Chapter 7 Mila
SEVEN
MILA
Beau’s mouth is on mine before I can think—warm, firm, unhurried in a way that makes my knees go soft. His hands cradle my waist like he’s anchoring me, like he’s saying without words, you’re here, and I’ve got you.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve been holding in—every nervous flutter, every hopeful ache, every reckless little “what if” that’s been building since the first night he showed up in the snow.
His breath catches against my lips, and he makes this low sound in his throat that turns my spine into a live wire.
“Mila,” he murmurs like my name is both a warning and a promise.
I don’t answer with words. I answer by sliding my fingers under the edge of his shirt and feeling the heat of him—solid muscle, steady strength. He shudders, and the satisfaction of that tiny reaction makes me bolder than I have any right to be.
Beau deepens the kiss. Not rough—just… hungry. Like he’s been trying to behave and finally decided it’s pointless.
My back bumps the wall, and he follows, bracketing me in with his body without trapping me. He pauses just long enough to look at me, eyes dark and intent.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice low.
My throat tightens. I nod. “Yes.”
“Say it,” he growls softly, like he needs it to be real.
“Yes,” I repeat, breathless. “I want you.”
That does something to him—something I can feel. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicks to my mouth, and then he’s kissing me again like he can’t help it, like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing that tastes like relief.
I haven’t wanted a man like this since… well, forever.
My hands find his shoulders, then his neck, then the back of his hair, and I tug him closer—testing, teasing. Beau groans against my mouth like I’ve just undone him with the smallest touch.
He slows down then, almost painfully gentle, as if he’s reminding himself I’m not fragile but I am precious.
His fingers slide to the hem of my top.
The movement is deliberate, controlled—like he’s asking with every inch instead of taking.
My breath hitches anyway.
I’m nervous. Not because I don’t want it. Because I do. Because I want it so badly it scares me.
Beau’s eyes hold mine as he lifts the fabric, exposing a strip of skin. His knuckles brush my stomach—warm, reverent—and my whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for that exact touch all my life.
“Hey,” he murmurs when I suck in a shaky breath. His palm spreads over my waist, grounding. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes up.
His expression softens, just a fraction. “You’re safe,” he says, like he’s not just saying it—he’s pledging it.
My chest squeezes. “I know.”
He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, slower now, and then another to my jaw—sweet and patient. He touches me like he means it. Like it matters. Like I matter.
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. “This is… unexpected.”
Beau’s mouth brushes my cheek, and he lets out a quiet breath that feels like a confession. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”
His hands skim my sides—careful, appreciative—then pause as if he’s letting me decide the next step. I reach for him, fingers sliding under his shirt again, and the moment I touch skin, he goes still—eyes flashing with heat.
“Beau,” I whisper.
He cups my face, thumb stroking my lower lip like he can’t resist. “Tell me what you need,” he says, rough and gentle at the same time.
I barely recognize my own courage when I say it. “More.”
His gaze darkens—possessive, protective, undone. “Come here,” he murmurs, and pulls me in until I’m flush against him, until there’s no space left for doubt.
We kiss again—deeper, slower—while his hands learn me in careful passes, and my hands learn him back. Everything feels heightened: the heat of his body, the steady strength in his arms, the way he pauses like he’s listening to me even when I’m not speaking.
I break the kiss just long enough to breathe. “I’m nervous.”
Beau rests his forehead against mine, breath warm on my lips. “Good,” he murmurs.
I blink. “Good?”
His hands tighten at my waist like a promise. “It means it matters,” he says. “And I’m going to take my time.”
My throat tightens—because no one has ever said that to me like it’s a gift.
I nod, eyes stinging for reasons that have nothing to do with the warmth in the room. “Okay.”
Beau kisses me again, softer this time—like he’s sealing the agreement. “This is real.”
I nod. “Okay. I want you to take care of me.”
He smiles. “I can absolutely do that for you, Mila. You can call me Daddy.”
I giggle lightly. “Daddy?”
“Not like your real father, but as your daddy who takes care of you.”
I let the idea wash over me, my body coming alive under his touch. “I like that…” I whisper. “Daddy.”
He growls, his cock hardening between us. “Is this what you want?” he asks me, stroking his long, thick dick in his hand.
I bite my lower lip. “Yes, Daddy.” The word is getting easier and easier to say. I like it. Beau taking care of me like I’m the most precious thing in the world to him.
He pushes his thickness at my entrance, and I moan his name.
“Yes, take my dick.” He pushes in even deeper and my breath hitches slightly.
“It’s just so big,” I tell him, worried it may not fit. “What if it…”
As if he can read my mind he gives me a cocky smile. “Oh, it’ll fit, sweetheart. I can promise you that.” He pushes in even further, stalling for a moment so my body can acclimate to his size.
And once I’m comfortable he thrusts in deeper.
“Yes, take me. Take all of me.” He moves his body on top of me, his dick filling me all the way up.
“I’m yours,” I tell him as my body comes apart.
He holds me close as he continues pushing his dick in and out of me. “You’re taking me perfectly. So good.”
My body calms as he speeds up. He pushes even deeper and then holds me close.
“I’m about to come, sweetheart.” He looks at me like he’s questioning if he should come inside me.
I nod. “Come inside me, Daddy.” I don’t want this feeling to end.
He grunts and curses as he unleashes himself inside me. It’s gorgeous to watch. I swear my heart cracks wide open when his eyes crash into mine. “Stay here,” he tells me once his body has calmed. “Let me clean you up.”
After we’re both cleaned and lying in bed together, I let him hold me close. I fall asleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
Morning in the mountains feels like a secret.
The light comes in soft and pale through the cabin windows, turning the snow outside into glitter and making everything inside look warmer than it should. The fire has burned down to glowing embers. The air smells like pine and coffee waiting to happen—and him.
Beau is behind me in bed, one arm heavy around my waist like he decided sometime in the night that I’m not allowed to float away.
I’m tucked into his chest. My hair is a mess. My skin is warm in that slow, satisfied way that has nothing to do with the heater.
And I should feel safe.
I do feel safe.
That’s the problem.
Because the moment my brain realizes safe is possible, it starts screaming that it’s temporary.
That it will end. That I’ll ruin it. That he’ll wake up and remember he’s Beau Wilder—the man who came to the mountains to be alone—and I’m the curvy complication currently breathing in his bed like I belong here.
I stay perfectly still, like maybe if I don’t move, time won’t move either.
Beau shifts behind me, sleepy and slow. His nose brushes my hair. His voice is rough with morning.
“You run already?”
My heart jumps so hard it’s embarrassing.
I turn my head slightly. “Was I… trying to run?”
His hand tightens on my waist, not hard—just certain. Possessive in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs.
I scoff softly. “That’s not a real thing.”
“It is when it’s you,” he says, and presses a kiss to my shoulder—warm, lingering, like he has all the time in the world.
I close my eyes.
God.
He kisses like he’s not afraid of sweetness.
Like he doesn’t mind wanting.
Beau’s palm slides slowly over my stomach, up my ribs—an absent, intimate touch that makes heat ripple through me again, even in the calm of morning. He rests his hand there like he’s claiming the fact that I’m real.
“Come back here,” he murmurs when I shift.
“I am here.”
“More,” he says simply.
I roll slightly onto my back to face him. The sheet slides down my shoulder, and his gaze tracks it—controlled, but hungry under the control. His eyes are bright in the morning light, that startling blue that makes me feel seen in a way that’s both terrifying and addictive.
“You look different,” I whisper.
Beau’s jaw flexes once. “So do you.”
“Good different?” I ask, because apparently I crave reassurance like oxygen now.
Beau’s thumb strokes my cheek. “You’re glowing.”
My cheeks warm. “I’m… moisturized.”
A low sound rumbles out of him—something between a laugh and a groan. He leans in and kisses me, slow and deep, like he’s reminding me exactly what happened last night.
My hand slides into his hair without permission.
Beau’s arm bands around me, pulling me closer, and for a second I forget every fear I’ve ever carried.
Then his phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Beau stills like a switch flips inside him. He breaks the kiss, eyes closing briefly as he reaches for the phone on the nightstand.
I watch his face change as he reads the screen—calm sharpening into focus.
“What?” I ask quietly.
Beau sits up, sheet low on his hips, muscles tense under skin that’s marked with faint scars and old lines of strength. He looks like a man built for survival, not softness.
“Haven 7,” he says. “Call came in.”
My stomach drops. “Is someone hurt?”
“Not yet,” he says, already moving, pulling on jeans. “Lost hiker. Trail 9. Weather’s shifting.”
I sit up too, clutching the sheet to my chest like that will keep him here. “Beau, it’s early.”
His gaze lands on mine, and something soft flickers there.
“This is the job,” he says.
The job.
Reality.
The thing that always comes for him in the end.