behind him. I'm pinned against the wall one second, swept off my feet the next, laid out across the couch like an offering.
Clothes fall away in a blur of heat and breathless laughter. His hands and mouth are everywhere—mapping the curve of my waist, the arch of my spine, the spot just below my ear that makes me cry out his name.
He kisses every inch of me like he's trying to brand the memory into his skin.
When he pushes my knees apart and lowers his mouth to my pussy, I forget how to breathe. He slowly circles my clit his tongue, teasing me, torturing me, taking me to heights I’ve never been.
My fingers entwine in his hair as I grind against his mouth. This is too good… so fucking good… “Outlaw,” I gasp, bucking against his face. “I’m close…”
He chuckles, and the added sensation against my most sensitive spot sends me over the edge. I cry out as I shatter into a million pieces, knowing I’ll never, ever be the same. Because nothing else could ever feel this amazing…
Or so I think, until he presses his cock inside me, slow and thick and awesome . It’s perfection—the weight of him above me, the taste of his mouth, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
"Say it," he growls, and his voice is raw with need.
"Say what?"
"That you're mine now."
I arch into him, gasping as he fills me completely. "I'm yours."
His mouth crushes against mine as he starts to move, and I know—deep in my bones, in the very core of me—that I'm never walking off this mountain the same.
Because Outlaw doesn't just take.
He owns.
And I want to be owned by him.