Elisa
Two Years Later...
I stand at the window of the Darkmore Lodge bridal suite, watching snowflakes dance in the twilight. Two years since a blizzard stranded me here. Two years since I met the man who would change everything.
Today, I'm not planning someone else's wedding. I'm living my own.
"Five minutes, !" My assistant Mara calls through the door. "Everyone's seated in the great room."
I take a final look in the mirror. My dress is simple, elegant—ivory silk with subtle beaded details that catch the light like ice crystals. My wedding planning experience made me immune to the princess fantasy; what I wanted was something that felt authentic to us. Like everything in my life now, it balances between two worlds—refined enough for my Toronto clients but relaxed enough for the mountain community that's become my second home.
The great room has been transformed, though not by my hand. I insisted on surrendering control, letting my colleagues handle the details. The massive stone fireplace where I first saw Jace is adorned with winter greenery and white roses. Edison bulbs strung from the exposed beams cast a warm glow over the gathered guests—my city friends and industry contacts mingling with Jace's SAR team and local craftspeople.
And then I see him, standing tall at the end of the aisle. His dark suit is a striking contrast to his usual flannel and denim, but his beard remains untamed, just as I like it. When our eyes meet, his face transforms with that rare, beautiful smile that still makes my heart stutter.
Helen Baxter, acts as officiant. Her words about fate and unexpected journeys bring knowing smiles to those familiar with our story—how the "city girl wedding planner" and the "mountain man craftsman" found something neither was looking for.
"Darkmore Mountain creates its own weather," Helen says, echoing Jace's warning from our first meeting. "And sometimes, its own destiny."
When I place my hand in Jace's, his calloused palm against mine feels like coming home.
Our vows are simple, honest. Mine speak of learning to embrace imperfection and finding strength in vulnerability. His, typically economical with words but rich with meaning, promise to build a life where both our worlds have space to flourish.
The ring he slides onto my finger is his own creation—a band of polished wood inlaid with silver, as unique as our journey.
"By the power vested in me," Helen says with evident pride, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Jace's kiss is both familiar and new, a promise of things to come.
The reception feels dreamlike. My business partner manages the timeline, allowing me to simply exist in the moment, something I'm still learning to do. My "Destination Mountain Weddings" venture has become the surprise success of my career, with Darkmore Lodge bookings extending two years out and features in three bridal magazines.
"You changed this whole community," Jake from SAR tells me as we share a dance. "Jace was stuck in his ways before you blew in with that storm."
"I think we changed each other," I reply, my eyes finding my husband across the room. My husband. The word still feels surreal.
As the evening progresses, I grow increasingly impatient to leave. Not because I'm not enjoying the celebration, but because of what waits for us afterward—our first night in the home we built together on Jace's ridge property.
When we finally make our exit amid cheers and well-wishes, the tension between us is palpable. In the truck, his hand finds mine immediately, our fingers interlacing across the console.
"Ready to see our home, Mrs. Boone?" he asks, his voice low and intimate.
The title sends me into a giddy thrill. "More than ready, Mr. Boone."
The drive is familiar now—I've made it countless times over the past two years, dividing my weeks between Toronto and Darkmore as we built both our relationship and our home. But tonight feels different. Final. Complete.
The house emerges from the darkness as we round the final curve, illuminated by the automatic lights Jace installed. It's a stunning blend of modern and rustic—large windows framing mountain views, natural materials, and clean lines. My architectural input married to his craftsmanship.
He parks and comes around to my door, helping me navigate the snowy path in my heels. When we reach the wide front porch, he stops.
"Traditional moment," he says with a smile, before sweeping me into his arms.
I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck as he carries me across the threshold. "I thought you didn't care for tradition."
"Some traditions have merit," he murmurs, setting me down in our entryway but keeping me close.
In the soft light, I take in our home—the open living area with its stone fireplace modeled after the lodge's, the kitchen where we've already created memories, the large windows now reflecting our entwined figures.
Our kiss is unhurried but charged with anticipation. Two years together hasn't dulled the electricity between us—if anything, knowing each other's bodies so intimately has only heightened it.
"I've been thinking about getting you out of this dress all day," he confesses, his lips trailing down my neck.
"Only all day? I've been thinking about it since I first tried it on."
His laugh vibrates against my skin. "Always planning ahead."
"Some habits die hard."
His hands find the row of tiny buttons down my back, undoing them with surprising dexterity. "Did you choose buttons to torture me?"
"Maybe." I smile against his mouth. "Or maybe to make you work for it."
As the dress loosens, his hands slip inside to caress bare skin. "Worth every second."
I step back slightly, letting the gown fall, pooling at my feet. The hunger in his eyes as he takes in my wedding lingerie—delicate white lace chosen specifically for this moment—sends heat cascading through me.
"Christ, ," he breathes. "You're trying to kill me."
I reach for his tie, slowly loosening it. "Not before our wedding night."
His body is so familiar to me now—the strong shoulders, the scar on his left thigh from his accident, the constellation of freckles across his back that I've mapped with my fingers and lips countless times. But when I touch his muscular body, it still makes me melt with desire.
He lifts me again, carrying me to our bedroom where the large picture window frames the moonlit mountains. The bed—his creation, one of the first pieces he made for our home—welcomes us as he lays me down with careful tenderness. The handcrafted maple headboard gleams in the soft light, the sheets cool against my heated skin.
"My wife," he says, the simple phrase carrying such weight as he moves over me, his powerful body silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through the windows.
"My husband," I reply, pulling him down to me, savoring the delicious weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
Jace’s mouth claims mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something hungrier. His tongue strokes against mine as his weight settles fully between my thighs, his hardness hot and insistent against my center. The familiar contours of his body feel like a map I've memorized—the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the coarse hair on his chest tickling my sensitized nipples, the strength in his forearms as he braces himself above me. We've been together so many times— frantic and desperate in his workshop, slow and lazy on Sunday mornings, playful and laughing in the shower—but this feels sacred, momentous.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, relishing the friction as his cock slides against my slick folds. "I need you," I whisper against his lips, my breath already coming in short gasps. "Now."
He reaches between us, guiding himself to my entrance, his eyes locked with mine in the dim light. When he pushes forward in one slow, deliberate motion, we both gasp at the exquisite sensation. The familiar stretch and fullness feels somehow new tonight, heightened by the promises we've made. Each inch of him filling me sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward until I'm trembling beneath him.
A bead of sweat trickles down his temple as he begins to move in that perfect way he always does, setting a rhythm that speaks of reverence rather than urgency. The drag and push of him inside me creates a delicious friction that has me clutching at his shoulders, seeking purchase. His eyes never leave mine, allowing me to see everything he feels—tenderness, gratitude, love so intense it almost hurts to witness.
The moonlight streaming through the window casts dramatic shadows across his face and torso, highlighting the flex and release of muscles as he moves above me and within me. My hands explore his body with greedy appreciation—the solid plane of his chest with its dusting of dark hair, the defined ridges of his abdomen contracting with each thrust, the powerful muscles of his back flexing beneath my fingertips, the thundering of his heart beneath my palm, the damp skin of his neck where I press my lips and taste the salt of his exertion.
"The way you feel around me," he groans, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through both our bodies. "So tight, so hot, so perfect. Made for me."
His praise washes over me like a physical caress, heightening every sensation. I arch up to capture his mouth, our kiss messy and desperate as our bodies find their rhythm together. The slide of his tongue against mine mirrors the movement of his cock inside me, creating a dual point of connection that makes me dizzy with desire.
"I never thought I could feel like this," he confesses against my throat, his voice rough with emotion and desire, his beard creating a delicious friction against my sensitive skin. "Never thought I'd want someone the way I want you. Need you like I need air."
The vulnerability in his words pushes me closer to the edge, a tight coil of pleasure building low in my belly. "Show me," I urge, digging my heels into the small of his back to draw him deeper. "Show me how much you want me."
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of the untamed mountain man I first encountered. His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of hazel remains. His pace quickens, his thrusts deepen, the sound of our bodies coming together creating a primal rhythm that echoes in the quiet room. One large hand slides beneath me to lift my hips, his callused palm rough against my skin as he changes the angle until I cry out sharply as he hits that perfect spot deep within me.
"Like that?" he asks, though he knows the answer from the way my inner muscles clench around him, from the broken sounds falling from my lips. His voice is strained, his control slipping. “You like that cock, huh?”
"Yes," I gasp, my head thrown back, exposing my throat to his hungry mouth. "Right there. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He maintains the perfect rhythm, driving me higher with each deep, measured stroke. My nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks that I'll apologize for tomorrow but that now only seem to spur him on. The pressure builds inside me like a gathering storm, my limbs trembling, toes curling as I chase the approaching climax.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice as rough as the mountain granite. "Want to see your eyes when you come."
I force my heavy lids open, meeting his intense gaze as he drives into me with deliberate force. The intimacy of it—being so completely seen in this moment of vulnerability—pushes me even closer to the edge.
His hand slides between our bodies, finding where we're joined, his thumb circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with devastating precision. "Come for me, ," he demands, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me, his words hot against my ear. "Want to feel my wife come around my cock. Need to feel you letting go for me."
The combination of his words—crude but impossibly tender in his mouth—his touch, and the relentless perfect rhythm of his thrusts shatters the last of my control. The pleasure crests and breaks, radiating outward from where we're joined until my entire body is consumed by it. I arch beneath him, my inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his hardness.
With a guttural groan that sends aftershocks of pleasure through me, he drives into me once more, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulses within me. The warmth of his release and the weight of his body collapsing carefully onto mine extends my pleasure, small tremors continuing to ripple through me as he calls me his wife.
After, we relax to catch our breath, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. Through the window, snow has begun to fall again—fat, lazy flakes illuminated by moonlight.
"Looks like another storm," I murmur, pressing a kiss to his chest.
"Good thing we're not going anywhere," he replies, tightening his arms around me.
I smile, thinking of how far we've come from that first blizzard. My life now unfolds between two worlds—part of each week in Toronto running my expanding business, the rest here with Jace in our mountain sanctuary. It's not always easy, but it's ours—a life we've crafted together, adapting to each other's needs like he taught me to adapt to the wood's grain.
"I love you," I tell him, the words simple but profound.
"I love you too." He kisses my forehead. "Even when you alphabetize the spice rack."
I laugh, pinching his side playfully. "Even when you track sawdust all over the house."
His hand slides down my back to cup my bottom, pulling me more firmly against him. "Want to track sawdust to the workshop tomorrow? For old times' sake?"
I feel him hardening against my thigh again, my body responding instantly despite our recent lovemaking. "I think that can be arranged."
As he rolls me beneath him once more, I'm struck by the perfect imperfection of our life together—the compromise, the adjustment, the unexpected beauty in the places where our different worlds collide.
Like the wooden coaster that started it all—now framed and hanging in our entryway—sometimes the most beautiful patterns emerge from what first appears to be a mistake.
But getting stranded with my mountain man was the best mistake I ever made.