Chapter 4
LOGAN
The wind howls, a feral beast trying to claw through the timber walls, but the only storm I care about is the one currently wrapped around my waist.
I have Savannah pinned against the granite counter. My flannel shirt is bunched between us, the thick fabric the only thing separating her heat from my jeans. Her legs are locked tight around my waist, the weight of her anchored to me.
Every time she hitches her breath, I feel the friction of the heavy plaid against my hips. It’s a tease I’m barely surviving.
She thinks this is a temporary delay. She thinks she’s going to wait for a plow and drive back to her life of Wi-Fi and city streets.
She’s wrong.
I don't lean back. I don't give her an inch. I press closer until her breasts are crushed against my chest. I’m barely keeping the beast leashed. Looking at her like this—disheveled, kiss-bruised, and wearing nothing but my clothes—is enough to make me lose my goddamn mind.
"Is it letting up?" she breathes against my lips. She tries to look toward the frosted window, but she’s trapped between the counter and my chest.
I don't even look at the glass. I know this mountain better than I know the back of my own hand.
"No. The wind's picked up. It's drifting heavy against the door. We aren't going anywhere, Savannah."
Her name rolls off my tongue, sweet and foreign in a mouth used to cursing. Her pulse flutters at her throat. I’m a big man. I’m covered in ink that screams violence, and I’m looking at her like a wolf looks at a wounded deer. But underneath her fear, a spark matches the fire roaring in the hearth.
"My car..." she begins, her voice trembling as she looks at the white abyss outside.
"Is a memory," I growl, tightening my grip on her waist until she gasps. "Forget the rental. It’s a crushed tin can buried under my mountain. I’m the only thing you need to focus on surviving."
"I have a schedule, Logan. People waiting for content. I was supposed to be in..." She trails off, looking lost. The reality of her situation is finally sinking in.
"You were supposed to be here," I tell her. I tighten my grip on her waist, holding her high against the granite.
I want to wrap her up. Shield her. I want to bury myself so deep inside her she forgets every other man who has ever looked at her.
"You didn't finish your breakfast," I rumble, glancing at the cold plate on the table behind me.
"I'm full," she whispers, tilting her head back to look at me. Her throat is exposed. Pale, delicate skin pulsing with the rapid rhythm of her heart.
"You need the calories. It’s cold. And I plan on keeping you warm."
A flush stains her cheeks pink. She knows. On some primal level, she knows exactly what I’m saying.
Last night, when I held her in the dark and felt the heat of her skin, she understood. I feel how she’s vibrating now. I feel the barrier she’s kept up against the world starting to crumble.
She’s untouched. Pure. And she landed in the lap of the devil.
I reach out, my hand large and calloused, scarred from fights, from working on bikes, from breaking things that needed breaking. I brush my knuckles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, like silk heated by the sun. She flinches, then leans into the touch.
That small movement undoes me.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she breathes.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to eat me."
My thumb traces the line of her lower lip, dragging it down just enough to see the wet shine inside her mouth. "Eating is survival, Savannah. This?" I lean down, bringing my face inches from hers, inhaling the scent of her—jasmine, sleep, and woman. "This is hunger."
A tremor racks her, the vibration traveling from her skin into my hand. "You barely know me."
"I know enough."
"You know my name. You know I drive a shitty rental car."
"I know you taste like honey," I grate out. "I know you'll make little high-pitched noises when you come. I know you’ve never had a man inside you."
Her pupils pin. "Logan..."
"And I know you’re not scared of me. Not really."
I straighten up, needing distance before I do something reckless, like taking her right there on the granite. I walk past her, toward the living area where the massive stone fireplace dominates the wall. The logs pop and hiss. The heat rolls off them in waves.
"I should be," she says. Her voice is shaking but holding firm. I hear the soft thud of her bare feet hitting the floorboards as she slides off the counter.
I turn to face her. She stands by the kitchen island, clutching the edges of my shirt like a shield.
"I do." Whatever falls on this peak belongs to the Gunnars. That’s the law. The police down in Pine Valley don’t run these heights. I do.
"And people?" she challenges. She takes a small, brave step toward me. "Do people belong to you too?"
"Only the ones I claim."
The cabin air grows heavy, charged with static electricity. It’s the same feeling right before a thunderstorm breaks, or right before a fight starts in the bar. The calm before the violence.
Savannah takes another step. Brave. Or maybe she just feels the tether pulling her toward me, the same invisible chain that snapped around my chest the second I saw her in town.
"And have you?" she asks. Her voice is barely a whisper. "Claimed me?"
I stare at her. I let the silence stretch. My eyes roam over her body, stripping away the flannel shirt in my mind. I visualize the curves I held last night in the dark. The lush swell of her breasts. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hips begging for my hands.
"Come here," I command.
She hesitates. Then she obeys.
She walks toward me, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. She stops when her toes hit the edge of the rug, a foot away from me.
"Closer."
She steps in until the tips of her breasts brush my bare chest. The heat radiating off her skin is a physical pull. I can feel the friction of the flannel against my ink as she cranes her neck back to look me in the eye.
The scent of her arousal hits me now. It’s a sharp, sweet spike cutting through the woodsmoke.
"You asked if I claimed you," I murmur, reaching out to wrap my hand around the back of her neck.
My fingers tangle in her hair, holding her steady.
"If I hadn't, you’d be at the lodge right now, surrounded by tourists and sipping cocoa. Instead, you’re here.
In my house. Wearing my clothes. Smelling like me. "
Her lips part. "You kidnapped me?"
"I rescued you," I correct, tightening my grip just enough to tilt her head back further. "But I didn't do it to be a hero, Savannah. I’m not a good man. I don't do charity."
"Then why?"
"Because when I saw you, my world stopped."
I don't wait for her to process that. The restraint I’ve been exercising for the last twelve hours snaps.
I crash my mouth down on hers.
It’s a collision. Brutal and demanding. I devour her. My lips crush hers, forcing her open, and when she gasps, I sweep my tongue inside, taking possession of her mouth the same way I plan to take the rest of her.
She tastes like coffee and sweetness, but mostly she tastes like mine.
A groan rumbles deep in my chest. It vibrates through my bare skin and into hers. I feel her hands come up. She hesitates, then her nails dig into my corded shoulders, seeking purchase against my muscle.
She’s holding on for dear life. She needs to be. I’m sweeping her away.
I angle my head, deepening the kiss, my tongue stroking against hers, arrogant. I want to taste every corner of her. I want to mix my breath with hers until she can’t tell where she ends and I begin.
A desperate whimper tears from her throat, a soft noise that drives me wild. I drop my other hand to the small of her back, splaying my fingers wide, and yank her body flush against mine. The impact knocks the air out of her, but she doesn't pull away. She melts.
Her softness burns against my hardness. Her breasts are crushed against my chest, and I can feel her nipples hardening through the layers of fabric.
My cock throbs, painfully hard, straining against the denim of my jeans.
I grind my hips forward, just once, letting her feel the ridge of my erection.
She gasps into my mouth, her knees buckling.
I catch her easily. I sweep my arm under her ass and lift her off the floor.
She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, the flannel shirt riding up until it’s bunched at her hips.
Skin on skin. Her inner thighs are warm and silky against my waist, and the friction threatens to make me explode.
I carry her to the wall beside the fireplace. I pin her against the rough logs, the flannel shirt sliding and shifting between us as I move. I don't break the kiss. I can't. I’m drinking her in. I'm starving for her.
My hand leaves her neck to cup her jaw. I hold her face still so I can ravage her mouth. I bite her lower lip, tugging it between my teeth, then plunging back in. It’s primal. It’s the kind of heat that burns mountains to ash.
"Logan," she moans. Her hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer.
I pull back just an inch. Our foreheads rest together. We’re both panting. My pupils are dilated. The predator is out, and he’s hungry.
"Say it," I growl. My voice is a wrecked ruin.
"Say what?" she breathes. Her eyes flutter open. They’re glazed. Drugged with lust.
"Say you feel it. That pull. That thunderbolt."
"I feel it,” she admits. Her voice trembles. “God, Logan, I feel like I’m burning."
"Good."
I bury my face in the sensitive curve of her throat. I inhale the scent of her. I kiss her pulse point, feeling it hammer against my lips. Then I suck the skin, hard. I mark her.
She cries out. Her head falls back against the logs, exposing herself to me. "Logan, please..."
"Please what?" I murmur. I scrape my teeth over the spot I just bruised. "Stop? Or never stop?"
"Don't stop," she whispers.
That permission is dangerous. It gives the beast the green light.