Chapter 10 #2
"Take them off," I growl, breaking the kiss.
She blinks, dazed. "Here? Anyone could see—"
"No one comes up here but my brothers. And they know better." My hands drop to the waistband of her jeans. "I want to feel you. Now."
Her hands fumble with the button, her breath coming in short, white puffs in the cold air. She shoves her jeans and panties down her thighs, kicking one leg free, then the other. I grab the denim and toss it onto the gravel, ignoring the cold.
The sight of her hits me like a sledgehammer. Lush, pale curves against the black leather of my bike, exposed to the mountain air, her nipples hard against the fabric of her shirt. She trembles, her thighs clamping together instinctively.
"Open," I command, my voice rough.
She obeys, spreading her legs for me. Her sex is flushed, pink and glistening in the winter sunlight. Seeing her like this, displayed for me on my machine at the top of the world, snaps the last thread of my control.
I drop to my knees in the gravel. The rocks bite into my denim, but I don't feel it. All I see is her. I grab her hips, anchoring her to the seat, and bury my face between her legs.
She screams, her head falling back, her hands tangling in my hair. I don't give her time to adjust. I lick her, a long, broad stroke from bottom to top, tasting her sweetness. She’s already wet for me. Her body knows who it belongs to.
"Logan, please," she begs, her hips bucking against my face.
I ignore her pleas, focused solely on her pleasure. I use my tongue, teasing the swollen bud of her clit, flicking it rhythmically until she sobs my name. My hands knead her thighs, leaving marks that will fade by tomorrow, branding her.
I feel her unraveling. Her scent changes, sharpening with the heavy musk of sex. Her muscles tighten. She’s close. I suck harder, my tongue relentless, drinking her in as she shudders above me.
"Yes! Oh god, Logan!"
She clamps down around my face, her inner thighs trembling violently as the orgasm rips through her. I keep going, lapping up every drop of her pleasure until she goes limp, slumping forward over my shoulders.
I stand up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My jeans feel painfully tight. I need inside her. I need to finish this.
I undo my zipper, freeing myself. The cold air touches me for a second before I’m pressing the tip of my cock against her slick pussy. She lifts her head, her eyes hazy, her lips swollen.
"Wrap your legs around me," I order.
She lifts her legs, wrapping them high around my waist, crossing her ankles behind my back. The position opens her completely. I grab her waist, my thumbs digging into her soft flesh.
"Look at me, Savannah."
She meets my gaze.
"You are the Queen of Grizzly Peak," I tell her, my voice raw. "You rule this mountain because you rule me."
I thrust into her.
One smooth, devastating motion. I bury myself to the hilt, stretching her, filling her completely. She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders through my cut. The friction burns exquisite, hot and tight and perfect.
"Mine," I grunt, beginning to move.
I set a brutal pace, the bike rocking slightly beneath her with the force of my thrusts. The juxtaposition of the violence and the pleasure intoxicates me. I claim her in the most primal way possible, out in the open, under the vast, indifferent sky.
"Logan, it’s too deep," she whines, breathless.
"It’s exactly deep enough," I snarl, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in. "Take it. Take every inch."
She cries out, her head falling back again. I watch her face, memorizing every expression. The furrow of her brow, the parting of her lips, the flush spreading down her throat. The only view I ever want.
The tension coils in my belly, hot and heavy. I feel the primitive urge to breed her, to leave something permanent inside her that no one can ever wash away.
"I’m going to fill you," I warn her, my hips snapping against hers. "I’m going to mark you inside."
"Do it," she sobs, tightening around my cock. "Please, Logan. fill me."
That breaks me. I groan, a guttural sound torn from my chest, and drive into her hard, once, twice, three times. On the final thrust, I hold her hips in a vice grip, burying myself as deep as I can go, and let go.
I pour into her, my release violent and endless. I spill my seed deep inside her womb, claiming her biology just as I’ve claimed her heart. She clamps down on me, milking me dry, her own aftershocks rippling through her body.
We stay like that, locked together on the edge of the cliff. The wind howls around us, but I don't feel the cold. I pull her forward, wrapping my cut around her shoulders to shield her, keeping us connected.
Her heart beats against mine, a steady, syncing rhythm.
"I love you," she whispers against my neck.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are clear, steady.
"I know," I say roughly. I kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. "I love you, Savannah. You’re my Old Lady. My ride or die. Until the wheels fall off."
She smiles, a radiant, blinding thing warming the frozen landscape.
"Until the wheels fall off," she echoes.
I help her dress, my hands surprisingly gentle as I button her jeans and pull her boots back on. I grab the custom leather jacket I gave her at the compound and zip it over her hoodie.
It drowns her, the heavy hide weighing down her small shoulders, but the ‘Property of President’ patch on her back is a dark, permanent promise against the white snow.It looks like armor.
We climb back onto the bike. The ride down the mountain is slower.
The urgency is gone, replaced by a deep, resonant peace. The sun dips behind the western ridge, painting the snow in shades of violet and gold.
As we roll back onto the main road, heading toward the cabin, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror. The scowl is gone. The constant tension in my shoulders has eased.
The storm that brought her here has passed. The snow melts. But the fire inside the cabin—and the fire between us—remains.
We pull up to the cabin, the headlights cutting through the twilight. I kill the engine and kick the stand down. Before I can get off, Savannah slides off the back and steps in front of me, placing her hands on my knees.
The heavy leather of the jacket I marked her with weighs down her frame, the patch a shield against the world.
The Savannah Harris who worried about blog deadlines and city traffic is a ghost from another life. That city girl lies dead, buried under the Grizzly Peak drifts, and as she leans into me, I know she’s more than okay with her being gone.
She looks toward the dark timber of the cabin, and I see no fear in her gaze—only a quiet, bone-deep recognition. She doesn't have to say the word out loud; I see 'home' reflected in the way she finally lets go of the world behind her.
She’s finally exactly where she belongs.
We walk inside together, the door shutting firmly against the night, locking the rest of the world out for good.