Chapter 2 #2
I've guided couples before. Watched the mountains either bond people or break them apart. The women who thrive up here aren't the ones looking for Instagram shots. They're the ones who understand that real beauty requires work, who find magic in simple moments and shared silence.
Claire could be one of them. I see it in how she moves through my space, how she doesn't flinch from rustic accommodations. She's treating my home like a sanctuary, not a backdrop.
The other guides have wives who've found their place in our world.
I never understood the appeal until now.
But beyond practical considerations, I want to keep her.
Want to wake up every morning to her curled in my bed, want to come home from long trail days to find her here waiting.
The possessiveness is immediate, primal.
Something dormant in my chest finally roars to life.
She's still looking at me with those dark eyes, lips slightly parted. She can read the hunger in my expression. I've guided enough people to recognize when someone's about to make a dangerous choice. The smart thing would be to step back, give her space to think clearly.
But Claire isn't some client I need to protect from bad decisions. She's the woman I want to make every decision with. Every choice that keeps her close and safe and mine.
I let my fingers brush her jaw. Her skin is impossibly soft under my fingertips, warm despite the cold still clinging to the windows. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into the touch, eyes going heavy in a way that makes my blood surge.
"You sure about this?" I ask. Even through the haze of want, I need to give her the choice.
"I'm sure about you," she whispers. The trust in her voice nearly undoes me.
I trace her cheekbone, watching her breath catch.
Watching how her pulse flutters beneath the delicate skin of her throat.
She's curvy, but so much smaller than me, so much softer.
Every protective instinct I've ever had screams at me to be careful.
To worship instead of take, cherish instead of claim.
But there's steel in her spine. Strength in how she holds my gaze. She's not fragile, she's precious. There's a difference.
"One more inch," I say, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, "and I'm not letting you go."
Her lips curve in the faintest smile. "Good."
That single word breaks something loose in my chest. I stand and step closer, eliminating the last whisper of space between us.
One more inch, and she's mine.
I should pull away. I should take a step back, go outside, clear the snow off the roof, do anything that doesn’t involve breathing her in.
I don’t move. All I can think about is how easily she fits here.
I watch the way her eyes keep dropping to my mouth and then back up again, like she’s unsure whether this is something real or something she’s imagining.
She speaks first, voice soft. “I’m not sure what to do with one more inch.” She says it like a challenge. Like she’s not afraid of the way I look at her, and maybe she should be. Her smile tugs at the corner of her lips, slow and curious. “But you’re always watching.”
I don’t deny it. I can’t. I’ve been watching her since the moment I saw her stumbling through the snow, cheeks pink, lashes coated in snowflakes, muttering to herself like she was too stubborn to be afraid.
I hadn’t meant to carry her. But I had. I hadn’t meant to let her stay, but the thought of sending her back out in that cold? Impossible.
And now she’s here. In my shirt. In my space. In my head.
Her breath catches, but not in fear or discomfort. Her awareness rises like warmth between us, as steady as the fire.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to decide something.
So I do. I shouldn’t. It’ll mean too much, but her eyes ask the question I’ve been trying not to answer.
She doesn’t pull away. Her eyes don’t close, but they go softer, hazier, like she’s already falling into whatever this is.
She shifts forward slightly, almost imperceptibly.
I feel it. The answer is in her body before it reaches her mouth.
She tilts her head, breathes in. The space between us barely exists now.
One more inch, and I’m lost. Her breath brushes my lips.
Her scent fills the space between us. One more second and I won’t be able to stop myself.
I lower my head and kiss her.
It starts light, little more than pressure and breath.
But the moment I taste her softness and warmth, something in me gives.
I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, and deepen the kiss.
She makes a sound low in her throat, not quite a gasp, more like a yes.
She leans into me, her hands curling in the front of my shirt.
Her body fits against mine like it was always meant to.
I feel the curve of her soft hip through the flannel, the warm press of her tits against me, and it takes everything I have not to back her against the wall and allow my cock to learn her all at once.
I don’t rush. I let the kiss deepen slowly, let her lead because if she asked me for everything right now, I’d give it to her.
She kisses like someone who feels everything too fast but doesn’t want to miss a second of it. Her lips part under mine. The kiss turns hungry. Still slow and careful, but there’s no question now. No space between what we want and what we’re doing.
I pull her closer. Her hips brush mine, and I force myself to stop. It isn’t because I don’t want to keep going, but because I do. Too much.
I break the kiss and rest my forehead against hers.
My hand stays at her waist, fingers pressing into her softness.
I feel the rise and fall of her tits against my chest, the way she exhales like she’s just stepped out of the wind and into something safer.
All I can think about is keeping her here. Keeping her warm. Keeping her mine.
She whispers, “That was…”
“I know.”
I know. I shouldn’t want this or even want her to stay, but the thought of her leaving now already hurts more than it should.
I don’t know how to say it without making it sound like more than it should be.
I feel an ache pressing against my ribs, the kind that only shows up when you realize you want something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have.
She doesn't know it, but she’s already in the walls I built to keep everything out.
I want her to stay. I want her to want to.
Wanting something doesn't make it safe. Relationships, in my world, have never been anything but dangerous.
She looks up at me. “You okay?”
I almost laugh, but not because it’s funny. I don’t have a name for what I feel. Wanting her. Wanting to keep her safe. Wanting her to stay.
“No,” I say quietly. “But I will be.”
I step back before I do something reckless like kissing her again, and forgetting that this is temporary, that she has a life waiting for her somewhere far from here.
“I have some things to check outside,” I say, and gather my coat and boots. It’s a lie, but I need the bite of the air in my lungs.
She watches me like she can see right through that sentence, but she doesn’t argue. She just nods and nestles into a quilt on the couch.
The snow’s lighter now, drifting in soft flurries that cling to my beard, my sleeves.
I split wood until my shoulders burn. Clear the roof.
Check the chimney again, though it doesn’t need it.
Anything to work the wanting out of my bones.
Anything to remind myself she’s only here because the storm says so.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. The town bells will ring then, that hour-long tradition marking the holiday. Five years I've spent this day alone, splitting wood to avoid memories. This year, there's a woman in my cabin who makes me want to hear those bells. Want to believe in something again.
By the time I come back in, the sky’s gone dark, the snow starting up again in slow, silent sheets. She’s waiting by the fire, wrapped in my old flannel as if it always belonged to her.
I’m quiet at dinner, and she reads by the fireplace after the dishes are washed. I don’t trust myself to say more than a few words. The want inside feels like a spring ready to snap.
Later, I lay the extra quilt on the couch, and she knows what I mean: she’ll take the bed.
I’ll take the couch. She smiles at me like she’s forgiven me for every mile of cold this place was meant to hold.
And when the bed frame creaks, meaning she’s slipping beneath my covers, I stand by the hearth too long, imagining the shape of her there, warm and soft in a place I swore would stay empty.
The fire settles. The storm still howls. She’s here, soft and breathing in my bed, and the cabin no longer feels empty. I settle onto the couch and close my eyes, listening to the soft hiss of the fireplace. I wonder if she knows what she’s started, or how the hell I’m supposed to let her go.