Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
J uniper
Flint’s cabin is warm. It smells like cedar and something distinctly him—wood smoke, fire, and the clean, crisp scent of the mountain air that clings to his skin. I should feel out of place here, surrounded by dark wood, old firehouse memorabilia, and the kind of rugged, no-nonsense furniture that screams bachelor with no time for decor.
But I don’t.
I feel… safe. And that scares me more than anything.
I stand at the threshold of his bedroom, clutching my overnight bag like it’s a shield against the sheer physical presence of the man watching me from the doorway. His broad shoulders fill the space like he’s part of the architecture, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in that unreadable expression of his. He’s impossibly big, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his worn gray t-shirt, his dark gaze pinned on me like he’s waiting for me to bolt.
"You okay, or do I need to carry you over the threshold?" His voice is low, gravel against steel, and God help me, my knees almost buckle.
I swallow hard and force a smirk, thinking of the way he carried me across the river to the fire tower. "Wouldn’t be the first time you threw me over your shoulder like a caveman."
His lips twitch. "Don’t tempt me, city girl."
I exhale, finally stepping into his room and dropping my bag by the bed. The only bed. The realization hits me like a slap to the face. My pulse stutters, and suddenly, I feel too aware—of the bed, of the heavy silence, of the fact that I’ve never shared a bed with a man before.
Not like this.
Not when I know exactly how good he feels pressed against me.
Not when I still feel the imprint of our night at the fire tower branded into my skin.
I should be fine. It’s just sleeping. People do it all the time. But my mind, like always, betrays me. The doubts creep in like wildfire. What if this was just a one-night thing for him? What if I’m reading too much into it? What if I wake up tomorrow and he’s sick of me?
My breathing gets shallow, my fingers curling into my palms as panic builds in my chest. He’s too good-looking, too strong, too much, and I have no idea how to handle it.
Flint must sense it because, in a blink, he’s in front of me, his warm, calloused hands sliding up to grip my shoulders. "Breathe, Juniper," he murmurs, rubbing slow, reassuring circles into my skin. "You’re safe here."
I nod quickly, too quickly, trying to convince both him and myself.
"You’re thinking too much," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "I can sleep on the couch if it’ll make you more comfortable."
"No way," I blurt, shaking my head. "I wouldn’t kick you out of your own bed."
His gaze locks onto mine, something dangerous and unreadable flickering behind those dark eyes. "Whatever makes you comfortable is what makes me happy."
Oh.
My stomach somersaults. The words hit deeper than they should, burrowing under my skin like a secret I’m not ready to admit. He’s not just tolerating me. He wants me here.
I barely have time to process it before his hands slide up to cup my jaw. He leans down, his rough stubble scraping my skin as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead. It’s tender, more so than anything I expected from a man like him, and it unravels me faster than any heated kiss could.
Just like that, the panic disappears.
"You thought I was gonna drag you off to bed like a savage, didn’t you?" His breath is warm against my temple, teasing.
I huff out a laugh. "Actually, I was worried you’d get sick of me."
Flint pulls back, brow furrowing like the thought actually offends him. "I could never get sick of you."
Before I can process those words—before I can do something stupid like melt into a puddle of emotions—he grips me around the waist and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
"Flint!" I squeal, pounding on his back. “Put me down!”
He chuckles, deep and sinful, sending a shiver down my spine. "Oh, I will," he promises. And then he does—right onto the bed, tossing me onto the blankets with an ease that makes my stomach flip.
I barely have time to catch my breath before he’s above me, bracing himself with his arms caging me in. "You’re in my bed now, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice rough with something dark and possessive. "And if I had my way, you’d never leave."
A shiver rolls through me. Heat pools low in my belly.
"What if I don’t want to?" I whisper.
Flint’s eyes darken, his pupils blown wide with hunger. "Then I guess we’re on the same page."
He kisses me then, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of my lips. It’s not rushed or desperate—it’s intentional, a silent promise woven between us. His rough hands trail down my sides, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt, mapping me out like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.
I gasp when he pulls my shirt over my head, baring my skin to the cool night air. His gaze rakes over me, heated and reverent, like he’s seeing something holy.
"Fuck," he mutters, pressing a kiss to my throat, then lower, his lips following the path of his hands. "You’re so goddamn beautiful."
My breath catches. "I bet you say that to all the women you carry off to bed."
His lips curve against my skin, sharp and knowing. "Wouldn’t know," he admits, voice thick with need. "You’re the only one."
The only one.
The words hit me like an avalanche. Flint Warner, the grumpy, untouchable mountain man who has every woman in Devil’s Peak drooling over him, has never done this before? Not in a technical sense, but in a way that means something?
That realization undoes me.
I reach for him, pulling him down, needing him closer, deeper, more. His hands roam, explore, worship, and when he finally slides his fingers under the waistband of my jeans, I arch into him, desperate and aching.
"I want this," I whisper against his lips, breathless. "I want you."