Chapter 5
SAVANNAH
The rhythmic thwack of the axe echoes through the glass. A steady, primal thud. The sound syncs with the hammering in my chest.
I can’t stay on the couch. Discarding the wool blanket, I move to the frost-rimmed window. I stand there clutching the hem of the flannel shirt. My toes curl into the cold floorboards.
Outside, the blizzard is a vortex of white. It erases the road. It erases any hope of escape.
Not that I want to leave.
I watch him. He’s tossed the coat he grabbed onto the porch railing. He’s out there in nothing but his jeans and boots, ignoring the wind screaming across his skin.
His back is to me, a vast landscape of corded muscle and ink. With every swing, the muscles in his shoulders bunch and ripple, the movement fluid and devastatingly powerful. He obliterates the logs with a violence that should terrify me.
Instead, my thighs clench together, sticky and aching.
The way he had me against the wall left me unraveled. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hand. The rough calluses against my slick heat.
He stopped. He actually walked away because he wants to do this "right." He wants the bed.
He thinks I’m fragile.
A sharp turn brings his gaze directly to mine. I’m caught. Even through the swirling snow and double-paned glass, the connection is electric. A violent tug pulls at the center of my chest.
Steam rises from his heaving chest. A sheen of sweat slicks his skin despite the sub-zero air. The axe sinks into the stump with one final, echoing crack. Ignoring the bite of the wind, he gathers a heavy armload of logs.
Heavy boots crunch against the frozen ground as he marches toward the cabin. Eye contact remains unbroken. The porch boards groan under the weight of his approach.
The door flies open, and the freezing gale isn’t the only thing that crashes into the room.
Like a predator returning to its den, he looms in the doorway. A king returning to his throne.
I back away from the window, my pulse battering against my ribs. The door groans open, bringing a gust of arctic air that swirls around my bare legs, followed immediately by the overwhelming presence of him.
Logan kicks the door shut. The deadbolt slides home with a heavy thud, sealing us in. The silence is thick. It smells of ozone, pine, and the dark musk of his skin.
The wood crashes into the bin beside the hearth. He doesn't look at the logs. He doesn't look at the flames.
He looks at me.
The rug muffles his heavy tread as he stalks forward. The heat radiating off his body is intense. It wars with the frost clinging to his shoulders. Melted snow drips from his dark hair, trailing down the hard line of his jaw.
"I told you," he rumbles. His voice is a low growl, stripped of any pretense of civilization. "I told you to wait by the fire."
"I was waiting," I whisper.
I’m not sure what for. Permission? Or the courage to ask for what I want?
Stopping inches away, he forces me to crane my neck back to look him in the eye. The size difference is comical, terrifying, and undeniably erotic. I am a soft, curvy thing standing in the shadow of a mountain.
"You watched," he accuses, but his eyes burn with a dark satisfaction. "You like seeing what I can do? How hard I can swing?"
"Yes," I admit, the truth tumbling out before I can filter it.
Logan growls, a low vibration that rumbles straight into my bones. He reaches out, his large hands bracketing my face. His skin is freezing, shocking against my flushed cheeks, but his thumbs are gentle as they stroke my cheekbones.
"I’m done waiting, Savannah. The fire’s built. The storm’s locked us in. No one is coming for you." He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "And even if they did, I’d kill them before I let them take you out of this cabin."
The threat is real. I know it is. And it shakes me to my core, making my knees buckle.
"Take me to bed, Logan," I breathe.
He doesn't hesitate. One arm sweeps behind my knees, the other wraps around my back, and I’m airborne. I gasp, clutching his shoulders, my fingers digging into the damp, cold skin.
He carries me like I weigh nothing, my bare tits crushed against the hard muscle of his chest as he strides into the bedroom. He doesn't just lay me down; he claims the space, dropping me onto the massive log bed so I can feel the scale of his territory.
The sheets are cool, but I’m burning, my pussy slick and aching for the weight of him.
Logan stands at the edge of the bed, his hands already at his fly. His eyes rake over my naked body, lingering on my heavy breasts and the wetness glistening between my thighs. He looks at me like a starving predator finally finding his prize.
I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I never have before. My arms instinctively cross over my stomach, trying to shield the softness from his gaze, hiding the curves I’ve spent years draping in layers.
But Logan looks at me like a starving man looking at a feast. He reaches down, pulling my arms away to pin them at my sides.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "So fucking soft."
He works the button of his jeans. My breath hitches. I watch, mesmerized, as he shoves the denim down his hips, kicking off his boots and pants in a few efficient movements. When he straightens, I physically recoil, pressing myself back into the pillows.
He is... massive.
It’s not just his height or the width of his shoulders.
He is thick, heavy, and visibly aroused.
The erection springing from the dark thatch of hair is intimidating, a thick vein winding around the shaft like a vine on a tree trunk.
The head is broad and angry-looking, glistening with a single drop of clear fluid.
"Logan," I choke out. "I don’t... I don’t think that’s going to fit."
A dark, feral grin splits his face. He crawls onto the bed, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight. He moves over me on hands and knees, caging me in.
The sheer breadth of him is staggering. As he looms above, I feel completely swallowed by his shadow, enveloped by the weight of his presence before he even touches me. It’s a dizzying, addictive realization of just how small I am compared to the mountain of a man claiming me.
"It’ll fit, Little Bear. You were made for me. Your body knows it even if your head is still catching up."
He doesn't rush to prove it. Instead, he lowers his weight carefully, settling between my spread legs but keeping his hips back. He rests on his forearms, framing my head, and captures my mouth in a kiss that steals my soul. It’s deep, wet, and demanding, his tongue sweeping through my mouth, tasting me, owning me.
I whimper, my hands sliding up his arms to grip his biceps, holding on for dear life.
He breaks the kiss and moves down. He kisses my jaw, my throat, the pulse fluttering frantically at the base of my neck. His scruff scratches my sensitive skin, a friction that sends jolts of pleasure zinging through my nerves.
"My shirt," he grunts against my collarbone. "Take it off."
My hands fumble with the buttons. I’m shaking so hard I can barely manage, but he waits, his hot breath puffing against my skin. Finally, the flannel falls open. I shrug it off my shoulders, leaving me completely naked beneath him.
He pulls back to look. His gaze is heavy, tangible. He traces the curve of my breast with one calloused finger, circling the areola until the nipple beads into a hard, aching point.
"Perfect," he growls. "Ripe."
He lowers his head and takes me into his mouth.
I cry out, my back arching off the mattress.
The sensation is blinding. His mouth is hot and wet, his suction powerful.
He doesn't tease; he suckles hard, drawing me in, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
I tangle my fingers in his damp hair, holding his head against me, urging him on.
He moves to the other breast, giving it equal attention, worshipping my body with a thoroughness that makes my head spin. His hand slides down my stomach, over the soft swell of my belly, and slips between my thighs.
"Open for me," he commands.
I spread my legs wider, surrendering everything. He doesn't look away from my face as his fingers find my pussy. He groans when he feels how wet I am—slick with the anticipation that has been building since he found me on that snow-covered road.
"So wet," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble of approval. "You want this. Tell me you want this."
"I want it," I gasp. "Please, Logan."
Two fingers slide back inside, finding the path they carved earlier. The stretch is familiar now, yet still overwhelming. My muscles pulse against him, struggling to stay relaxed.
A low growl escapes him as he tests my readiness. He curls his knuckles, stretching me further until I gasp, my hips bucking instinctively against his hand.
"Easy," he soothes, but his voice is tight with strain. Sweat drips from his forehead onto my chest. I can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself back. He wants to ravage me, to take what he’s claimed, but he’s forcing himself to be gentle because I’m a virgin. Because I’m his.
He works me open, his thumb circling my clitoris with maddening precision. The combination of the stretch and the friction builds a pressure in my belly, a coiling spring of heat that demands release. I start to pant, my head thrashing on the pillow.
"Logan, please... I need..."
"Not yet," he says, withdrawing his hand. I whine at the loss, feeling empty and cold. "I want to taste you."
He slides down my body, kissing the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh. He nudges my legs further apart until I’m completely exposed to him. He grips my thighs with his large hands, holding me in place, and lowers his face to my center.
The first sweep of his tongue destroys me.
I scream, a raw, uninhibited sound that bounces off the timber walls. He is relentless. He laps at me like a man dying of thirst.