Chapter 4
RIDGE
Iyanked her pants and panties down in one rough pull, cotton sliding over her hips.
She was already soaked, the scent of her hitting me hard—musky, sweet, ready. Blue cotton hit the floor. Bare pussy, pink and glistening, thighs parted just enough to show me everything.
My arms shook once—the same tremor I got hauling bodies off ridges—but this time, it was pure want. I needed inside her like I needed my next breath.
I dropped between her legs, shoving her thighs wider with my shoulders. The first lick was slow, my flat tongue dragging from her entrance up to her clit. She sucked in a sharp breath, hips jerking.
“Fuck, you taste good,” I growled against her.
She moaned—low, needy. Her fingers twisted in my hair, pulling me closer. I licked her like a starving man—tongue circling her clit, then flicking fast, then sucking hard enough to make her gasp.
I slid two fingers in—tight, hot, dripping—then curled them forward, found that rough spot and rubbed while my mouth worked her swollen nub.
“Ridge—shit—right there—”
Her walls clamped down, fluttering. She was shaking, thighs squeezing my head.
“Come on my tongue, Brooklyn,” I paused to say. “Let me feel it.”
Seconds later, she broke with a choked cry, her back arching off the bed, pussy pulsing hard around my fingers. Wetness coated my hand, my chin. I licked her through every shudder, slower now, until she was whimpering and tugging me up.
I stood and ripped my shirt off, shoving my jeans and boxers down. My cock sprang free—heavy, thick, leaking at the tip. Her eyes went wide, dark, hungry. She licked her lips.
“Come here,” she breathed, reaching for me.
I crawled over her, caging her with my arms. Her tits pressed soft against my chest, nipples hard little points. I gripped my shaft, rubbed the head through her slick folds, coating myself in her, then nudged her entrance.
“Shit,” I muttered, pausing. “No condoms. Haven’t needed ’em up here.”
She met my eyes, breathing heavily. “I’m on the pill. It’s fine—just get inside me.”
That was all I needed.
“I’ll go slow at first,” I said, voice rough. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“Just fuck me,” she whispered.
I pushed in.
Tight—Jesus, so fucking tight, like a velvet fist gripping me from the first inch. Her breath hitched, nails digging into my shoulders.
I froze at the head, letting her adjust, my thumb circling her clit to keep her relaxed. Heat radiated off her. Her wetness was already soaking me, making the slide easier but the squeeze intense.
“More,” she panted.
Another inch. Another. Every push drew a sharp little moan from her, her pussy yielding bit by bit, walls fluttering like they were trying to pull me deeper.
Halfway in, she made a tight, overwhelmed sound—half pain, half pleasure—that almost made me lose it. I looked down. Her face was flushed, lips parted and swollen from biting them, eyes half-lidded and glassy with need. Her tits heaved with each breath, nipples peaked and begging for my mouth.
“Talk to me,” I ordered, lips against hers.
“It’s big. Feels…full. So full.”
“You’re taking me so good.”
I kissed her hard, tongue deep, while I sank the rest of the way in.
My balls pressed to her ass, buried to the hilt in hot, wet silk that pulsed around every vein of my cock.
The pressure was insane—tight enough to make my vision blur, wet enough to glide smooth, hot like a furnace wrapping me tight.
She groaned long and low. “Oh fuck… Ridge…”
I held still for a second, letting her feel every thick inch stretching her, savoring the way her body clenched and released in little spasms. Her hips shifted under me, testing, and that tiny movement sent a bolt of pleasure up my spine.
Then I started moving—long, deliberate strokes, pulling almost all the way out, feeling the cool air hit my slick shaft before slamming back in, her heat swallowing me whole each time.
The bed creaked. Her tits bounced with each thrust, full and soft, moving in a rhythm that had me mesmerized.
Wet sounds filled the room—sloppy, obscene, her arousal coating my balls.
“Harder,” she gasped.
That word snapped something. I gripped her hips, angled deeper to hit that spot inside, and fucked her with purpose—hard snaps of my hips, grinding against her clit on every downstroke. Skin slapped against skin.
The friction built, her walls dragging along my length like they didn’t want to let go, milking me on the outstroke. I could see it all—her belly tensing, thighs quivering around my waist, her face twisting in ecstasy—brows furrowed, eyes squeezing shut, then flying open to lock on mine.
She was loud now—moans turning into cries. “Yes—fuck—right there—don’t stop—”
I felt her tightening, walls rippling stronger, gripping me in waves that made my balls draw up tight. I continued rubbing tight circles over her clit, watching her climb inch by inch—lips trembling, chest flushing red, her whole body arching like a bow.
“Come on my cock,” I growled in her ear. “Squeeze me. Milk it.”
She came—hard. Her whole body locked up, pussy clamping down in violent pulses, gushing around me in hot rushes that soaked us both. She screamed my name, nails raking my back, legs shaking and locking around my hips like a vice.
The sight of her—face wrecked, mouth open in a raw cry, eyes blind with pleasure, tits pressed up against me—dragged me over the edge. Every squeeze of her cunt sent fire through me, the heat and rhythm too much.
I buried deep, hips jerking, and came with a guttural groan. Hot spurts flooded her, pulse after pulse, her fluttering walls pulling every drop out of me until I was spent, my cock throbbing inside her still-clenching heat.
I collapsed half on her, breathing ragged, still twitching inside her. Sweat slicked our skin.
For a long time after, we lay tangled together, my weight half on her, half on the mattress. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on my back. My face pressed into the curve of her neck, breathing her in—sweat, warmth, and the faintest trace of the mountain she’d tried to conquer today.
I lifted my head and looked at her. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks flushed, her eyes soft and satisfied and a little stunned. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Stay,” I said.
Not for tonight. Not until her ankle healed. Forever.
She touched my face, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw through my beard. “I live four hours from here, Ridge.”
“I know.”
“I have a life there. A job. Friends. An apartment with actual matching furniture.”
“I know.”
“And you live on a mountain with one mug.”
“I’ve got two mugs.”
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm—and it was the best sound my cabin had ever held.
“Let me win this scavenger hunt first,” she said. “Show me the orchid. Help me find the rest. And then we’ll figure out the rest.”
I kissed her forehead. Her nose. The corner of her mouth. Each one a promise I intended to keep.
“First thing in the morning,” I said. “I’ll show you everything.”
She curled against me, her head on my chest, her breath slowing toward sleep. I lay awake in the dark, listening to the cabin settle and the creek murmur through the open window, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in seven months.
Not peace. Not yet.
But the possibility of it. The promise of it, supported by the weight of a woman sleeping against my chest who’d fallen off my mountain and landed in the exact center of my life.
I’d spent seven months hiding from the thing that had broken me. And in one day, a woman with borrowed boots and a half-charged phone had walked straight into the wreckage and made it feel like a place worth rebuilding.
She was the one. I knew it the way I knew the mountain—by heart, by instinct, by the deep animal certainty that lives underneath thought.
And I was done hiding.