Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Trista
By the time we reach the base of the trail, the sun has dipped below the ridge line, leaving everything bathed in purple twilight. My legs ache in that satisfying way that comes from real physical work. My shoulders feel lighter, like setting down more than just a pack.
Duke walks me to my car, parked alone in the small gravel lot. Dust motes dance in the last rays of light filtering through the trees.
“Thank you,” I say. “Again. I know I keep saying it, but—”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
“I want to.”
He nods, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. There’s something in the way he’s standing, the way he’s looking at me, that makes my stomach flutter.
“You got a place to stay tonight?” he asks.
“A motel about thirty miles out. I passed it on the way in.”
He glances at the darkening sky, then at the winding road that leads away from the mountain. “That’s a winding road. Narrow. Lots of switchbacks. Not great in the dark if you’re not familiar with it, and you’ve had a long day.”
I know what he’s implying, but I wait for him to say it. Want to hear him offer.
“I’ve got a cabin not far from here,” he continues. “There’s a guest room. You’re welcome to it if you’d rather not drive tired on an unfamiliar road.”
The offer is practical. Sensible. Safety-minded. And yet there’s something in the way he’s looking at me that makes it feel like more. Like he’s offering something beyond just a bed for the night.
Nate’s voice echoes again. Take chances. Stop overthinking. Live a little.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. That would be good. Thank you.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes warms. “We can actually walk there from here. That’s one of the reasons I know this area so well. It’s home.”
The cabin is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time.
It sits on a gentle slope about ten minutes from the trailhead, tucked into the trees where the forest starts to thin.
Wood and stone construction, simple lines, clean angles.
A wide porch that wraps around the front, worn smooth by weather and use.
Solar panels on the roof. A stone chimney rising from one side, smoke curling lazily into the evening air.
Inside, it’s warm and lived-in without being cluttered.
There are exposed beams overhead, and a wood stove in the corner.
The furniture is big and looks comfortable, especially the deep couch with blankets draped over the back.
A bookshelf is stacked with dozens of paperbacks, spines creased from reading.
And maps line the walls, with trails marked in red ink.
It feels like him. Solid. Intentional. No wasted space. Everything serves a purpose.
“Guest room’s through there,” Duke says, nodding toward a door. “And there’s an attached bathroom. Make yourself at home.”
I set my pack down, suddenly aware of how dusty and sweaty I am. How the day clings to my skin. “Do you mind if I shower?”
“Go ahead. I’ll make dinner.”
The shower is hot and perfect. I stay under the spray longer than I probably should, letting the heat work into my sore muscles, washing away the day’s grit and fear. When I finally step out, I feel almost human again.
I dress in clean clothes, jeans and a soft sweater, and follow the smell of cooking into the kitchen.
Duke stands at the stove, stirring something in a cast iron pan.
He’s changed too, traded his work clothes for worn jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms again.
His hair is damp, so he must have showered in another bathroom.
The knowledge that we were both naked at the same time makes my cheeks flush.
“Smells good,” I say.
“Nothing fancy. Just stir-fried vegetables. I’ve got venison to add, if you eat meat.”
“I do.”
“Good. Wine?”
“Please.”
He pours two glasses of red, hands me one. Our fingers brush in the exchange. The contact is brief but electric, sending a spark up my arm.
We eat at a small table near the window. The food is delicious. The venison is perfectly seasoned and tender. The wine is nice. The conversation flows easily, no awkward silences, no forced small talk.
He asks about my work, and I find myself talking about projects I actually care about instead of the ones that pay the bills.
The community center I designed that won an award last year.
The affordable housing project I’m consulting on.
The way I’m trying to make spaces that serve people, not just impress clients.
He tells me about tracking a black bear family through the territory last spring, how the cubs played while their mother foraged.
About finding lost hikers and helping them battle hypothermia until the search and rescue team could arrive.
About the quiet satisfaction of knowing the mountain intimately enough to feel completely at home in the woods.
At some point, I realize we’ve finished the bottle of Pinot Noir.
At some point after that, I realize I don’t want to go to the guest room.
We’re standing by the sink, both reaching for our empty plates, when our hands touch again. This time, neither of us pulls away.
Duke turns to face me fully. His expression is serious, but his eyes are warm. Intent.
“I should tell you something,” he says.
My pulse quickens. “Okay.”
“I’m not good at pretending I don’t feel things,” he continues. “And I’ve been feeling something since I found you on that trail.”
Heat floods through me. “Me too.”
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell pine and wood smoke and something distinctly him.
“I don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Bring women to my cabin after just meeting them. I’ve never felt… whatever this is… this fast.”
“Neither do I,” I say honestly. “I don’t do any of this. But I want to.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing along my jaw, tilting my face up. The touch is gentle but deliberate. “Tell me if this isn’t what you want.”
“It is,” I whisper. “It really is.”
He kisses me then, and it’s not tentative or questioning. It’s sure. Claiming. His mouth is warm and firm, tasting of wine and want. Of something that feels inevitable.
I kiss him back, hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and he pulls me closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist. The contact sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low in my belly. This is real. This is happening. And I don’t want it to stop.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“Bedroom?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod, unable to form words.
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall to his room. The space is simple, dominated by a large bed with a thick quilt. The window faces the trees, curtains open to the night. Moonlight streams in, painting everything in silver.
Duke closes the door behind us, then turns to face me. In the dim light, his expression is intent, focused entirely on me in a way that makes my skin flush.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says.
I reach for the hem of my sweater and pull it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. “I’m not changing my mind.”
His gaze drops, taking in the simple bra, the curve of my waist, the rise and fall of my breath. When he looks back up, there’s hunger in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Come here,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I cross the space between us, and his hands settle on my hips, pulling me against him. I can feel the heat of his body through his shirt, feel the hard planes of muscle. He kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against mine, and I melt into him.
My hands work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling a little in my eagerness. He helps, shrugging it off, and then his chest is bare and I can’t help but touch. He’s all solid muscle and warm skin, with a dusting of dark hair across his pecs.
Jesus, he’s gorgeous.
His hands slide up my back, deft fingers unclasping my bra. It falls away, and he cups my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. The sensation makes me gasp against his mouth.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes something in my chest tighten.
He walks me backward toward the bed, mouth never leaving mine. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I sit, and he follows me down, covering my body with his.
His weight is perfect, grounding. His mouth trails down my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. I arch into him, hands sliding down his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath my palms.
He takes his time with me. Kisses a path down my sternum, over the swell of my breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue circling, and pleasure shoots straight through me. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there, not wanting him to stop.
“Duke,” I gasp. “Please… more…”
His hand slides down my stomach, fingers working at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips, helping him pull them off along with my underwear. Then I’m bare beneath him, exposed in the moonlight, and he pulls back to look at me.
“Perfect,” he says, voice rough with desire.
I reach for his belt, needing him as naked as I am. He helps, shedding his jeans and boxers, and then there’s nothing between us.
He’s thick and hard against my thigh, and the sight of him makes my mouth go dry. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groans, hips bucking into my grip.
“Trista,” he breathes, and hearing my name in that wrecked voice does things to me.
His hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding me slick and ready. He strokes through my folds, circling my clit, and I gasp, head falling back against the pillow.
“So wet,” he murmurs against my neck. “Is this for me?”
“Yes,” I manage. “God, yes.”
He slides one finger inside me, then another, stretching me, preparing me. The sensation is exquisite, pressure building with each deliberate stroke. I rock against his hand, chasing more, needing more.
“Please,” I hear myself say. “Duke, please.”
He reaches for the nightstand, fumbles for a condom. I watch him roll it on, impatient, aching with need.
Then he’s settling between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He meets my eyes, searching for permission, for certainty.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Please, yes.”
He pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect. I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he fills me completely, inch by inch, taking his time.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding still.
“More than okay,” I breathe. “Make love to me. Please.”
He pulls back, then thrusts in again, setting a rhythm that’s steady and deep. Each stroke hits something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he groans.
“God, you feel incredible,” he says against my neck.
The praise sends heat flooding through me. I meet his thrusts, our bodies finding a rhythm together, primal and perfect. His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, circling with just the right pressure.
The sensation is overwhelming. Pleasure builds fast and fierce, coiling tighter with each thrust, each stroke of his thumb. I’m making sounds I don’t recognize, saying his name, begging for more.
“I’m close,” I gasp.
“Come for me,” he says, and it’s not a request. It’s a command, low and rough and exactly what I need.
And I do. The orgasm crashes over me, waves of pleasure radiating out from my core, stealing my breath. I cry out, body clenching around him, and he groans, thrusts growing erratic.
He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he comes, my name on his lips like a prayer.
For a long moment, we stay like that, tangled together, breathing hard. Hearts pounding in sync.
Then he shifts, rolling to the side, pulling me with him so I’m tucked against his chest. His arm wraps around me, solid and warm.
I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, strong and steady. Feel the rise and fall of his breathing as it slows.
This should feel reckless. Impulsive. Like a monumental mistake.
But it doesn’t.
It feels right. Like I’ve been heading toward this moment since the second I saw him standing below that rocky slope.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my hair.
I smile, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Yeah. I really am.”
He tightens his hold on me, and I close my eyes, letting the warmth and safety of it wash over me.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not planning the next step. Not worrying about what comes after.
I’m just here. Present. Alive in a way I’ve never felt before.
And it’s because of him.