Chapter 6 Six Trails
Six Trails
The cabin door clicks shut behind us, and everything else falls away.
The only sound is our breathing, the only light the golden afternoon sun filtering through pine-framed windows. The charged silence between us crackles like static before a lightning strike.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't ask. He steps in close and grabs the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head. His mouth is on mine before the shirt hits the floor.
There's no space for doubt. No room for fear. Just the scent of pine and sweat and man, the taste of coffee and desire on his tongue.
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter, hips pressing between my thighs, granite cool against my heated skin. The scrape of stubble on my throat, the rough glide of his palms down my ribs. His touch leaves fire in its wake, turning bones to liquid, resistance to need.
"You love this, don't you? You need this," he murmurs against my throat, voice rough like mountain stone, already knowing the answer.
"Yes." I drag him closer, fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders, anchoring myself to the only steady thing in a spinning world.
He takes it as permission.
We fuck in the kitchen, fast and filthy.
My back against the cabinet doors, legs wrapped around his waist, every thrust punctuated by the rattle of dishes and my gasping breaths.
He fucks me in the shower, where steam fogs the mirrors and hot water cascades over us.
I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming as he pins me to the slick tile.
We fuck in bed, where he slows down just enough to make me beg, over and over, until my muscles ache and my mind goes quiet from too much pleasure. And when I fall asleep curled against him, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, it's not comfort I feel.
It's possession.
The next morning, the rain lightens to a pale mist. The world outside my cabin windows shimmers with droplets that cling to pine needles and spider webs, turning the forest into a crystal cathedral. The storm broke, but whatever passed between us hasn't.
We pack in silence for more trail exploration, but something's shifted. He moves with certainty now, no longer a visitor but someone claiming space.
Takes the lead without speaking.
His hands occasionally brush against mine, casual touches that feel deliberate and proprietary.
On the trail, I follow. His long strides eat the miles, boots crushing wet leaves that release the scent of earth and decay. Water drips from branches overhead, occasionally landing cool against my heated skin.
He doesn't glance back, but he knows I'm there.
Every time I stumble on a slick stone or a hidden root, his hand is already out.
Steady. Ready.
The warmth of his palm against mine feels like more than mere assistance.
We reach the ridge overlook mid-morning. The mist has burned away, revealing valleys unfurled below us like a crumpled green blanket, distant peaks piercing a sky washed clean by yesterday's storm.
I unclip the topo map from my belt, the paper crisp between my fingers.
"We're off by a quarter mile from the firebreak projection." I hold out the drawing, my lines precise in blue and red. "The runoff pool's farther west than your GPS thinks."
Mac pulls out his device, the sleek technology incongruous against the ancient landscape. He frowns, sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes, then meets my gaze.
"My GPS says otherwise."
I jab the map, paper crinkling under my finger. "And I live here. My lines are drawn from memory and what the ground says. You want to override that?"
He steps into my space, close enough that I can smell yesterday's desire on his skin. Takes the map, folds it carefully with those strong fingers that mapped my body hours before, then slides it back into my pack. The casual intimacy of the gesture leaves me breathless.
"No," he says, voice like gravel over velvet. "I want both. Redundancy saves lives."
I blink. That wasn't what I expected. Not the easy capitulation, not the acknowledgment of both our strengths.
But before I can reply, he grabs my hand, pulls me into the trees behind the overlook where shadows dance across damp pine needles, and kisses me like he needs it to breathe. Like we're still in my cabin, not standing out in the open on public land. His mouth tastes of coffee and certainty.
He palms my breast through my jacket, mouth dragging along my jaw, stubble rasping against sensitive skin. I gasp, and heat floods my veins.
"That sound. I'll never get enough of it." He doesn't linger. Doesn't soften. Just turns and strides back onto the trail, leaving me trembling in the dappled light like he didn't just set me on fire.
I catch up to him breathless, heart hammering from more than the incline. He walks like nothing happened, like he didn’t just kiss me breathless in the trees. Like my nipples aren’t still peaked and aching, jacket zipped tight against the evidence.
He doesn’t look back. Just tosses over his shoulder, “Keep up.”
I do. Barely.
The next half-mile is steep, rocky, and shaded by sun-dappled trees.
Pines crowd the trail in places, casting shadows over everything.
My thighs burn. My breath fogs. But it’s nothing compared to the ache between my legs.
The weight of that kiss. Of the promise in his hands. Of what I told him in the dark.
When the trail bends around a granite outcrop, he stops.
Dead.
I stumble to a halt behind him, nearly crashing into his back. “What—?”
He turns. Eyes dark. Sure.
No smile. Just heat.
Predatory.
I freeze mid-step, my breath catching, something in my chest folding in on itself. His gaze tracks me like a target. Like I’ve already said, yes, even though my lips haven’t moved.
He steps closer, gaze locked to mine, until there’s no space left between us.
“You said you imagined me. That first day. Shoving you to your knees.”
A breath stutters out of me.
My stomach tightens. My pulse goes wild.
I can’t look away.
His fingers curl into my collar, tugging me close, our boots crunching against pine needles. Trees sway in the wind, but everything else stops.
Then he drops his pack, unbuckles his belt, eyes never leaving mine. Then he pulls his cock free.
Thick, hot, already leaking.
“On your knees.”
My breath leaves me in a rush. Heat floods every cell.
“You’re going to look so fucking pretty with your mouth full,” he rasps. “Just like you imagined. Just like you begged for.”
I drop. Right there, on damp pine needles, knees sinking into the soft ground.
I kneel.
Willing.
Shaking.
His eyes gleam. “That’s what I thought.”
He strokes himself once, slow, thick, and hard, standing over me like a god I just gave permission to ruin me.
“Open.”
My lips part. My mouth waters.
He doesn’t ease in—he pushes. Deep. Claiming. Groaning as his cock slides past my lips, forcing my jaw wide, his hand tangling in my hair to keep me still.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
My lips seal around him. My moan is immediate, involuntary.
He grips my hair tightly, starts to thrust, his movements controlled and measured, then deeper. My throat works to take him, spit trailing from the corners of my mouth, eyes watering as he pushes further.
“You wanted this.” He’s panting now, hips moving with brutal rhythm. “Thought about me using your mouth like this. Not gentle. Not asking. Just taking.”
Tears streak down my cheeks, and I love it. I fucking love it.
His breath shortens. His grip tightens. Every thrust is possession.
“Look at you,” he growls, watching me come undone. “On your knees for me. Taking every inch.”
I hum around him, eyes locked to his, the sound filthy and desperate. Saliva spills from the corners of my mouth. He moves harder, deeper, fucking my mouth like he owns it.
“You’ve been aching for this. Dreaming about me using you like this. Ever since you crashed into me and looked up like you wanted to bite.”
His hips rock forward. My throat tightens. He drags back, then slams in again.
“Look at you now. Letting me fuck your throat like it’s mine.”
Tears blur my vision. I don’t stop.
Can’t stop.
Every stroke is a reminder—this is him. Not some faceless stranger in a fantasy. Him. The man who saw me, who knew. Who isn’t afraid of holding back.
He growls low, sharp. His grip tightens in my hair.
“Fuck—I’m gonna come down that pretty throat.”
I hum for him. Sink deeper.
He shudders. Comes hard.
Groaning my name like a confession and a curse. His release hits the back of my throat, and I swallow it all.
He doesn’t let me go right away. Just holds me there, softening slowly between my lips while his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. Finally, he pulls back, tucking himself away with shaking hands, eyes dark and satisfied.
I’m ruined.
He stares down at me like I just handed him every secret I’ve ever had.
Mouth swollen. Knees scraped. Chest heaving.
He crouches in front of me, thumb sweeping over my lip like he’s marking me all over again.
Then he offers a hand. Helps me stand. Then he brushes a kiss against my ear.
“On the way down, I’ll bend you over that boulder and fuck you like you were made for it.”
Mac keeps his promise on the way down.
On the third day, we attack a rougher portion of the trail. The terrain is steep. Mud clings to our boots, and pine needles stick to damp packs.
The air thins, making each breath sharper, more deliberate. Mountains rise around us like sleeping giants, indifferent to our passage.
I point toward a fork where two narrow trails diverge around a massive boulder. "We'll cut left, loop back past Grizzly Rock."
He hesitates, the sun casting his face in sharp relief, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw. "That trail's marked impassable on the map."
"Because no one's walked it since the '98 burn." I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. "I have. Recently."